Candlelight Wish (6 page)

The footmen started up the stairs with their burden and as Xanthe followed them inside the door to the neighboring house opened and a gentleman, resplendent in plain black evening dress, a black cloak and an elegant cane in his gloved hands, emerged onto the porch. He cast a casual glance in their direction then stopped, staring at Phoebe. After a moment he descended the steps and strolled in their direction. He had almost reached her before she recognized Sir Miles Saunderton.

Of all people! Shock hit her. She could think of no one she would less like to encounter again. Then anger washed over her for what had passed between them at their last meeting, for what he must have said to the Misses Crippenham, for the undeniable fact that if it had not been for him catching her trying to break into the Academy, she would still be gainfully employed and able to help support her brother.

Sir Miles halted before her and swept her an elegant bow. “I had not expected the pleasure of seeing you again so soon, Miss Caldicot.”

“Pleasure?” She glared at him. “I would hardly call it that.”

His eyebrows rose quizzically. “But common politeness demands that we say such things.”

“Common politeness can—” She broke off, glaring at him. No gentleman so disagreeable had any right to have such compelling eyes, such ruggedly handsome features.

A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. “I beg your pardon. But what brings you to town? I had thought you still in Bath.”

The mildness of his tone, the complete lack of constraint in his manner, proved too much for her. The trauma, the emotions of the last few days, the uncertainties, fears and excitement welled within her, demanding an outlet. Her temper exploded, catching him in its shrapnel.

“How dare you?” she demanded. “How dare you stand there mouthing inanities as if it were not all your fault?”

“My fault?” His brow snapped down. “May I ask what it is you think you are talking about?”

“I lost my job because of you! Yes, at least you have the decency to stare at that. It might not seem important to you but it is to me. Excessively so. And all I had to console myself with was the certain knowledge I would never have to lay eyes upon you again! And now here you are, where you are least wanted, the very first person I encounter upon my arrival in London.”

He had been watching her, his expression changing from surprised to intrigued. “That does seem rather unfair,” he said with a gravity that caused him a noticeable effort.

“Unfair?
Unfair?
It is monstrous! Please tell me you were only visiting in that house next door to my godmother’s!” she implored.

“I regret to be forced to disoblige you, Miss Caldicot. That is something I cannot do.”

“You-you live there?”

He inclined his head, his smile becoming more pronounced. “I fear I do.”

A vexed exclamation escaped her. Her hands clenched and for a long moment she glared at him. Then she turned on her heel and stormed into the house. From behind her she could hear a deep, rumbling chuckle.

And what was worse, he still had the most heart-melting smile she had ever encountered.

Chapter Three

A laugh of sheer joy welled in Phoebe as she drew in a deep, aching breath of the chill morning air. Freedom. A chance to work out the lingering anger from the evening before. A chance to rediscover some measure of peace, which she had not experienced for so very long. Here she might be riding across the countryside, riding to the wind, rather than following the circuit of Hyde Park. And it was vastly satisfying to know she had been correct in what she had told her pupils, that few people really did come here at the unconscionable hour of seven in the morning so early in the Season. So far she had passed three grooms exercising their employers’ cattle. No one else. Not one other single solitary soul. After five years in the cramped quarters of the Misses Crippenham’s Academy, her country-bred soul relished the solitude.

And at the moment, solitude was just as well. She’d come to try out the paces of the mare provided for her by Lady Xanthe and a rare handful the animal proved to be. No dainty lady’s mount, this. Xanthe, as always, knew what suited her best. Phoebe had been practically raised in a saddle. The horse stood nearly seventeen hands at the withers with a fine sloping shoulder and powerful hindquarters. Her coat gleamed a satiny black. A devil mount, had warned Limmer, Lady Xanthe’s groom but Phoebe disagreed. Macha, Xanthe had named the mare, after an Irish goddess of war and that suited her to perfection. Not vile tempered in the least but strong-hearted and high spirited.

