Gail Eastwood (11 page)

Nicholas looked over and began to protest, but Venetia cut him off. “Someone has to ride Jonquil, Nicholas. I’m certain that Lord Cranford does not mind.”

Of course, he did mind. Jonquil rolled her eyes at him as if she blamed him for the whole idea. But Venetia had placed him squarely in a position where any protest on his part would seem ungentlemanly. He shrugged in response to Nicholas’s questioning look. He would arrange for a proper mount to ride on another day, that was all. Since he had no desire to compete in the race, he supposed he was a better candidate to take the mare than any of the other riders.

Instructions for the race were given while everyone was still gathered in the stableyard, and then the riders filed out one by one to reconvene on the sweeping carriage drive in front of the house. They would all set off at once when the signal was given.

Lady Vivian and the others who were not participating had gathered on the steps in front of Rivington to see them off. Gilbey noticed that Miss Whitgreave was the only other one of the younger ladies who was not riding. Colonel Hatherwick and Lord Amberton were the only two unmarried gentlemen staying behind.

At the crack of a pistol fired into the air, the twenty riders whipped up their horses and raced off, producing an earth-shaking thunder of hooves and a great cloud of dust. Soon the pack began to thin into a long line stretched along the roadway, and once they turned off the road onto the bridle path through the woods, they left both the dust and Gilbey behind them.

Jonquil was a follower, but as Gilbey had surmised, she was not fast. Despite his masterful efforts, the mare quickly fell into last place. He felt they were fortunate to be able to keep the rest of the group in sight. After a time, even that was no longer possible, as the twisting course wound up through the Cotswold hills and down into hidden valleys. Gilbey kept a sharp eye out for the red flags that had been set out to mark the way, for there were many places where they emerged from the woods to cut across open pastures, only to dive back into the forest again on a new path.

Gilbey began to enjoy himself, despite Jonquil’s limitations, for the day was particularly fine, and the views from the hilltops were sometimes breathtaking. Although she was slow, the mare had an easy, steady gait that allowed him to relax. He had a sense that they were not too far behind the stragglers of the main group, for every so often the sound of shouts or laughter or the occasional whinny of a horse carried back to him on the breeze.

He was surprised, however, to catch a fleeting glimpse of Venetia as he and Jonquil came down a steep decline toward a small bridge in the bottom of a ravine. She and her fine roan were just disappearing over the crest of the hill on the opposite side.

How has she come to be so far behind the others?
was the first question that popped into his mind. He was distressed by the way his body reacted to the mere sight of her—his heart jumped and his pulse began to race as if they’d been struck with a whip. With a sudden urge to try to catch her, he attempted to inspire a similar reaction in Jonquil.

It was only because the road ran blessedly straight for a short ways beyond the top of the hill that he saw Venetia turn off the route into the woods.
Where in God’s name did she think she was going?
He pressed Jonquil onward with an urgency the horse seemed to sense, for she cooperated with more spirit than she had shown at any earlier time.

The path Venetia had taken was much narrower and very obviously less traveled than any that had been used for the race. Ducking tree branches, Gilbey guessed that she had chosen a shortcut in an attempt to catch up to the main group. He did not think she knew he was following.

The path led generally downward and Gilbey was careful to keep his weight centered. He was not at all prepared to pull up quickly when he and Jonquil rounded a curve and nearly ran full tilt into Venetia’s horse. The roan was standing riderless by a fallen tree across the path.

It was clear at once what had happened. The ground sloped downhill rather steeply on the other side of the tree trunk, and the horse had obviously refused the jump. Unprepared and riding a bit too fast, Venetia had sailed over it without him. She sat hatless in a muddy pool at the bottom of the decline with leaves sticking to her habit and her hair halfway unpinned. To Gilbey’s relief she did not appear to be injured.

Gilbey dismounted. Pushing some branches out of the way, he climbed over the fallen tree and started down the leaf-shrewn slope toward her. He spied her hat and retrieved it from a bush, brushing more leaves from the lace veil. He noticed that there was a rip in it. In the meantime, he heard Venetia mutter a few rather unladylike phrases.

“Forget something?” he asked as he reached the bottom. “I noticed your horse decided not to join you.”

“It would have to be you that came along,” she said ungraciously.

“It was me or no one.” He grinned. “Where on earth were you going? Besides down this hill, I mean.”

She did not answer.

“I found your hat. Looks a little the worse for wear.” He held it out to her and she jammed it onto her head.

