Recklessly Yours (18 page)

She had held her breath as she waited for the answer, dread pitching and churning in her stomach.

Lady Sabrina had laughed without humor. “One never can know precisely what Colin is thinking.”

Based on the significant looks passing between Lord Drayton and Lady Penelope, Holly would say he liked her exceedingly well, despite her exaggerated curls and overabundance of jewelry.

A misery as cold as hoarfrost settled over Holly's heart. Her thoughts tumbled back to her tour of the stables that morning, to the many insights Colin had shared with her. Did he share his aspirations with Lady Penelope? Was he even now explaining his theories of prevailing and dormant traits to the eager young
royal
chit batting her eyelashes at him?

“Miss Sutherland. A pleasant evening, no?”

She started, then disguised her flinch with a flick of her fan. Stuart Bentley stood at her shoulder, gazing out over the ballroom as if to join in her contemplation of the proceedings.

“Superlative,” she said, barely suppressing a huff of exasperation. She had just been about to make her escape,
would
have made it, if only she hadn't lingered over Colin Ashworth's conquest of the simpering Penelope Wingate.

Pivoting on his heel to face her, Mr. Bentley tipped a bow. “And how is it that such a lovely lady is not dancing?”

“I mean not to dance this set, sir. The day has left me weary and—”

“Ah, but a new set is just beginning. Will you not do me the honor of standing up with me?”

Oh dear. Oh
no.
The duchess chose that moment to hasten across the ballroom, honing in on them like an arrow to its mark. “Yes, delightful! Mr. Bentley, Miss Sutherland, do lead the others into the next waltz.”

Holly could hardly refuse without appearing insufferably rude. When the quadrille ended and the next number began, she had little choice but to place her hand in Stuart Bentley's and walk with him to the center of the gleaming parquet floor.

 

“Is it not most fortunate, my lord, that our fathers' interests coincide so agreeably?”

“Indeed, Lady Penelope,” Colin murmured in reply, though to what he had just agreed he wasn't quite certain. As she nattered on, his gaze drifted over the ballroom, then abruptly stopped. What was
this?
Bentley and Miss Sutherland were dancing a
waltz.

What was Bentley up to? Colin thought he had made himself perfectly clear at the stables that morning. Had Bentley forgotten, or had he grown a substantial pair of bollocks in the interim?

Beside him, Penelope went silent. Colin shifted his gaze back to her, at the same time wondering why he put up even the slightest pretense of interest. Despite his father's well-vocalized wishes, he had no intention of marrying her. Not now, now ever; not even if she were next in line to the throne.

Especially not then.

She blinked, her lips curving in a smile that struggled to be sophisticated. “But perhaps such matters are best left unsaid.”

“Matters?” He tried to remember what she'd been talking about, but Miss Sutherland's bright blue skirts swept the corner of his vision and drove all other thoughts clear from his mind.

“Business, my lord. Commerce.” She half mouthed the words as if they were blasphemies.

“Nothing untoward about business, Lady Penelope.”

“Then you agree with my father's opinion on the subject?”

He wished Penelope would stop talking so he could concentrate on the elegance of Miss Sutherland's arms, the curve of her nape, the tightness of her cinched waist as she circled round and round the ballroom. Colin shouldn't have been surprised at her agility. Riding would have sculpted her figure to perfection—he'd wager a small fortune on the potential magnificence of her thighs—while the subtle nuances of maneuvering a mount would have taught her a dexterity that easily translated to other physical endeavors . . . such as dancing.

He yanked his attention back to the young lady beside him. “I'm sorry. What?”

“Do you agree that England should empty its debtors' prisons, not to mention repeal the Abolition of Slavery Act, in order to provide a viable workforce to our protectorates around the world?”

Just then, the music ended. After a bob of curtsy, Miss Sutherland scurried away from Bentley's side. Colin followed her progress down the long room. She paused near her sister Ivy, then continued on until she reached the terrace doors. As she crossed the threshold, the torchlight outside set brilliant highlights dancing in her hair, gilded the folds of her gown, and tinged her skin with a warm, inviting glow.

