by Dorothy Mack
A gurgle of laughter broke from her lips. “If it has escaped your attention that the quietest horse in the stables is always assigned to me, then I shall take care not to lose face by confessing my deficiencies as a rider. I’ll say instead that it was a badly managed business,” she declared gaily.
“But not too late to amend, surely. A word in Gresham’s ear —”
He had to be teasing, but Lucy’s hand shot out of its own accord to stay his on the bay’s reins. “Don’t you dare!” she squeaked in faint alarm.
Attracted by his sister’s soft squeal, John sidled closer to the pair just in time to see a flustered Lucy snatch her hand back from Major Barton’s.
“John,” she implored breathlessly, “demonstrate your affection for your own flesh and blood by convincing the major that I do not wish to be entered in this race.”
“Since it would assuredly fall to my lot to break the news of your untimely demise to our father, you may consider it done, love,” John promised. “It is not that my sister is a poor horsewoman,” he explained straight-faced to the expectant major. “You will note that she has a good seat and nice even hands when walking or trotting, even at a brisk canter. Better minds than mine have attempted to describe what happens when her horse stretches into a gallop. You and I might feel that a gallop is actually a more comfortable ride —”
“Astride perhaps!”
John ignored this indignant interjection from his sister. “In short, sir, her control falls to pieces; she loses her heart and invariably her seat, so I must regretfully decline permission for her to enter the race.”
“Thank you … I think! Talk about exceeding one’s commission!” Lucy’s smouldering glance was meant to wither both gentlemen as she gathered up her reins and moved nearer to the starting point, where the two contestants were in position awaiting Peter’s signal.
An instant later they were off, Coralee on the larger horse taking the lead. As the flying figures receded farther from the group of spectators, the distance between the racers widened.
“Miss Fairmont seems to favour a neck-or-nothing style,” said a low voice at her side that caused Lucy to start. In her absorption in the spectacle, she had not realized the major had rejoined her.
“Gemma said she would cram him,” she reported absently.
“Did Lady Gemma say how she would combat this tactic?”
“Why, yes, she —” Lucy stopped short, having no intention of divulging anything her friend had told her for the amusement of this superior male. She only hoped he had a large bet on Coralee!
“You were about to say?” he prompted gently, but Lucy’s pretty mouth was firmly closed as she pretended not to have heard. Once again, she was aware of his eyes on her but stubbornly kept hers on the small figures now in the far distance. She attributed his regard to determination to gain an answer to his question, completely unsuspecting that it might be pleasure in the picture she presented that kept the greater portion of his attention away from the contest. Her nicely curved figure was displayed to advantage in the strict tailoring of a well-fitting grey habit a few shades darker than her eyes. The narrow-brimmed hat of the same fabric meant that the only colour about her was supplied by the rich chestnut of her hair and the flush of excitement on her pale clear skin. She raised a gloved hand to shield her eyes as the two riders rounded the far side of the lake and headed for the grove of trees.
“Gemma has narrowed the gap considerably. I think she’ll catch up before they come out of the trees.”
Lucy’s prediction proved accurate, for the girl on the chestnut mare emerged from the trees and came pounding down the homestretch. In her excitement, Lucy didn’t realize for a moment that something was wrong until a concerted movement around her drew her gaze from Gemma’s approach.
“What is it? What has happened?” she asked as her brother, Lord Gresham, Captain Godwin, and Mr. Godwin moved past them toward the rider.
“Miss Fairmont hasn’t come out of the trees,” replied Major Barton. “It is so dark in there after staring into the sun that it’s impossible to see what is happening.” He tightened his grip on the reins as his horse snorted and strained forward in the wake of the exodus around them.
Gemma pulled her horse out of the gallop as four riders surged toward her and past her, then she wheeled and followed them back the way she had come.
“Please do not let concern for me keep you here!” Lucy urged the major. “I’ll follow you more slowly.”
“Of what possible use is a one-armed rescuer? Besides, there are plenty of willing hands already on the scene. We’ll go together.”