She looks ready to spit,
he thought, and reflected that he had never seen her angry before. The fact was, he thought she looked particularly charming, with her hair coming loose and a smudge of mud on her nose. This was the real Venetia, not the perfectly groomed beauty he was used to seeing, and he liked what he saw.

“This happens to be a shortcut,” she said finally. “I lost my hat earlier and had to go back for it. I wanted to catch up.”

He waved a hand at her sitting in the puddle. “Looks like an odd way to go about it, if you ask me. But then, you didn’t ask, did you? I’m certain you know best.”

He turned and started back up the slope.

“Where are you going?”

“To get Jonquil. I want to show her that there is a place to land on the other side of the tree.”

“You aren’t going to help me up?”

“Oh, I doubt if I have enough wit to do that.”

Retribution might not be gentlemanly, but it tasted very sweet. Behind him he heard the sounds of her struggling to get up.

“Ooh, you are a wretched man! I hate you!”

Something struck him just below his shoulder blades. He put a hand back and brought away gloved fingers covered with mud.
The little vixen!
He turned and saw her standing there, her heavy skirts soiled, wet, and clinging to her. As she bent down to scoop up another handful of ammunition, he bounded back down the hill.

“Is it full-fledged war, then?” he asked, grabbing her arm. “Flinging insults is no longer enough?”

But something happened the moment he touched her. He did not feel at all warlike. “Rumor has it that you think I am witless and utterly boring.” He stared down into her beautiful eyes, searching for the truth.

“Well, I—”

She did not finish. The very air around them seemed charged. In her eyes he thought he saw a message quite different from anything she had said.

“Tell me if you find this boring, then,” he said softly, his voice husky. Quite ignoring the mud that covered her, he slipped his arms around her and brought her against him. He found her sweet lips and proceeded to kiss her as thoroughly as he knew how.

Chapter Eleven

Lost in the arousing pleasure of Cranford’s kiss, Venetia felt an almost overwhelming urge to surrender. His mouth was gentle yet demanding; he tasted warm and slightly spicy. She was aware of every inch of her body that pressed against his, of his arms around her, of her clinging wet skirts.

Give in,
called a seductive voice inside her. How easy to yield everything to him—her struggle, her secrets, her body, her heart! She did not hate this man. She was very much afraid that she loved him. At least for that moment while they stood kissing in a puddle of mud up to their ankles, she did love him.

No.
It was impossible, of course. Like a dreamer slowly coming awake, she struggled to regain her reason. What of Vivian? What of her father? She had obligations. What of the group of riders somewhere ahead of them, racing further away at every moment? And not least of all, what of the blackmailer who was someone among them, someone who watched her each day, waiting, if he was not the man here with his arms around her? How could she have forgotten any of that for even an instant? That it had happened so easily frightened her.

Gilbey felt the change come through her like a sudden erratic current in a stream—the infinitely sweet, deep receptiveness he had found was swept aside and she started to push him away. Reluctant to give her up, he held her tighter for a fraction of a moment, but then he released her. She was right, of course, and this time he had made himself the fool.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear.”

He stepped back from her, straightening his spectacles. “Lady Venetia, I beg your forgiveness! I think I may have proved you to be half right, after all. I must indeed be witless, to have done such a thing.”

She looked down at her muddied gloves and then plucked at her skirt. She did appear terribly distraught.

“No, no, I don’t know what came over us,” she murmured, shaking her head. At some point she had lost her hat again—he was surprised that neither of them had noticed.

He stopped to retrieve it and tried to brush off the mud that had splashed on it before he handed it back to her a second time.

“Oh dear,” she said again. “You truly are dangerous.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, and he saw not distress but something much more like a deep sadness in her eyes. She shook her head as if that would rid her of it. “I should never have thrown the mud at you. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to reach out to her, to touch that fleeting sadness and soothe it away, whatever it was. But he sensed that she would not let him.

“I must admit that I would rather be thought dangerous than boring,” he said, cocking his head to one side and smiling at her. “I am afraid I hardly look the part, however.” He looked down at his own clothes and began to laugh.

“In the four days that I have been here, my clothes have been doused with wine, soaked in a river, and now coated with mud. If I had only known, I would have made sure to bring a second trunkful. Your brother should have warned me.”
He should have warned me about a lot more than that
.

His tactic succeeded, coaxing a smile from her. “I think the trunk would only have been full of books, sir.”

He staggered, pretending to be wounded. “Ah,
touché!
But what else would you expect from a witless fellow?” Tapping his head, he continued, “We can’t keep anything up here, so we have to cart it around with us in trunks. But now you have learned my secret.”
How much I would like to know yours.

