CHAPTER ELEVEN
The dust flew from Sage’s hooves and sweat dripped from his mane. Still, Brock pushed him harder, toward the woman capable of fooling every male member of his family. Toward a confrontation he was not sure he was prepared for—could ever prepare for. He’d never planned to face the woman responsible for all that had gone wrong in his family.
Never had he dreamed he would also fall for her charms.
Upon arriving home, he and Harold had indulged in their stolen spirits and Brock had hatched the plan to confront the woman. He would demand answers—answers his father had never gotten. Against his better judgment—and Harold’s drunken protests—Brock had ordered his steed brought round at the first sign of daylight.
As soon as it came, he’d ridden hell bent in the direction of Hampshire. He barely noticed the rain pelting him as he ducked low over Sage’s neck.
He crested the final hill and the lane came into view. His blood pumped through his veins and his teeth clenched in determination.
How dare she! She’d made his family into fools time and time again. He would not let her get away with it once more. She may have tricked him at first, but no more. He was not, and never had been, a fool. He’d partly blamed his twin brothers for being dolts and allowing a woman to pit them against each other. He pushed the notion from his mind that she’d also had him pining away this past fortnight, dreaming of taking her lips to his own in the pasture… Comparing the ladies he’d met in London to her.
The ironic part was that he still thought of her as Lady Posey Hale.
Sage turned on the empty lane and Brock dug his heels in to spur the horse forward once more. The pasture and grazing patch were deserted of both horse and man due to the chilly rain pounding the earth. Water had begun to pool on the rutted lane and he slowed his horse’s pace, afraid of the beast turning an ankle. It was unacceptable to injure Sage in his recklessness and haste.
The stable and office came into view. The windows were shuttered against the cold and the doors to the stables had been pulled shut. The place appeared abandoned.
He pulled Sage to a stop and the horse’s feet slid on the muddy ground. Brock vaulted from the saddle, landing in a puddle of mud that sprayed his Hessians.
No stable boy came to take Sage’s reins. Brock flipped them across his saddle, certain the horse was too exhausted to go far.
For a moment, he wondered what he’d expected to find here: A bustling yard, horses prepared to journey to their new homes? Or possibly Lady Viola awaiting his arrival, an apology at the ready? He’d found none of that—quite the opposite. The place still appeared well maintained, but void of any activity. The neighing of foals couldn’t even be heard in the distant pasture.
The emptiness, loneliness, and barrenness of the space overtook him. Suddenly, reality struck. What did he think he’d accomplish with his hell-bent ride to the country?
He forced himself to continue. No matter that what he’d found here was the same seclusion, the same desolation, he’d experienced since his return. He was here for a reason. Brock focused his attention on the office door and the woman he was certain sat behind it.
He threw the door open wide and barged into the room. An empty room, as it turned out, void of any living thing. It looked the same as when he was last here: ornate desk and luxuriously adorned paintings and chairs.
Somehow, it felt different.
Now, he knew that it housed the play business of a selfish, petty girl, not the confident and in-control woman he’d believed Lady Posey to be.
On the desk, he spotted two open letters. He only hesitated a moment before invading her privacy. She did not deserve such luxuries. He grasped the two envelopes and ripped them from the desk. One was addressed to Foldger’s Foals, from Tattersalls in London. He threw that one aside, not interested in her business dealings.
The second letter also came from a London address. Lady Viola may not reside in London, but she was obviously still very involved in the social scene she had so enjoyed as a young debutante. The return address listed Dover Street, a very fashionable part of town. Was the letter from an old lover? Or perhaps a current one?
Unable to help himself, he slipped the letter from the envelope. He unfolded the crisp, cream parchment and began to read.
My Dearest Viola,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I grow weary of your absence here in London. I miss you more than words can express. I understand your hesitancy to return to polite society, but with myself at your side you will not fail. I love you and miss your ever-delightful disposition. I beg you—
From there, the letter had become unreadable. Large drops of liquid had landed upon the parchment and the ink bled into undecipherable smudges.
He stilled himself from ripping the page and burning the pieces.
He’d held out hope that the woman had changed, that he would confront her and he would be shown her new nature, but it appeared that she still lead men on, raised their hopes only to dash them in the end. A part of him felt sorry for the poor bastard awaiting her presence in London with such hope and love. Brock moved around the desk and searched the drawers for a piece of paper and a nub with which to write. Hastily, he wrote down the return address. If the opportunity arose, he planned to warn the man. Maybe save him the heartbreak Brock himself had borne these last eight years, and rehashed the night before.
Lady Viola deserved no man’s love or acceptance. She was as deceptive and manipulative as she’d ever been. He re-folded the letter and shoved it back in its envelope, placing it under the letter from Tattersalls. Then, he turned to search the grounds for her.
The door to the office shut against the rain, he checked on Sage and then headed for the stable door. He grasped the handle and slid the door open enough to squeeze in. Just because he took offense at their mistress, he would not be responsible for any young foal falling ill due to exposure.
The interior of the stables was dim due to lack of the sunlight that had shone through the open windows on his previous visits. A fresh pile of manure stood recently raked in a corner, and new straw lined the stalls.
Brock pulled open the nearest stall. The water bucket appeared recently filled, and the feed bucket held a small amount of uneaten oats.
Where was the young, crippled boy who manned the stables?
He closed the stall door, making sure to securely latch the lock, and left through the back door, toward the training pasture. The rain had let up since he’d been in the stables. Now, a light fog had settled across the vast fields beyond. From his vantage point, the property stood deserted.
He knew her father’s estate was close. Had it been a few hours earlier, before the effects of his drunken night had worn off, he would have knocked on every door within a five-mile radius in search of Lady Viola’s deceitful hide.
His rage ebbed as he continued his search of Foldger’s Foals. Without a soul to take his anger out on, his temper cooled. Why had he traveled all this distance to confront her? He was not the man to rave, scream, or belittle a person, no matter how much said person deserved the put down—and Lady Viola deserved the put down of a lifetime.
With one last peek into Lady Viola’s office, Brock recognized that the time had come to depart. He returned to Sage and swung up into the saddle, the damp leather soaking his riding pants through. The journey back to London would be less hurried, giving him ample time to consider his options. There was one thing he knew for certain: This was in no way over. There must be retribution for his family’s suffering.
Shunned No More Page 19