Phoebe touched lightly on the reins, catching the arrogant head that tossed to have its own way. They would come to an understanding soon enough, she knew. At the moment though, after so many years of riding nothing but the staid, suitable mounts available at the Academy, she delighted in the subtle shifting of power between herself and the willful mare. Nothing, she reflected, could ruin this morning.

The head dropped straight down and the back arched as the animal bounded in a series of crow hops. Playful, Phoebe noted as she spurred the mare forward to put an end to these tricks. No intention to harm but more to test and challenge—and let off excess energy. They both fretted for exercise.

Phoebe spared her attention from her fractious mount and glanced about. She could see no one except the stoic Limmer who rode several lengths behind, his calculating eye watching them with grudging respect. “I’m going to give Macha her head,” Phoebe called over her shoulder.

The wiry little man frowned, an occupation that seemed to involve his entire weathered countenance. He too cast a rapid glance about then pursed his thin lips. “Just a short way, miss. You don’t want her to go thinking she can make a race of it every time she comes here. Wouldn’t do at all.”

“Only when we’re alone,” Phoebe promised and eased her hold.

At once the black muzzle thrust forward and through her touch on the reins Phoebe felt Macha grasp the bit between her teeth. The strides lengthened with fluid grace, and a thrill of pure joy rushed through Phoebe as the powerful muscles bunched beneath her. She leaned low, welcoming the air that whipped past, tangling the tendrils of hair that escaped from the modish riding hat provided by Xanthe that morning. Behind her she could hear the pounding hooves of Limmer’s mount falling back, unable to keep pace.

Then another horseman, springing toward her from where the trees had half hidden him, joined the race. Admiration filled her for this gentleman’s mount, a red roan of passionate enthusiasm, determined not to be outdone. The rider veered to intercept her. For a few breathless moments they raced neck to neck then the roan pulled ahead as its rider flung himself forward to grasp Phoebe’s rein.

Abruptly the roan broke pace, slowed to a trot then came to a halt. Macha spun about, throwing her head in protest, jerking off the man’s restraining hand. For a very long minute Phoebe had her hands full bringing the rebellious mare back under control.

When at last her mount stood trembling beneath her, she glared at her accoster and recognition did nothing to soothe her rising temper. “You!” she breathed in pure loathing.

“Good God,” said Sir Miles and he looked rather taken aback. A lopsided smile lit his face.

That irritatingly attractive half smile of his. What business did a man like this have with a smile that could “plant her a leveler”, in the boxing cant favored by her pupils’ brothers? Her indignation fueled her anger and she exclaimed, “How dare you catch my rein!”

Sir Miles’ eyebrows flew upward and a pair of brilliant hazel eyes glinted golden in sudden amusement. “I thought I had just performed a rescue,” he said. His deep voice held a note of something that might have been either humor or irritation or possibly both.

“Rescue!” Phoebe sniffed. “I haven’t needed rescuing since I was four! You have quite ruined my gallop and as for my mare—”

The gentleman sat back in his saddle, his amusement growing. “It is not considered proper to gallop in the park,” he pointed out on a note of apology. “I should have thought that was one of the points on which you had to instruct your pupils.”

Her chin rose. “Indeed it is—or rather was, thanks to your interference. And it seems I know the rules more perfectly than do you. During the hour of the Promenade I should never dream to do so, of course. Or at a time when it is more populous than now. But it is quite permissible to exercise one’s horses at so early an hour as this. And,” she added pointedly, “without interference.”

“
Sa sa
,” he murmured the fencer’s acknowledgement, his eyes gleaming. Then aloud he added, “I beg your pardon.”

Phoebe eyed him with the resentment of one who suspected she was being laughed at. “And so you should. Do you make a habit of accosting anyone who indulges in a gallop?”

The golden lights in his eyes danced. “I make it a habit of helping when someone appears to be in need of aid. It seems I misjudged the situation and must apologize.”

Phoebe frowned, vexation replacing her anger. “Did I indeed seem out of control?”