“I am sorry about the remark I made last night. I did not mean it, and I never intended that anyone else should overhear it. You may call me witless, if you like.”

She looked so utterly sincere, he could not help grinning, fool that he was. Part of him knew they would both be better off if she did think him boring and witless. But part of him thought he had tasted the truth in their kiss.

***

They decided that there was only one possible way to explain the state of their appearances when they caught up to the rest of the group, and that was to tell the truth, minus a few major details, and to hope for the best. Gilbey would say that he slipped while helping Venetia, to explain the mud on his own clothes. If they were not believed, the consequences could be disastrous for both of them. It was a sobering thought.

Most fortunately, Venetia’s shortcut brought them back to the main route just ahead of the last few slow ladies who had given up all hope of the race. Lady Colney was horrified at the sight of Venetia’s muddy clothing, and Lady Sibbingham clucked sympathetically at the story of her fall. But no one questioned the truth of the tale, and indeed there was no way for anyone to guess how much time had elapsed while Venetia and Lord Cranford were alone. Because the errant pair returned home in company with the other ladies, the damaging questions from the rest of the group were minimized and the potential disaster avoided.

Gilbey was so relieved, he did not mind the sly comments and looks that the other men directed at him during dinner and the evening’s activities. Besides, one other thing had gone right. Lord Chesdale had won the race.

***

Cranford’s remarkable blue-green eyes haunted Venetia’s dreams through the night, as did a craving to feel his arms around her. She awakened late the following morning, sore in several places from her fall the previous day. After her maid helped her to dress, she went stiffly down to breakfast.

Only a handful of guests were still at their meal in the Italian room, which featured paintings by Italian masters on its walls. Venetia was not surprised that there was no sign of Vivian, and if she was disappointed not to see Cranford, part of her knew that it was just as well. The Duke and Duchess of Brancaster sat at one table near the French windows overlooking the small courtyard known as the Roman court, so named because Venetia’s grandfather had designed it to look like the atrium of a Roman villa. Venetia noticed Lady Norbridge and Lord Munslow out strolling in it. Colonel Hatherwick sat by himself at another table, feasting happily on a breakfast that looked quite sufficient to feed five people.

The duchess called her over. “My dear, how are you this morning? We were so sorry to hear that you took a fall yesterday. Oh, but the race was just splendid! His Grace and I cannot remember the last time we enjoyed ourselves so much.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it, Your Grace. I am a bit sore this morning, but nothing to be concerned about.”

“I confess to being a bit sore myself this morning,” the duchess said. “Most of us continued racing just to keep up enough to see what would happen. Such a surprise that Lord Chesdale should win, although afterwards we wondered why we did not expect it.” The lady chuckled. “Lord Newcroft certainly did give him a run for his money.”

A man of few words compared to his wife the duke made a rare comment. “Humph. Lord Newcroft thinks he must prove himself over and over again—always afraid someone will cast up to him the fact that his father was in trade.”

Venetia had noticed that Lord Newcroft worked very hard at winning. Yet he had not seemed overly attentive to either her or Vivian. How badly did he want to win the hand of one of the twins? She had assumed the blackmailer’s motivation must be financial, but now she wondered if that might not be the case. A connection by marriage to a powerful duke would certainly be an asset to a very ambitious and wealthy viscount.

She hurried through her breakfast and went in search of her sister to share this new insight. Vivian was not to be found in the gardens, so Venetia returned to the house. She enlisted several footmen to help her, for Vivian could be anywhere in the huge residence. She tried the ancient chapel, a fourteenth century relic that had been incorporated into the house, knowing that Vivian at times liked to go there. Failing that, she tried the library, half expecting that not only her sister but also Lord Cranford might be there.

The viscount was indeed in the library, so engrossed in a large book on Italian architecture that he did not notice her until she stood directly before him, coughing discreetly to catch his attention. Obviously startled, he leaped to his feet, still clutching the heavy leather volume.

“Lady Venetia! I did not see you there. Uh, good morning.”

She smiled, amused to watch his face reflect surprise, pleasure, and then embarrassment in turn.

“I wondered whether you might have seen my sister Vivian this morning?”
You must not let on that you know they have met here before,
she reminded herself. “I came down late to breakfast, and I am looking for her.”

“I did see her at breakfast, a good while ago. She was dressed to go riding. I noted it, actually, not only because she looked splendid, of course, but because I thought Nicholas told me yesterday that she seldom rides.”

