by Olivia Drake
“Climb a bit higher so you may reach him more easily,” he murmured.
Abby hesitated, then inched up another rung. She could not deny that his presence lent her confidence. It was impossible to imagine doing this all by herself. Emboldened, she leaned farther over the fence, the better to stroke that glossy mane.
“There, you see,” he said, “it isn’t so very difficult to overcome one’s fears. You always loved riding. We’ll soon have you on horseback again.”
Her startled gaze flashed to his. “No! Absolutely not! Don’t even think to talk me into that. It will never happen!”
His brow furrowed slightly, and she had the shameful sense of having spoken like a coward. Uncomfortable beneath his penetrating eyes, she looked down at her hand, still resting on Brimstone’s neck. There was no need to feel embarrassed. Surely she had accomplished enough already just by summoning the nerve to touch a horse …
It was then that it happened.
In a blur of motion, Rothwell bent down and locked his arm around her waist, scooping her up in front of him on the horse. She landed sideways against his chest, the hard leather of the saddle pressing into her bottom. But that minor discomfort vanished beneath a rush of terror.
Brimstone reared. The world tilted dizzyingly. Into her mind flashed the image of her mother being thrown in the air, then landing with a hard thud on the ground. Crying out, Abby grabbed hold of Rothwell and clung for dear life.
* * *
Lady Desmond stood at the window in her dressing chamber. Her fingers clutched the ivory brocade drapery as she stared out at the distant scene near the stables. Having excellent eyesight, she could discern the duke’s fine figure astride his black horse inside a paddock. He was leaning down and talking to Miss Linton, who came to the white fence and then climbed up onto it. He seemed to be coaxing her, for he took hold of her hand and encouraged her to stroke the horse’s mane.
Elise compressed her lips. What was that rustic saying to him, to hold his attention like that? It had been difficult to find out much about their past, but she was certain those two did share a history. Max had been exceedingly closemouthed about the matter, despite her subtle inquiries. But she could see the truth in the way his eyes tracked Abigail Linton whenever he thought no one was looking.
He was entirely too interested in the drab governess.
Then Elise’s gaze widened in astonishment to see Max pull the woman up into the saddle with him. Sitting sideways, she flung her arms around his neck in a brazen embrace. Why, that little minx—!
The crash of splintering glass rent the air. Elise spun around to see her maid staring in horror at a shattered flacon lying on the marble top of the dressing table. Liquid dripped onto the carpet, and the overpowering odor of roses filled the room.
Elise surged forward to cuff Monique’s ear. “Clumsy oaf! That was my favorite perfume!”
“I—I’m so very sorry, milady.” In her rattled state, Monique had forgotten her self-styled French accent. “It slipped out of me hand.”
“It was the only bottle I brought with me. So tell me now, what am I to wear for the remainder of this trip?”
“With your ladyship’s permission, I might run down to the village shop—”
“You would have me stink of an inferior scent? Oh, never mind. Just clean up this mess at once before I choke on the smell.”
Elise hastened back to the window and opened the casement, gulping in fresh air. To add icing to her irritation, the duke and the governess had vanished from sight. She scanned the surrounding woods, but saw no sign of them. Had Max put Miss Linton down? Or had he ridden away with her? Did he intend to engage in a tryst—while he neglected Elise?
Fuming, she considered the situation. She was still in her dressing gown, so she could hardly rush out to find them. It wouldn’t do, anyway, to act in anger. Men didn’t care for nagging, sharp-tongued females.
One thing was certain. She would not allow herself to be usurped by a rustic who was thirty if she was a day. Not when Elise had schemed for months to catch Rothwell’s eye. Not when she needed his considerable wealth to pay off her mounting debts. Old Desmond had left her nearly penniless when he’d keeled over on their honeymoon. The bulk of his estate had gone to his snooty son who’d wanted nothing to do with his father’s second wife.
Especially one who had been plucked from the stage at a Covent Garden theater.
Conscious of her inferior antecedents, Elise craved respectability as much as she did affluence. It had not been enough to marry a mere baronet. Many of the upper crust still regarded her with nose-in-the-air disdain.
She knew, however, that Max would not be as easy to maneuver into marriage as Desmond had been. The duke had made it clear he desired her only as his mistress. And now it seemed there was an old flame to distract his attention even from that.
But Elise had faced worse odds. Henceforth, she would not let Max out of her sight. She must prod Lord Ambrose into keeping his side of their bargain by distracting the governess.
Nothing and no one must prevent the former Elise Gumbleton from becoming the Duchess of Rothwell.
Chapter 15
Max concentrated on controlling Brimstone, using the reins and his knees and a sharp word of reprimand. The stallion quickly settled, though still tossing his head and snorting his angry displeasure.
It wasn’t nearly as easy to calm an armful of frightened female.
Abby was jammed against him, her hands clamped around his neck in a death grip. Except for the softness of her bosom against his chest, her body felt rigid and stiff. She buried her face in his cravat, her breath coming in short gasps.