It was a summons he couldn't resist, even if it hadn't been directed at him.

“If you'll excuse me a moment, Lady Penelope.” Without hearing her reply, he bowed and wasted no time in striding away.

“Colin, there you are. Has it been your intention to ignore me all night?”

At Ivy's approach, he halted in his tracks.

“Of course not. Are you enjoying yourself?” He tried his utmost not to let his impatience show. “I see you are not dancing.”

“I confess I'm a trifle fatigued tonight. . . .” She linked her arm through his, leaving him no choice but to let her lead him on a stroll along the edge of the room—away from the terrace.

His mother unwittingly came to his rescue by inquiring whether he and Ivy meant to dance together. “I believe Lady Harrow could do with some punch first, Mother,” he replied before Ivy could speak. “And I'd not be tempting her out onto the dance floor until the occasion of another sedate quadrille.”

“Oh, you are quite right.” His mother's eyes widened with alarm. She slipped her arm through Ivy's and drew her to her side. “Come, my dear, let us endeavor to make you comfortable.”

“Oh, but—”

Confident he'd left Ivy in capable hands, he cut a determined path toward the terrace.

“Lord Drayton.”

He bit back an oath as he ground to another halt. “Miss Willow.”

She stepped into his path and earnestly thanked him for the splendid ball. And suddenly something didn't sit right with him. He'd watch one sister disappear out the terrace doors, and when he tried to see where she was going, the other two sisters conveniently headed him off.

Before the youngest Sutherland could engage him any further in conversation, he smiled, gave her gloved hand an affectionate squeeze, then excused himself and walked briskly off. If anyone else called his name, he didn't hear it.

The terrace was sparsely populated, with Miss Sutherland nowhere in sight. His first thought was that she'd stolen down to the stables again. But to what purpose? He had shown her everything that morning. The horses, the facilities, everything. An uncomfortable sensation crept over him.

Did her interests lie merely in the purchase of a racehorse? He had believed that her enthusiasm for all things equestrian had been what had sent her down to the stables the night before. But if not, what was the tantalizing Miss Sutherland searching for?

The ballroom lay at the easternmost end of the house, and she could have gone in either of two directions: down the steps and into the gardens—and perhaps the stables beyond—or westward, toward the other rooms that opened onto the terrace.

The former notion brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Had she stolen into the shrubbery for a tryst? Who would it be? Bentley? No, Colin had just left him behind in the ballroom, dancing with another young miss.

Besides, his instincts denied the possibility that Miss Sutherland had scampered outside to compromise herself in the shadows. As sensual and alive as she was, she was no fool of a chit bent on ruination. Like her sisters, she had good sense about her.

Then . . . ?

He began strolling casually until he got beyond the torches and the candlelight spilling out the ballroom windows. The music faded into the chirping of crickets and the swish of the trees. He considered the row of darkened windows and French doors stretching out beside him. Where had she gone, that she couldn't have accessed more easily from within the house?

Unless she hadn't wished to be seen.

 

Willow watched Lord Drayton—or Colin, as she sometimes dared to call him—stride out to the terrace. She had done her best to delay him, but she hadn't been clever enough. Had Holly gotten enough of a head start?

Whirling, Willow craned her neck until she located Ivy walking arm in arm with the duchess. Ivy, too, cast worried glances toward the gold-tinged shadows of the terrace.

With a flutter of her fan, Willow caught Ivy's attention. Then she flipped her fan closed again and pointed its tip in the direction the earl had gone. Ivy's brows knitted in comprehension. Willow pressed a hand to her bodice to suggest that she go, but Ivy shook her head. She said something in the duchess's ear, then began threading her way out of the ballroom.

Willow's instinct was to follow Colin. Perhaps his leaving had nothing to do with Holly. Wishing to set her mind at ease on that count, she headed for the terrace, hoping to find him leaning on the balustrade, enjoying the night air and speaking with guests.