A frisson of alarm went through Venetia. “That is true,” she said quietly, trying to cover her reaction. It would not do to show unusual concern over something that for most people was a normal activity. And the chances were that Vivian would be fine. Perhaps she had gone out with Nicholas, or one of their own grooms. But all of Venetia’s instincts were suddenly screaming at her in warning. “I—I think I’ll go to the stables to check,” she said, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.

“I’ll go with you,” Cranford volunteered.

Venetia was too upset to protest. Having Cranford with her forced her to act calmly. Otherwise she might have run all the way to the stableyard, causing a host of unwelcome questions. She walked, but quickly.

“Did she happen to mention if she was going with anyone?” She winced. To her own ears she sounded breathless, like her aunt.

“I don’t believe she said.”

“It is not like her to go off this way. She doesn’t ride often, and when she does one of us is always with her. I don’t understand.” She was talking more to herself than to him.

By the time they reached the stables, she no longer cared if Cranford saw that she was worried. He might wonder why all he liked. Something more had pushed her closer to the edge of panic—the rumble of thunder in the distance.

Riding itself was no threat to Vivian; the danger was the possibility of a seizure while she was doing it. The twins and Nicholas had learned to recognize when seizures were most likely to strike: if Vivian became overtired, for instance, or if she was exposed to abrupt changes of light. They had learned to cope and to compensate, but occasionally a seizure would strike without warning, for no apparent reason at all.

The flashes of lightning that came with a thunderstorm guaranteed trouble. Venetia prayed that Nicholas was with her twin, or at least that Vivian would have returned by now. The safest place for her sister was in her own room until the storm was over.

One look at the uneasy stablehands confirmed Venetia’s worst fear. “She has not returned, has she?” she blurted out without preamble. “Is my brother with her?”

The head groom approached her, hat in hand, his eyes on his boot toes. “No, my lady.”

“Who is with her, then?”

“The Marquess of Ashurst. And I sent Tom Dixon with them. She was determined that she would go, miss. ’Twas not my place to argue.”

He was right, of course. “I’m sorry, Griffiths, it’s not your fault. Have you any idea where they went?”

“No, my lady. Wish to God I did.”

Venetia paced a few steps in a circle. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Will they not be all right?” asked Cranford.

“I am sure they must be returning.” What if they did not get back in time? Would Tom Dixon know what to do, or be able to explain to Lord Ashurst? As far as Venetia knew, the young groom had never seen Vivian actually suffer a seizure. And what of Ashurst? He would likely be horrified. Would he then feel obliged to tell everyone what he’d seen? The blackmailer would be thwarted, assuming it wasn’t Ashurst, but the family would be ruined and God only knew what fate would befall Vivian then. Oh, why had Vivian insisted on doing this? She would have to go after her.

Hands on her shoulders abruptly stopped Venetia from moving. She looked up to see Cranford, his eyes full of concern. “You will make yourself dizzy.”

She realized she had been pacing in a tight little circle with increasing speed that reflected her agitated state. She also realized with surprise that she was not used to having someone express concern over her own well-being. She was the strong one, the lioness, the one who had escaped from the accident with hardly a scratch. She was always fine—everyone expected it, including herself. It surprised her that she rather liked the concern, especially coming from Cranford. Even so, she could not allow him to come with her. If Vivian had a seizure before they got back, he would only be another witness.

“Thank you,” she said, offering a shaky smile. Before she could go after Vivian, she would have to get him to go back to the house. “Since Lord Ashurst and one of our grooms are with her, I’m certain she will be fine. You may as well go back in.”

“Without you?”

“I think I will wait here for them, but you do not need to. Thank you for your help.”

Did the man not know a dismissal when he heard one? She was not dressed to go riding; there was no reason for him not to believe her. He looked dubious, and for a moment she feared he would not go. Then with a “very well, then,” he took himself off. As soon as he was gone, she called for her horse Artemis. By the time the mare was saddled and she headed out of the stableyard, she assumed Cranford was safely back in the main house. She had an idea where Vivian might have chosen to go and set off for a trail that led up to the north pastures.

***

Gilbey was not surprised to see Venetia head out of the stableyard without him. He took note of her direction and ducked back into the stables, calling for a horse and letting Griffiths know by the look in his eyes that he would tolerate no questions or delay. “And don’t try to foist old Jonquil on me, either,” he added. “She and I are well acquainted after yesterday.”

Gilbey guessed that the stablehands may have been relieved to see him go after Venetia, for although Griffiths said nothing, the horse they provided had to be one of the duke’s finest. “Might ’ave won that race yesterday, with a different rider,” was all the groomsman said as the animal was brought out.