The Gamekeeper's Lady (14 page)

‘Are you engaged to be married, then?’ Frederica asked, then turned red and was glad Lady Caldwell had her back to her as she realised just how impertinent her enquiry sounded.

‘La, but you are a country miss,’ Lady Caldwell said with a musical laugh. ‘I left my husband in London. I am travelling with several companions. I have my maid, as do the other ladies who make up our party. The rest of them are staying at Radthorn’s house, as you know, and so for now you are my chaperon. Not a breath of scandal, I assure you.’

The thought of trying to chaperon the sophisticated Lady Caldwell made her want to giggle. The whole arrangement sounded odd, but then Lady Caldwell was clearly a woman of the world.

From out of the trunk Forester pulled a dark blue riding habit with gold epaulettes and lots of frogging.

‘Do you ride out with us tomorrow, Lady Caldwell?’ Frederica asked.

‘Oh, my dear, you must call me Maggie or I vow I shall feel like an ancient crone.’

Put entirely at ease, Frederica laughed. ‘No one would use that word to describe you. And thank you. Please call me Frederica.’

Maggie clapped her hands. ‘To answer your question, yes, I will join the hunt. Do you go too?’

She nodded. That had been a bone of contention between her and Uncle Mortimer. In the end, she’d agreed, but only if she could stay well to the rear and avoid being present for the kill.

‘I shall look forward to keeping you company.’ Maggie rose to her feet. ‘I can’t wait for this masked ball. I love dressing up, don’t you? Of course you do. What woman wouldn’t? And wait until you see the wonderful men Radthorn has brought with him.’ She put a delicate hand to the centre of her chest and gave a languid sigh, then laughed and held out her hand. ‘Come, let us go downstairs. Tea must have arrived. I think you and I are going to get along famously.’

Oh, yes, they’d be great friends. Maggie would talk and Frederica would listen and everyone would be happy.

What would her new friend think if she learned that Frederica was an artist? A wanton? And about to go out into the world alone?

Robert tightened Pippin’s girth and looked up at Frederica, the first of the riders out of the stable. No longer the secretive little mouse she’d been a day or so ago. The sea-green riding habit was of the very best quality. Its tailored lines suited her slim figure and matched the colour of her eyes. He’d never seen her look so elegant or so happy. She looked utterly charming. Glowing.

Bloody alluring.

He wanted to drag her back to his cottage and hide her away.

‘Th-thank you, Robert,’ she whispered.

Aye. She’d whisper, with her London guests nearby. And that was just how he wanted it. He touched his cap and pulled it lower on his forehead, keeping a wary eye out for Lullington. Of all the cursed ill luck, he had to be one of the guests. And Maggie, too. He was still having trouble believing it.

He shouldn’t have reported for work this morning. He should have sent word of some infectious disease the moment he’d realised who young Bracewell had brought along as guests. But that would have left poor old Weatherby in the lurch.

A visiting groom led out the next animals, a sweet little chestnut mare called Penny and a large black gelding. The mare whickered a soft greeting to Robert. He bit back a curse. Who’d have thought the horse would remember him? Maggie, in a dark blue habit, strolled into the courtyard on Lullington’s arm. Robert watched covertly as a groom threw her up. She was too busy conversing with the viscount to notice him, a mere servant. Thank God.

Instead of leaving the task to the groom, Lullington saw to Maggie’s tack, his hand touching her thigh lightly in an intimate gesture as he finished. So Maggie had gone to Lullington. Perhaps that’s why the viscount had been keen to see Robert disgraced. They had often vied for the same females, usually to Lullington’s disadvantage. But unless things had changed, he’d not be able to afford the kind of baubles Maggie liked to add to her collection.

Lullington sprang into the saddle unaided. ‘Hey, you there.’ He pointed his crop at Robert. ‘A stirrup cup for the lady.’

Head lowered, Robert touched his hat and went for the tray of pewter cups set on a bench by the door. Normally Maisie would be out here passing the good cheer around, but something had happened in the kitchen and Snively had assigned Robert the task.

He handed a cup up to Maggie, who nodded a thank you.

Lullington looked down only long enough to grasp his goblet. He leaned closer to Maggie. ‘God,’ he lisped in a low voice, ‘did you see the hack Bracewell is riding? A slug.’

Maggie’s answering laugh struck a chord in his memory. It was what had attracted him to her in the first place. Merry and meaningless laughter. Now it left him cold.

