The Lord and the Wayward Lady (11 page)

‘Lady Verity?’ The footman averted his gaze from the heap of feminine underthings on the bed.

‘Send to the stables and have Firefly and Sapphire and one of the hacks saddled up please, Trevor. We will be riding with Lord Narborough.’

‘His lordship is not riding, Lady Verity. I believe Lord Stanegate is going to the receiving office.’

‘Verity,’ Diana Price reminded her, ‘you and Honoria promised to help Lady Narborough with her sick-visiting in half an hour.’

‘Oh.’ Verity’s face fell. ‘So we did. Never mind, Nell, you can still go. You have Firefly, my mare. She’s very sweet. Tell the stables please, Trevor.’

‘I—’ Nell bit back her instinctive protest. A ride to the receiving office sounded mild enough. She could manage that, surely? And it would give her an opportunity to put Marcus right about any misconceptions he might be harbouring, even if it took a plain and embarrassing declaration that she might have been foolish enough to ask him
to spend the night with her, but that did not mean she expected anything further as a consequence.

There had been that lovely glow last night when he had looked at her, treated her with such tenderness. She dreaded his response destroying that memory if he was hurtful today.

‘Hat!’ Honoria pursued her to the door, a rakish low-crowned hat in one hand, hat pin in the other. ‘And gloves and a whip.’

Nell made her way down to the stables, wondering if this was such a good idea. What if she could not remember how to ride after all? What if Marcus snubbed her completely?

‘Here we are, Miss Latham.’ It was Marcus’s groom, Havers, holding the head of a pretty bay mare. ‘His lordship left before Lady Verity’s message arrived, but he’s still in sight.’ And sure enough, walking sedately away down the long carriageway was Marcus on the raking grey hunter with a dark tail so long it brushed its fetlocks.

The groom made a cup with his hands for her foot and tossed her up into the saddle. ‘She’s got nice manners, miss, never you fear.’ Somehow Nell’s limbs seemed to remember what to do, her balance came back instinctively. ‘Just you trot along and you’ll soon catch him up,’ the man said, giving the mare a slap on the rump. ‘She’s a bit fresh,’ he called after her as Firefly trotted out of the stable yard under the clock tower arch. ‘But you won’t mind that.’

A bit fresh? She was certainly that. The mare had seen the gelding ahead of her and broke into a canter. Nell gripped the pommel firmly, resisted the temptation to hold onto the mane and told herself that a smooth
canter was much more comfortable than a bouncy trot.
I can do this, we’ve almost caught him…

Then the horse ahead of her reached the gates and instead of turning and trotting off down the lane, Marcus put him straight at a low hurdle in a gap in the hedge on the other side. The big grey sailed over and she caught a glimpse of the crown of Marcus’s hat vanishing beyond the hedge line.

The hurdle was perhaps three feet high.
I
can’t
do this!
Nell told herself, taking a firm grip on the reins and pulling. Nothing happened. Firefly, nice manners or no, had obviously decided that her rider did not know what she was about and was taking over. Her ears pricked up, she adjusted her stride. Nell had a sidelong glimpse of a startled gatekeeper and then they were in the air.

‘Ough!’ The landing was neat on the mare’s part, totally inelegant on Nell’s. She grabbed the pommel, lurched violently, her hat slid down to her nose and for several stomach-lurching seconds she was convinced she was going to fall off.

It was a surprise to find she was still in place when she shoved her hat painfully back on her head and collected the reins together in some sort of order. Firefly was cantering steadily, and ahead the elegant figure of Marcus was still visible, although receding down the meadow towards what Nell had a horrid suspicion was a river. There was no sign of the decorous trot now, the hunter was galloping flat out.

Firefly lengthened her pace while Nell considered her options. Hauling on the reins was not working, falling off was highly dangerous. That left staying in the saddle and enjoying herself. Ahead, the hunter rose in
a long, low jump over what must be water, his rider apparently welded to his back, and took the slight rise on the other side in ground-eating strides.

‘You are
not
going to jump that!’ Nell ordered, reining in as hard as she could. The mare’s ears flicked back, she fought the bit and did not slow, but at least she could not jump either. They went through the wide, shallow stream at the gallop, muddy ice-slush, water and watercress flying everywhere.

‘Now, go and catch him up.’ Nell dropped her hands, tightened her grip and gave the mare her head. She would never match the big hunter, seventeen hands if he was an inch, to her fourteen, but the little mare threw her heart into it with Nell, thrilled and terrified in equal measure, staying put by a miracle of balance, luck and desperation.

They swung out of a gap in the hedge and on to what Nell recognised as a well-made-up toll road. Far ahead, Marcus had the grey galloping along the wide grass verge, and the mare had no objection to following Nell’s tug on the rein—or maybe, she decided, risking one hand to pull back the hat from over her ear, Firefly preferred the grass anyway.