Compassion flooded through her, but the intense bitterness in his tones kept Lucy silent as they headed their mounts toward the belt of trees at a trot.
When Gemma rode back into the grove just seconds after the men, it was to find her cousin on the ground being examined by Captain Godwin for injuries while the others sat in a concerned group at a little distance. She slipped off Fleurette and ran toward them.
“What happened? Are you hurt, Coralee?”
“It’s no thanks to you that I am not dead,” the blond girl cried, drawing an angry, sobbing breath as she sat up with Captain Godwin’s aid and faced her cousin. “I told you I had lost my stirrup; I begged you to help me!” Coralee burst into tears and hid her face in the captain’s coat.
Gemma broke the sudden silence that prickled along nerve ends. Her face white, she wrenched her eyes from the accusation she saw in Captain Godwin’s and addressed her cousin in passionate protest. “What nonsense is this, Coralee? You did not call out to me, you know you did not!”
Coralee hunched a shoulder but still spoke into the captain’s coat. “If a stupid race meant so much to you —”
“That’s not true! You know it is not! I never heard you call me, and you were certainly not in any trouble when I passed you. I —”
“I feel it is of the first importance to ascertain that Miss Fairmont has sustained no serious injury,” Mr. Delevan said quietly as Lady Gemma’s voice escalated into shrillness. “Are you able to stand unaided, Miss Fairmont?”
In the few seconds that everyone’s attention was concentrated on her cousin as she rose to her feet, clinging heavily to Captain Godwin and further assisted by Malcolm, Gemma strove for control of her emotions. She was trembling as she held out a misshapen hat to the other girl, but her voice was steady once more. “Tell the truth, Coralee. Did you call out to me to help you?”
Brown eyes compelled blue until Coralee closed hers and put a hand up to her brow. “My head is beginning to pound,” she whispered.
“Later, Gemma; this can wait,” said Captain Godwin brusquely. “We must get Coralee back to the house, where she can be attended to.”
Gemma paid no heed. “Coralee?” she insisted with determined quietness, still looking full at her cousin.
“I am sorry, Gemma,” began the younger girl, and Gemma’s small taut figure relaxed, only to stiffen up at the next words. “I didn’t mean to imply that you refused to help me. Perhaps my words were blown back by the wind so you could not hear me.”
“There, that’s all settled,” said Captain Godwin heartily, evidently unaware that there wasn’t a leaf stirring in the still wood. “Now let’s see about mounting you.” He looked around, avoiding Gemma’s eyes.
“Take Fleurette,” she said dully. “White Star has run off.” She turned her back on her cousin’s sweetly uttered thanks and made a project of brushing the dirt from the hat she still held while its owner was carefully lifted into the saddle by Captain Godwin. Coralee had nothing to do but maintain her position as he and his brother flanked the mare, leading her directly through the woods up to the house.
Lord Gresham, who had remained silent throughout the previous scene, rode back to meet the major and Miss Delevan as they were entering the grove. “No real damage done,” he called out. “My cousin was tossed but seems to be unhurt. She is being taken back to the house. We might as well
head for the stables ourselves.”
Lucy ventured a look behind him as he indicated the direction for them to take. “Is Gemma with her?”
“Your brother will see to it that Gemma gets back,” replied Peter, and perforce the other two followed his lead.
Standing alone among the looming trees, Gemma watched her cousin being tenderly conveyed home by the man she herself had waited for for two years. Obviously his concern was all for the beautiful victim of the accident, for he did not look back to see how she might be faring without a mount. Her grip on the sapphire hat tightened to knuckle-whitening intensity. A second later, she nearly jumped out of her skin as a cheerful voice behind her said, “I think we’ve given them enough of a start. Come.”
The enormity of the disaster that had befallen in the last five minutes had so overwhelmed Gemma that she was experiencing a sensation of being lost in the centre of a storm, alone and at the mercy of rampaging elements all around her. The sudden appearance of a devil from the nether regions could not have been more of a shock than the presence of Mr. Delevan at her side holding down his hand to her from Blackbeard’s back.