He took a cup to Frederica, who bestowed thanks by way of an intimate little smile.

Robert prayed Lullington didn’t notice. Damnation, but this was hell.

The last rider out of the stable was the young master on a showy bay. It was Robert’s first real look at Frederica’s cousin. Clearly greener than grass and still with his mother’s milk on his lips, he was just the kind of youth dangling at the edges of society to be impressed with Lullington’s smooth style of address. Still, even the daring viscount would not dare gull the lad under his own roof.

Bracewell jobbed at the horse’s mouth. It reared in protest. Its wicked flying hooves narrowly missed Pippin. Frederica manoeuvred neatly out of the way. ‘Take c-care, Simon.’

Robert caught the bay’s bridle and soothed it with some whispered words. ‘Stirrup cup, sir?’ he asked Bracewell, who seemed unconscious that another had taken control of his mount.

‘Yes, by Jove. Good man.’ Simon beamed. ‘I say, Lullington. Good hunting weather, what?’

‘Is it?’ Lullington replied, looking up at the clear blue sky.

‘You wag,’ Bracewell said. ‘Always ribbing a fellow. What do you think, Maggie? Are you ready to take the first brush today?’

Frederica winced, causing Pippin to dance sideways.

Lullington, who had drawn close, caught her bridle. ‘Steady there,’ he said to the horse, his gaze fixed on Frederica. ‘My word, Miss Bracewell, you look simply ravishing this morning. I am quite determined not to leave your side—you present such a pretty picture.’

Robert gritted his teeth and handed the last of the stirrup cups up to Bracewell. If he had known Lullington was to be ensconced under the same roof as Frederica, he might have whisked her off to Gretna Green and to hell with the consequences.

No, he wouldn’t. Any more than Lullington would. The man was simply enjoying himself putting a pretty miss to the blush. Robert knew, because he’d done it himself. The last thing the viscount wanted was a wife as poor as himself.

He just hoped Frederica would see through the viscount’s charm to the rake beneath.

She hadn’t seen through Robert, though. The thought gave him a cold feeling in his chest.

Gun over his shoulder, Weatherby marched into the courtyard and approached Bracewell with a touch to his hat. ‘Hunt is meeting at the Bull and Mouth, Master Simon. Ye’ve a half-hour to get there. Deveril here will send the beaters off ahead. You’ll have a good day’s sport, I promise ye.’

Robert ran around, collecting the goblets from the riders.

‘We’re off,’ Maggie said, her face a picture of eagerness. ‘We don’t want to miss the start.’ She trotted out of the courtyard and down the drive, with Bracewell right behind.

Frederica grimaced as if she’d like to miss the whole thing, but the viscount still retained his grip on her bridle. He gave it a jerk. The little gelding tossed his head, then broke into a canter with Lullington at Frederica’s side.

Ire boiled in Robert’s gut. How dare he touch her horse? It was as if he’d taken possession. Robert kept a tight grip on his urge to shout a protest. Lullington couldn’t do her much harm if the party stayed together.

When Frederica leaned back and gave the viscount’s black a sharp slap on the rump with her crop and the black took off at a gallop, he couldn’t hold back his smile. For all her appearance of frailty, his Frederica was a woman to be reckoned with.

His? What the hell was he thinking? That was one thing she could never be. Not in any way, shape or form. And there were going to be no more midnight visits.

He’d made certain. He still felt a sharp pain between his ribs every time he recalled the hurt look on her face. What if they could be friends, as she’d asked? Would it ever be enough? Would he be able to resist her appeal? Damnation, he missed her like the devil already.

It wasn’t as if he’d seduced an innocent, he reminded himself, but there were different kinds of innocent. And she was the most vulnerable to a man like him.

‘Don’t stand there daydreaming,’ Weatherby growled. ‘Get off, lad. You need a half-hour start on the pack or they’ll overrun the fox before midday.’

‘We don’t want that,’ Robert said wryly and set off through the kitchen garden at a jog. He’d take the short cut and be gone from the inn long before the Wynchwood party appeared.

The hounds and red-coated hunters streamed up Gallows Hill far ahead of Frederica and Maggie, but Frederica didn’t care.

‘Hurry up, Frederica,’ Maggie called back, twisting in her saddle. ‘We are falling behind.’

That’s the idea, Frederica thought, but she urged Pippin to a greater burst of speed. The gelding, who’d fretted at being held back, took the bit and surged forwards. Frederica kept a sharp eye out for rabbit holes.