And then she saw buildings and the hunter was slowing, turning under a swinging inn sign, and she realized this must be the receiving office and the nearest stop for the mail coach.

Firefly seemed to know where she was, or perhaps without the horse ahead to chase she was prepared to slow down. Whichever it was, she dropped to a trot as they turned into the yard and allowed Nell to rein her in at last.

Nell slumped in the saddle, breathless, and shoved the wretched hat back on her head. Her hair was coming down. The occupants of the yard turned and regarded her in silence as she got her skirts into some kind of order. An ostler paused in mid-stride, bucket in hand, mouth open, the straw he had been chewing dangling. A pair of small boys stopped chasing the chickens and gawped. Marcus turned in the saddle to see what was entertaining them, took a long, hard look and closed his eyes as though in pain.

‘I came for a ride,’ Nell said, a strange, unfamiliar feeling building painfully in her chest, threatening to bubble up, overcome her. Then she realized, as the hat finally won over the hat pin and slid off, bouncing from her mud-spattered skirts to the cobbles, what it was. Laughter.

She wanted to laugh. How long had it been since she had felt like doing that? Giving way to unrestrained, joyous laughter? Not a polite smile, not a social gesture, but real laughter?

Too long, Nell thought, her lips twitching as she watched Marcus open his eyes. He sat there on the raking hunter, immaculate, elegant even in country buckskins and plain coat, and there she was, panting, dishevelled, muddy and unrepentant—and the masterful Lord Stanegate had not a clue what to do with her.

She doubled up over the pommel, gasping, her eyes blurring with tears of sheer amusement and laughed until her stomach ached.

‘N
ell?’

‘Yes?’ she managed.

His lordship had dismounted and was standing by her side, hand on the reins, lips compressed. ‘Why are you having hysterics on that horse?’

‘Because it is funny?’ she ventured, hiccupping faintly. ‘You looking so—’ She waved a hand about, searching for the right word and failed, so wiped her eyes with it instead. ‘And me so—’

‘Quite. I certainly cannot find the
mot juste
for your appearance,’ he remarked severely. And then she saw the sparkle in his eyes and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, despite his struggle to repress it. ‘I am afraid Verity’s mare has got away from you. I had no idea it was such a spirited animal.’

‘Or I such a poor rider,’ she said ruefully, lifting her leg over the pommel and allowing herself to be helped to the ground. Marcus seemed to find her no weight at all, which either meant he was as strong as he appeared or that she was thinner than she should be.

Somehow, he acquired a private parlour and got her into it before they both gave way to their mirth. ‘Oh, Nell.’ Marcus sank down in the nearest chair, buried his face in his hands and choked with laughter. ‘You look as though you have been through a hedge backwards. And that ridiculous hat!’

‘That is Honoria’s,’ Nell said in alarm, looking round for it.

‘Beyond help, I fear.’ Marcus looked up at her and she could not help smiling back. ‘I will buy her another, don’t worry. But what on earth possessed you to think you could ride? And how did you get that horse out of the stables?’

‘I can ride,’ Nell said with dignity. ‘Only I haven’t for a very long time. And Verity and Honoria thought I should ride with you. It has certainly cleared my headache,’ she discovered in surprise, pressing the sore lump above her ear with caution.

Marcus came and hitched one hip onto the table beside her. ‘And how does a milliner learn to ride?’

‘It was a long time ago, when we had a little money. We all rode, dreadful job horses, of course.’ She hesitated. ‘I did not always have to work for my living, Mama had a few savings.’

‘I have not asked you about your father.’ Marcus’s voice was gentle, still husky from the laughter.

‘Oh, he died some time ago.’ Her stomach swooped down sickeningly. ‘Before…before things got so bad.’ There was no reason to suppose he would question it; such stories were commonplace. ‘He managed land,’ she added, grasping for something near the truth.

Sometimes she thought she could recall the broad
parkland, the groves of trees, the fallow deer. Sometimes she was certain the scent of roses on a hot June day was a memory and not a dream of a paradise lost.

‘I am sorry, Nell.’

She looked up, wondering how those hard grey eyes could look so kind, how that strong, sensual mouth be so gentle. ‘I—’ Somehow she was holding out her hand to him, somehow he had pulled her into his arms, to stand between his thighs.

‘Sweet Nell.’ And the huskiness in his voice was no longer from the laughter as he bent his head and found her lips. Slow, oh so slow, the caress of his mouth on hers. And so fast the shock of sensual longing that made her limbs heavy, her blood race, sent that strange hot pulse beating deep and low inside her.

She quivered, would have moved closer, but his hands cupped her shoulders, held her still, and he made no move to touch any other part of her, only her mouth, his own asking questions that she only half understood.