The gentleman hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment, “had there been the leisure to observe your handling of your mount I might have realized the truth. As it was, I noted only the breakneck pace and the absence of any attendant. I sprang to the wrong conclusion.”

“Absence of—” Phoebe began only to break off. Then, “Oh, the devil!” she exclaimed, reverting to the language culled during her illicit childhood forays into the hunting field. She craned about in her saddle and Macha shifted beneath her. “Where has poor Limmer— Ah!” Even as she spoke she glimpsed his chestnut trotting toward them. “Poor man but he hadn’t a hope of keeping up.”

“Then why did you careen off like that? It might indeed be permissible to gallop at such an hour but I assure you it is not permissible for a young lady to ride in the park without some form of chaperonage.”

Phoebe, who had begun to unruffle her feathers, stiffened once more. “Indeed?” she said, her tone frigid. “Do you often inform other people how they ought to behave?”

That finally pierced his good humor. He regarded her from beneath a furrowed brow as if the possibility revolted him. “I do no such thing!”

Phoebe bowed her head in mock contrition. “I see. I quite mistook your words. I do so humbly beg your pardon.”

He regarded her in patent exasperation. “My dear Miss Caldicot, just because I venture to comment upon—”

“Comment?” she interrupted. “You as much as told me I behaved with impropriety!”

“Well, had you been here without a groom, you would have done,” he pointed out with an air of infuriating reasonableness.

“But here is my groom as you may see for yourself.” She regarded Sir Miles in triumph at having carried her point.

“Now, yes,” he agreed. “But he was very much not in evidence when you dashed heedless along the tanbark, which is what made it seem so very probable your horse had run away with you.”

She eyed him coldly and asked with a sweetness resembling treacle, “I suppose you expect me to thank you?”

At that a deep rich contagious laugh escaped him. “Miss Caldicot, I am not so mad as to expect any such thing.”

She inclined her head with cold austerity. “I am quite relieved to hear it.”

“That is a prime bit of horseflesh.” He regarded her mount with a considering eye. “Resty though,” he added as the mare sidled, tossing her head to be away. “I quite see why you indulged her in a gallop.”

“I am so relieved,” she said with heavy sarcasm then stroked the gleaming neck. “She hates to be still,” she added pointedly. “One can understand how she feels.”

“Perhaps we should walk them,” he suggested. This time his gaze rested on Phoebe’s face.

“An excellent notion though I doubt she would be content with just that. Good morning, sir.” She gave him a dismissive nod, turned the mare and headed at a brisk trot to rejoin her groom.

Would the dratted man forever haunt her? First he destroyed her sanctuary at the school. Then he turned up right next door to her, a jarring note to her London sojourn. Now he ruined her morning ride. The dreadful thought struck her that he might exercise his mount here every morning. If that were the case she would just have to ride at a different time or even find a different place. She had come to London to find a future for herself. She could hardly do that with him serving as a constant painful reminder of the past.

She returned to the house shortly before nine to find Lady Xanthe awaiting her in the Gold Salon, an elegant little apartment on the ground floor. Her fairy godmother, she noted with an amusement that began to dispel her ill temper, had donned a vastly becoming carriage gown of rose-colored muslin. Phoebe paused in the doorway, admiring the effect.

“Well?” Xanthe demanded. “Do I look all the crack?”

“You do indeed,” Phoebe responded promptly. “Except you might want to make your wings invisible.”

Xanthe arched her back and the rounded wings spread, flexed then faded. A single oval feather drifted to the floor, its gilt edge sparkling. “I quite pride myself on my ability to dress appropriately.”

Titus, whose plump form sprawled on the most comfortable chair the room boasted, voiced a low staccato comment.

Xanthe threw him a reproachful look. “That was a costume affair, as I told you at the time. I was supposed to wear something unusual. And now, my dearest child,” she went on, turning back to Phoebe, “are you ready for our morning’s expedition?”