“I… What did you say?” She blinked at him uncertainly.
“I said they have enough of a start on us now. Shall we follow?”
She seemed to notice his hand for the first time and, recognizing its intent, pulled back sharply. “I thank you, sir, but I shall walk back.” She swept up the skirts of her habit over one arm and set off apace.
He dismounted at once and was by her side in two strides. “Very well, we’ll walk back.” His tone was equable and he did not offer further conversation, being perfectly cognizant of the fact that Lady Gemma was in no mood to welcome any human companionship.
Putting a visible check on her temper, she stopped and said with careful civility, “I don’t wish to detain you, sir. Please ride on. I shall be quite all right.”
“You are not quite all right, and I shall not ride on unless you come with me,” he replied, concentrating his sympathetic attention on her rigidly controlled countenance.
She stamped her foot, a gesture that was wasted on the soft ground of the wood. “Must I spell it out for you, sir? I prefer to be alone.”
“I am aware of that, but it won’t do you any good to be alone just now. All that bottled-up wrath needs an outlet before it chokes you. You must know by now that it will be perfectly safe to spill it over me.”
A brittle laugh answered him as she ploughed forward for another half-dozen paces, eyes straight ahead. “You are too kind, sir, but quite mistaken. Why should I need an outlet for wrath that exists only in your mind?”
“Because,” he returned with great gentleness, “you would like to twist your cousin’s throat the way you are twisting her hat, and it would not do the least good.”
She stumbled over a tree root and would have gone sprawling had not Mr. Delevan caught her up in one arm. Mild blue eyes gazed into overbright brown ones. “Shall we ride?” he suggested once more. When she made no answer, he released her and remounted Blackbeard. This time, she took the hand he extended to her and landed herself across the saddle in front of him. He eased back to settle her more comfortably against his chest and they moved off at a walking pace. Quite deliberately, she tossed the velvet hat into the undergrowth.
Nothing was said on either side for the next few moments, but Mr. Delevan was conscious of the rigidity with which his passenger held herself and he sought for some way to aid her. No inspiration had come to him when Gemma ended the silence abruptly.
“She lied!” she muttered fiercely.
“I know.”
“I would like to strangle her!”
“I know.”
“Can’t you say anything more to the point than ‘I know’?” she snapped in exasperation.
“Why don’t you just cry it out?”
“I never cry!” denied an indignant Gemma, who then surprised herself very much indeed by doing just that. She wept copiously and noisily like an abandoned child, but fortunately for the sake of Mr. Delevan’s sorely tried sensibilities, the storm was as brief as it was violent and before he had actually admitted to himself that one more minute would find him wrapping his arms around her in an ill-timed embrace that would ruin his chances forever, she was grasping thankfully at the handkerchief he offered and mopping up her face.
They rode on for some time with no more sound than Blackbeard’s muted hoofbeats and an occasional hiccupping sigh from Gemma. Her slight weight was relaxed against him now, and he had steeled himself to endure the pleasurable torment for another few moments when she stirred in his grasp and sat straighter again. She slewed around to search his countenance.
“Mr. Delevan?”
“Yes?”
“When I said Coralee lied, you said you knew. How did you know?”
“No one who is at all acquainted with you would believe you capable of denying a cry for help; therefore, Miss Fairmont lied.”
“But the only person who counts does believe her,” she wailed, banging her small gloved fist down in frustration on top of the hand holding her about the waist.
He flinched and for an instant tightened his grip on her waist but made no reply.
“He did believe her; I could see he did,” she insisted as though he had contradicted her.