When he lifted his head, she was as breathless as she had been after her ride. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she managed, before she lost what nerve she had left. ‘I wanted to say about last night. I am sorry, I know I placed you in a difficult position. I need you to know that I would never presume upon that…I do not want you to think that I expect anything. Anything at all.’ Only he had just kissed her. What did
that
mean?

‘No,’ Marcus said, standing up, lifting the weight of her loosened hair in his hands for a moment before letting it drop. ‘I know that. I recognise innocence when I see it.’

‘I am not innocent,’ she began. Harris had taken that from her.

‘Innocence,’ he repeated. ‘Other people’s actions do not count, Nell.’

‘You believe me, then?’

‘I acquit you of throwing out lures, of being any man’s mistress. I believe you did not let Salterton in last night.’ He smiled at her a little ruefully and ran his finger down her cheek. ‘But I know you still have secrets.’

‘Oh.’ The impulse to confide in Lord Narborough had not survived the night and she felt none to confess now. ‘I am sure you have too. Everyone has secrets.’ She had to ask. ‘Marcus, why did you kiss me just now?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, getting up abruptly. ‘Insanity, probably. I suppose you have lost all your hair pins?’

The abrupt turn of topic back to the banal braced her. ‘All of them. I will tie it into a tail with my pocket handkerchief.’ There was a spotted mirror over the fireplace. Nell turned to it, feeling the physical separation as she moved away from Marcus. She raked her fingers through the tangled mass, trying not to meet his eyes in the glass.

At least he was honest with her; he knew she was hiding something. And he kissed her and did not know why? She would not have thought that Marcus Carlow had any impulses he could not account for. Perhaps it was simply lust and he did not want to frighten her with the truth. But whatever the reality, that morning’s coolness had gone and with it the weight of unhappiness that had balled into her stomach.

‘How is your head? I should have asked sooner, but the sight of you on that mare quite drove it out of my mind.’ He made no move to approach her.

‘Sore when I touch it, that is all. There, that will have to do.’ She looked a raggle-taggle Gypsy.

‘Are you tired of riding?’ Marcus asked.

‘I suspect I am going to be very stiff tomorrow,’ Nell acknowledged ruefully. ‘But no, I am not tired.’

‘We can go the long way home,’ he offered. ‘Through the woods and up over Beacon Hill at a nice sedate pace. You will like the view.’

She led Firefly to the mounting block herself before he could help her, gathering up her mired skirts and settling into the saddle. The mare, now she was in company, was behaving as though an out-of-control gallop through the meadows would never occur to her.

‘We are very respectable now,’ she observed as they walked out of the yard onto the road.

‘I am,’ Marcus retorted. ‘I am also far too much of a gentleman to describe what you look like, Miss Latham.’

She was beginning to be able to read the humour behind his more flattening remarks and to see beyond the frown when it was turned in her direction. ‘You already mentioned hedges,’ she pointed out meekly, earning a flash of amusement before his face was straight again.

He turned off within sight of the turnpike gate, taking a track up through the fields towards the edge of the beech woods that climbed the steep scarp. Even in January the golden-brown dead foliage clung to its twigs and the horses’ hooves brushed through the great drifts of last year’s leaves as they climbed, following the track as it zigzagged back and forth.

A jay flew, screeching, as they passed. In the distance the laughing cry of the green woodpecker mocked them and, faintly, Nell could hear the thud of axe on timber.

‘Cutting firewood,’ Marcus said, following the direction of her gaze. ‘Or bodgers. Wood turners and hurdle makers working in the woods,’ he explained. ‘This way.’ He put Corinth to the bank and urged him up, then turned to watch as Firefly, agile as a cat, scrambled up beside them, buried to the hocks in the thick, rustling leaf carpet as Nell clung to the pommel.

Now they were deep in the woods, the tall, straight grey trunks of the beeches looming above and around them like pillars in a cathedral. The air smelled fresh and spicy, full of the aromas of dead leaves and bruised stems as they passed along the narrow path.

And then they were out into the open on close-cropped grass dotted with gorse, the yellow flowers still blooming despite the cold. ‘Like climbing up a bald man’s head,’ Nell said as they reached the gently rounded summit.

‘Don’t be so disrespectful of our Beacon Hill,’ Marcus chided, smiling. ‘An Armada fire was lit here. Look, you can see for miles over the Vale of Aylesbury.’ He sat, one hand nonchalantly on his hip, utterly at home and relaxed, she realized. Corinth, knowing a familiar stopping place, cocked one hoof up and slouched rather less elegantly than his rider.

‘Mmm. Sunshine.’ Nell turned up her face to the sun. There was no warmth in it, but the sight of a clear sky was a luxury after London’s smog.