“Miss Willow.” Lady Sabrina's satin-clad hand settled lightly on Willow's shoulder, effectively holding her in place. “There is someone who wishes to dance with you, but he is afraid to ask you himself.”

“Oh, I . . .”

“Please, it would mean the world to him, I'm certain.”

“Good gracious, why would anyone be afraid to ask me?” Yet the answer seemed obvious. It must be Geoffrey, the youngest and most retiring of the Ashworth siblings.

“Why, here he is now.” Lady Sabrina reached out her hand, but the wrist she caught and the figure she drew closer were far too solid and imposing to belong to the youthful Geoffrey Ashworth.

Lord Bryce's stormy gaze—so much darker and more mysterious than those of his siblings—shifted to encompass Willow. It descended on her with near physical force, rendering her slightly weak in the knees. “Good evening, Miss Sutherland.”

“G-good evening.” Her voice fluttered like the diaphanous wings of a moth.

“Bryce, Miss Sutherland appears not to be engaged for this set.” His sister raised her eyebrows; her narrow chin thrust forward as if to impale her brother should he show the slightest prevarication.

He hesitated for an instant, an eternity that made Willow squirm inside with mortification. Then the word
delighted
, uttered in his deep, brooding voice, caressed her ears, and she discovered her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, her fingertips tantalized by the hardness of the muscle beneath his sleeve. The music began. In Lord Bryce's guiding arms Willow found herself swept round and round in determined circles, flying, soaring, until the room blurred and she lost track of where they were, lost track of everything but Lord Bryce's severe countenance, his steady hold, and the inscrutable gaze that never left hers.

P
erhaps Ivy had been correct in predicting that the duke's private office held no evidence of the colt's disappearance, but Holly believed she had discovered something equally noteworthy. She had flipped through one ledger containing pages and pages of names—horses and buyers, races and winners—with corresponding numbers that indicated prices, sizes, weights, and speeds. Nothing unusual there. But the second ledger she chose held a fascinating clue: references to the Ashworths' Devonshire estate.

She had not previously considered that a significant number of the Ashworth Thoroughbreds were not bred at Masterfield Park, but rather some two hundred miles away at the family's remote country home. Could Prince's Pride have hailed from faraway Briarview? That would explain why none of the racing enthusiasts here seemed to have heard of the extraordinary animal. And despite Victoria's conviction to the contrary, Prince's Price could have been secreted out of Ascot days ago.

Or perhaps not. That morning, Lord Drayton had curtly turned their horses back toward home after Holly attempted to ride into the vale. The small valley contained dangers, he'd said.

But could the vale contain more than marshy bottomlands?

The clicking of a brisk tread along the terrace brought her up sharp. With a gasp she sprang up from the desk chair and blew out the single candle she'd lit. She headed for the door, then remembered the ledger book still in her hands. She doubled back to the desk, fumbled with the drawer, and shoved the ledger inside. The footsteps continued their approach, echoing briskly against the side of the house.

Lord Drayton? A footman who might report back to his employer about finding her here?

Indecision held her frozen. The office itself didn't open onto the terrace. She had reentered the house through the library next door, passed through the corridor, and come into the office.

She cracked the door open and listened. Did she have time to slip back into the corridor and get far enough away before whoever it was emerged from the library? Or should she remain where she was and hide? With a glance over her shoulder she quickly dismissed that idea. The room offered no concealment but the small space beneath the desk. If she were going to be apprehended, she was not going to suffer the added ignominy of being caught crouching on all fours beneath a desk.

Her resolve sent her across the threshold. Having no idea where the corridor led, she shut the door behind her and set off as fast as her feet could take her.

 

Colin walked through the library, and when he reached the corridor, he paused, listening to the retreating footsteps. Light footsteps, like those of a lady in dancing slippers. Louder, silk and taffeta rustled like a chorus of crickets. Colin smiled, though not altogether pleasantly.