Blast it, he had only made matters worse. He had not intended to grab her like that. But her declaration about never riding again had troubled him greatly, as had seeing her shrink from something she’d once enjoyed. An intense desire to help her had spurred him to act.
He’d surprised even himself. Despite his bad reputation, he was usually a man who thought things through and weighed the consequences. That was why he’d never gambled away his fortune like so many others in his circle.
Yet somehow Abby had breached his natural caution. She had always had that effect on him. A case in point was their kiss the previous day, when he hadn’t harbored any designs on her, yet he had ended up with his lips on hers and his hands roaming all over her luscious body.
Keeping one arm securely locked around her waist, he urged Brimstone toward the open gate of the paddock. He needed to make haste before Abby yelped again and brought one of the stable lads running. The last thing he wanted was for someone to see the master abducting the governess, especially with her skirts flung up to her knees to reveal a pair of very shapely, stocking-clad calves.
Luckily, most of the grooms had found one excuse or another to linger at the rear of the stable complex so they could watch Goliath engage in a sparring session with his trainer, Crabtree. That was where Max had intended to spend his morning—if only he hadn’t acted so impulsively.
He set Brimstone on a path heading deep into the woods, away from the lake. Now that he was committed to this course of action, he was damn well going to see it through. It was the only way to persuade Abby to conquer her illogical fear. Exactly why that mattered so much to him was something he didn’t care to examine—
Her fist lashed out to strike his chest. “Put me down, Rothwell! This instant!”
Brimstone broke stride and danced to the side of the path. Max set the horse right with a flick of the reins while concentrating on the spirited woman in his arms. “Hush. Don’t fight me. You’re perfectly safe.”
“No, I’m not. I want to be standing on the ground.” Her voice rose. “Let me go! I mean it!”
She squirmed against his hold, which only spurred Brimstone into a more restive and agitated state. Max knew he had to stop her struggling before the stallion took a mind to rear again and landed them both flat in the dirt.
“If you don’t wish to
be tossed,” he said firmly, “you’ll stop wriggling and keep still. Brimstone feels your fear. Horses can sense emotions. You know that. If you calm down, then so will he.”
The fight went out of Abby, though her slim body still felt taut and resistant. She took several shuddery breaths and he knew his message had reached her. Ever so slowly, she eased her head into the crook of his neck, so that her lace cap brushed against his jaw. The fingers of one hand clutched the lapel of his coat in a white-knuckled grip.
He was far too keenly aware of her feminine curves. One of her hips was pressed against his groin and he fought the rise of heat. God help him if she noticed the hardness there. It was not a reaction that a countrified spinster ought to inspire in him. He preferred his women to be lush and eager and skilled in the art of lovemaking.
Nevertheless, he acknowledged an undeniable tug of attraction to Abby. He enjoyed sparring with her, making her blush. There was a comfortable sense of familiarity in her presence, too, a vitality that he’d experienced with no other woman. The faint lilac scent of her skin invoked powerful memories of his youth, when they’d lain in the grass together. She had been the first girl he’d ever kissed. How soft and sweet she had been …
Abby hissed out air between her teeth. “There, I’m perfectly still. Now, rein in this horse and let me down.”
“You’re still nervous and Brimstone senses it. That’s why he’s being so skittish. If I try to dismount now, he might rear again.” Max felt confident that he could handle the temperamental animal, but he hoped to accustom Abby to being on horseback again. If he released her too soon, all would be for naught. “You might as well relax and enjoy the ride. It’s in your best interest to do so. The last thing you want is to act as prickly as a bramble.”
He frowned ahead at the trail that meandered through the woods. That last phrase had emerged from the depths of the past. Maybe she wouldn’t remember such a silly detail. He scarcely recalled it himself. A long time ago, he’d locked away all memories of that particular summer.
“A prickly bramble,” she said, stealing a glance up at him. “That’s what you used to call me whenever we disagreed.”
“Did I? I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. It was because of the way we met. I came to my secret glade one summer afternoon, only to find you there, stretched out in the grass with your nose in a book. Gulliver’s Travels, I seem to remember.”
He had been so engrossed in a description of the giants of Brobdingnag that he hadn’t even heard the approach of her footsteps. “It wasn’t your glade, but mine. It is located on Rothwell land, after all.”
“No, it’s on the edge of Linton property, and well you know it,” she said rather indignantly. “I’d been going to the glade for years, ever since my brother James took me fishing there.”
“You were trespassing. If you like, I can show you the survey that confirms the border of my estate. The stream marks the western boundary.”
“Well! I daresay you misread those papers, for James swore it was our land. He’s six years older than you and he’s the vicar, so I should think you ought to trust his word.”
Ownership of the glade had always been a favorite dispute of theirs and it still was now, much to his amusement. He was also pleased that the little exchange seemed to have distracted Abby sufficiently that she was no longer so tense. She rested against him, her face tilted up, a challenging glint in her blue eyes. If reminiscing about the past could diminish her fears, then he was more than willing to continue with the tactic.