Fortunately, her slow pace had annoyed Viscount Lullington. He’d galloped ahead, promising to return to see how she was doing the next time the hounds were at a stand.

She caught Maggie up and matched Pippin’s speed to the chestnut. They rode side by side over the brow of the hill. Hopefully, they would not see her particular fox this morning.

Far ahead, the hunt master blew the view halloo. It seemed her wish was not to be granted.

‘Here we go,’ Maggie yelled, her eyes brimming with excitement. ‘Come on, if you want to be in on the kill.’

Ugh. ‘You go ahead. Pippin is lame. He must have picked up a stone. I will need to dismount and take a look.’

Maggie gave a little grimace of disappointment. ‘I’ll send Lull or your cousin back to find you if you don’t catch us up.’

Frederica waved her crop and watched Maggie fly off down the hill.

Pippin’s ears pricked forwards. He strained at the bit.

‘I know, old fellow. But we don’t want to be there when they catch the fox. Wait a few minutes and then you can gallop.’

A lady in dark green and two men in hunting pink, members of Mr Radthorn’s party whom she’d met at the village inn, straggled up to her. She waved them on. The last thing she needed was some well-meaning gentleman poking around in Pippin’s hooves. He’d soon realise her excuse was a hum.

She had Pippin walk slowly down the hill, listening to the retreating sounds of baying hounds and the hunting horn. Leaning forwards, she patted her mount’s neck. ‘What do you think? Are they far enough ahead?’

He tossed his head as if he understood every word.

She laughed. ‘Very well.’ She dug her heel into his flank and he sprang forwards into a gallop, straining at the bit. Oh, dear. He seemed determined to catch the other horses. The hedge at the bottom of the hill came up fast. Too fast. She hauled on the reins, trying to turn his head. Too late. They were going to have to jump it. Not a good idea in a lady’s saddle.

Her heart picked up speed. She eyed the closing distance, judged the horse’s pace and steadied herself. Not that the saddle provided much support.

Pippin gathered himself. And they flew. She was going to make it. Beautiful jump. Clean. Clear. The horse landed. Frederica hit the saddle with a bump and jolted sideways. She was flying again. Straight at the ground.

Ouch. She landed on her bottom. Hard. She couldn’t breathe. She’d crushed her ribs. Panicked, she clutched her chest. She couldn’t inhale. She was dying.

‘Steady,’ a deep voice said. ‘Take it easy.’

A huge rush of air filled her lungs. Her head swam. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then Robert’s anxious face filled her vision. ‘Where are you hurt?’

Grateful to feel the air sawing in and out of her lungs, she managed a weak smile. ‘Winded.’

‘Are you sure that is all?’ His hands, gentle, clinical, ran over her arms, legs, back. ‘Does it hurt when I touch you?’

‘No. It feels lovely.’

He repressed a quick grin. ‘Not another word.’

‘Why aren’t you up front with the villagers?’

‘I was. I noticed you hanging back, then Lady Caldwell showed up without you. One of those idiots should have stayed behind.’ He sounded furious.

‘I’m not a child, you know. I’ve ridden these fields alone all my life.’ She glanced around for Pippin. Not a sign of him.

‘Still chasing the leaders,’ Robert said.

‘I don’t know what got into him.’

‘Overexcited, I suspect.’ Robert held out a hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Can you walk?’

She took a couple of steps. Her legs felt like blancmange and her bottom hurt, but she wasn’t injured. ‘A little stiff and sore, but I’m fine.’

‘Too bad.’ His dark eyes sparkled. ‘I was hoping for the excuse to carry you in my arms.’

‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Because you don’t play those kinds of games,’ he said. ‘Good thing too.’

There was no one in sight. The only thing in the middle of the field was them and an oak tree. An oak tree with a very wide and gnarly trunk. As they passed it, a wicked thought popped into her mind. ‘Oh, I’m not feeling quite the thing.’ She headed for the tree trunk and leaned against it with her arm covering her eyes.

‘Are you feeling faint?’ he said, peering into her face.

She let her arm fall and laughed up at him. ‘No.’

He cursed softly. ‘Do you know how beautiful you look?’

‘No. But I’m hoping you are going to tell me.’ Had she said that? Was it he who made her recklessly wanton, or was it all her bad blood?

He gave an unwilling laugh, his white teeth flashing in the black of his curly beard. ‘It seems you do play those games.’