Silence greeted this also. After a time, Gemma twisted around again to peer up at her escort. His eyes were directed at a point beyond her shoulder, but something about the set of his features got through her absorption in her own pain. “Ohhh,” she breathed in horror. “Pray forgive me, sir! I did not mean that… I mean —”
“It’s all right, little one,” he soothed, cutting into her stumbling apology. “Shall I set you down by the side entrance so you may head for your rooms without attracting attention?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered, seeming to shrink into herself. Mercifully, they were already rounding the side of the house, and less than a minute later she was sliding down from the big horse. Bravely she forced herself to look up at her escort while she thanked him for his services in a small voice.
He listened and disclaimed with his customary politeness, but the infectious smile was missing, and Gemma felt as if she had been set at a far distance. She flashed him an unhappy glance and shivered as she entered the house. He had said it was all right, but suddenly she doubted whether anything would ever be all right again.
CHAPTER 9
So intent was the artist on the painting taking shape before her that it would have required a much noisier approach than faint footfalls on grass to warn her of another presence than her own in the vicinity. The man strolling forward took full advantage of the opportunity thus afforded him to study her at his leisure. Simply dressed in a green-dotted white muslin that left an expanse of slender arms bare, she had stationed herself within the leafy spread of an enormous elm tree. To the man coming closer, it seemed almost beyond recall when he had last observed an individual so at one with his setting or so at peace as this girl.
She leaned forward to paint in a small detail, and the sunlight was caught in that abundance of chestnut-brown hair, highlighting rich veins of red. The presence of a large straw bonnet of the variety designed to shield a woman’s complexion from the effects of the sun told its tale to one trained to observe details. The hat had been cast off and weighted down with a stone to secure its safety when its owner had positioned herself in the shade of the elm, but the sun had advanced considerably since then, leaving the artist now almost totally exposed to its slanting rays as the afternoon waned. Every now and then, a vagrant breeze rippled the pale-green ribbon drifting over the brim of the abandoned hat. A sister breeze blew a strand of hair across the artist’s mouth, but apart from an ineffectual tossing of her head, she ignored it in her determination to achieve the result she sought. Both hands held brushes, which she exchanged from time to time until, satisfied at last, she sat back and viewed her efforts through narrowed eyes as one hand, still
holding a brush, absently reached for the loose strand of hair.
The alien eyes watching the artist had been held by that tress of hair caressing her lips until a delayed sense of guilt at having invaded her privacy and set her at a disadvantage caused a surge of dark colour to rush up under his swarthy skin. He stepped forward into the field of her peripheral vision.
“Good afternoon, Miss Delevan. Forgive the inter—”
“Ohhh,” she gasped, and spun toward him with the result that the brush in her raised hand swiped a streak of brown across one cheek. An apologetic exclamation on the gentleman’s part was brushed aside by the lady. “No, no, it was quite my own fault, sir. You could not be expected to advertise your arrival with a flourish of trumpets.”
For a second he watched the scrubbing motions she was making with the palm of her hand on her face before he directed a quick glance over her painting paraphernalia. Selecting the cleanest container of water, he dipped his handkerchief and presented it to her silently.
“Thank you.” She scrubbed, to better effect this time, then turned her cheek toward him.
He answered the question in the smoky-grey eyes. “Much better. There is just one smudge remaining near your chin. Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.” He received the handkerchief from her hands, noting with interest her total lack of coquetry and mentally acknowledging the effort it had cost him to refrain from offering to do the cleaning job himself. There was no doubt in his mind that her sun-warmed skin would feel like silk under his fingers. Abruptly, he wadded the handkerchief and stuffed it into a pocket in his grey coat. He had slammed the door on that kind of thinking after Toulouse. The last thing in the world he’d be likely to do would be to leave a false impression of his intentions in the mind of any marriageable female.
He had been staring unseeingly at the little Greek temple that was the artist’s subject, and now, looking down, he discovered she had already returned to her task, underlining just how little account she took of his presence or absence from the scene. Wry amusement directed at his own conceit twisted his lips momentarily, but his voice was smooth as he explained that he had been detailed by their hostess to tell her that tea was being served. He did not bother to mention that he had beaten several other gentlemen to the punch when the duchess had announced that someone must be sent to find Miss Delevan.