‘It will snow later if that reaches us.’ Marcus pointed far to the west to the bank of dark, big-bellied cloud. ‘It is going to get much colder.’

They were on the edge of the scarp. It was like standing on a cliff with the Vale below instead of the sea. The chalk
hillside that rolled away to either side of them was deeply indented with dry valleys, beyond each another bald crown, all a little lower than the one they stood on.

‘Someone has lit fires.’ Nell pointed to the trickles of smoke rising straight up into the still air. ‘Is that the bodgers?’

‘Possibly. Or Gypsies. They pass through all the time. Some of the tribes we know, others not.’ He shifted his stance to watch a buzzard soaring overhead. Then something moved on the edge of the wood on the opposite headland and a figure walked out into the open. Dark haired, lithe, in loose trousers and dark coat, the man strode across the open hilltop then stopped, wary as a deer, and turned. He seemed to stare into her eyes.

Nell gasped, her hands tightening on the reins and Firefly backed, tossing her head. Marcus reached for the bridle. When she looked back, the hill was empty.

‘What is it?’

‘I…nothing. I was not paying attention and jabbed her mouth, I’m afraid.’ Why lie? But the man had gone, and Marcus would think she was hallucinating or making it up. And perhaps she was. Three deer walked out of the wood, just where he had been— surely they would not do that if a human was close? Was it the blow to her head? Only, she could have sworn that had been Salterton in those strange clothes.

The dark man. Marcus was convinced he had now seen him for himself. He schooled his features so Nell could not read his knowledge that she lied. Why had she? He almost asked her, straight out, then bit back the question. Perhaps he would find out more by pretend
ing he had seen nothing. Was Salterton, if that was his name, following them, or had it been coincidence? But nothing, his instincts told him, were coincidental where that man was concerned.

He had been dressed like one of the Rom. A good disguise for anyone with the colouring to pass. The local people, half afraid of the wandering bands, could not single one individual out from another.

‘Time to get back,’ he said, and brought Corinth’s head round, away from the gathering clouds, pregnant with snow. Nell was drooping in the saddle a little now. Marcus watched her covertly from the corner of his eye, as she straightened her shoulders and sat up. She shouldn’t have been riding, not after that blow to the head, and he suspected she would suffer for it tomorrow, but he was glad he had not missed that moment of shared laughter. How long was it since he had given in to unrestrained mirth like that? Too long. Not since Hal had been at home.

Nell had gained weight and curves and some colour in her cheeks since the day he had first seen her, he decided. Her figure was recovering the shape it was meant to have and the sharpness had gone from her cheekbones and wrists. She was a lovely woman, perhaps not in the conventional manner of the young ladies gracing Almack’s—she was lacking their trained poise and perfect grooming—but her naturalness was far more appealing to him.

Corinth took advantage of the slack rein to turn his head and nuzzle Firefly, who tossed her head and took a few tittupping steps.

‘Stop flirting, you old rake,’ Marcus admonished,
getting a grip on both the reins and his wandering thoughts. Beside him Nell gave a little snort of laughter and he felt his own lips quirk in response.

Damn it, but she was seducing him somehow. She had no obvious wiles, no tricks. Every time he thought he had been mistaken in his doubts about her, something happened to make him suspicious all over again, and yet he could not stop thinking about her in ways that were utterly unwise. And acting that way as well. Why had he kissed her in the inn? He wished he knew, because every time his mouth touched hers he was left with yet another memory to torment him at night and no answers to his questions.

Nell would not admit it out loud, but the sight of the house was very welcome. Her thighs ached, her bottom ached—she did not remember having bones just there but they seemed to be sticking into the saddle—and her shoulders ached. She lifted her chin a notch as they went through the stable yard arch and made herself smile at the groom who came to take Firefly’s reins.

As Havers went to Corinth’s head, Marcus swung down, and came across to hold up his hands to help her. It felt so intimate as his fingers closed around her waist that her breath caught, even as she chided herself for such an unsophisticated response to the familiarity. He had lifted her down at the posting house. Ladies allowed grooms or gentlemen they hardly knew to assist them in this way without thinking anything of it. It certainly meant nothing to him, she assured herself, kicking her foot out of the stirrup and lifting her leg from the pommel. Then, as she began her controlled slide down
to the ground, her eyes met his and she stopped breathing altogether.

Who would have thought those dark grey eyes could smoulder like that? With infinite slowness Marcus eased her down, her breasts brushing against his coat, the habit rucking up with the friction from his breeches. She felt her lips part, her lids felt heavy, and yet she could not break eye contact. And then the heat was replaced with doubt, with questions, and her breath came back with a force that made her dizzy, and she was standing on her own feet wondering if she had imagined it all.

‘Marcus?’