“Never mind James,” Max said. “We were speaking of brambles. You brought it all on yourself, as I recall. Instead of greeting me politely, you stomped toward me in a fit of pique without looking where you were going. It’s no wonder you tripped and fell into a bramble patch.”
“I beg your pardon! I did not trip. You leaped up suddenly and gave me a terrible fright. It was your fault that I stumbled.”
He chuckled. “A gentleman always stands in the presence of a lady, so don’t look daggers at me, Miss Bramble. And a lady should thank her rescuer—especially when he is kind enough to pluck a number of thorns out of her tender hide.”
“There were only two, and they were stuck in my arm. I could have managed well enough on my own.”
She unclenched her tight grip on his coat and startled him by slipping the tip of her forefinger between her lips and sucking on it. Despite his resolve to remain insensible to her charms, Max felt pierced by an arrow of heat. He couldn’t take his eyes from the sight of those soft lips or turn his mind from the fantasy of feeling her hot mouth on a certain portion of his anatomy.
With any other woman he would have known her action to be intentionally arousing. But not Abby. She knew nothing of the erotic games played by the more daring ladies of the ton.
Frustrated by desire, he snapped, “Is something wrong with your finger?”
She instantly removed it, curling her fingers into her palm. “No.”
“Hmm. I could always tell when you were fibbing.”
“I never fibbed to you about anything!”
“Oh? What about the time when we were playing ducks and drakes, and you claimed your stone skipped seven times when it was really only six?”
Tilting back her head, she released a burble of laughter. “Fifteen years and you’re still sulking because I beat you fair and square.”
Max found himself smiling back, dazzled by the luster of beauty that lit up her face. “Bramble! I always loved the way your eyes sparkle when you laugh.”
Her mouth softened, the luminous glow diminishing until only the merest trace remained. Yet he knew it was there, waiting to be coaxed out again by some man other than himself. That thought laid him low even though he knew they were not right for one another. Abby was made for marriage, while he had sworn to avoid the institution.
As such, he deemed it wise to put space between them. “Brace yourself,” he said. “We’re stopping here, and you’ll finally have your chance to get down.”
Here turned out to be a place familiar to both of them, Max realized with a start as he reined in Brimstone and surveyed the wooded area. He had not intentionally come to the secret glade. It must have been an unconscious inclination that had guided him.
An outcropping of rock formed a natural shelter around part of the clearing, almost like welcoming arms. A swift-flowing stream made a boundary on one side, while tall oaks spread out leafy limbs in a canopy. The previous day’s torrential rain had flattened the plants, leaving the ground damp and the air cool. A brown toad on a rock warmed itself in a patch of sunlight. Nearby, a dragonfly flitted along the surface of the water.
“Down you go,” Max encouraged, when Abby hesitated. Despite her earlier demands, now she seemed almost reluctant to dismount. “Be quick about it. I assure you, I have a grip on the reins.”
Biting her lip, she gave a little nod. Then, with his aid, she slid out of the saddle and landed lightly on the ground. She stepped away as he swung off the horse and tied the reins to a bush. Brimstone tossed his head once, as if to establish who was in charge, then set to work trimming a patch of grass.
Abby stood watching from beside the massive trunk of an old oak. The lavender gown skimmed her slender form, and their tussle on horseback had loosened a few wavy reddish-brown strands from her lace cap. Max experienced another unwanted twist of desire. She brought to mind a nymph of the forest, ready to take flight at the first glimmer of danger.
With Brimstone safely secured, she turned to survey the area. A look of wonder widened her eyes. She stepped past a boulder and into the clearing with its lush carpet of grass. “The glade! Why, I haven’t been here in years.”
Nor had he, Max thought. Why had he stayed away so long? He had returned to his ducal seat only once in the past fifteen years, and that had been a brief, overnight visit a decade ago to bury his father in the family chapel where all the Dukes of Rothwell were laid to rest. It had been a private
ceremony with only the old rector and the household staff in attendance, along with five-year-old Gwen and Aunt Hester. At his father’s last request, none of the villagers or neighbors had been invited.
What if he had sought out Abby back then? Would he have learned about the mix-up with the letters? Would his life have turned out differently?
Max dismissed the thought. There was no point in rehashing the past when he possessed the wealth and status that allowed him to do exactly as he pleased. He was perfectly satisfied with the state of his affairs.
He strolled to join Abby. “The place looks the same, though the bramble bush has grown. Perhaps you had better stay close to me so you don’t stumble into it.”
“Bah,” Abby said, ignoring the arm he offered. “I’ll be perfectly fine so long as you don’t startle me again. You have a particular talent for doing so.”
“Ah, I presume you’re still irked that I took you up onto Brimstone.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Irked is too mild a word for it. But I cannot say I’m sorry to visit this spot again.”
With that, she walked to the edge of the brook, bending at the waist to look into the water. Max was hard-pressed not to stare at the way her gown molded to her feminine form, or to think about smoothing his hand over the curve of her derriere and then drawing her into his arms to taste her lips again. To be honest, he wanted far more than that. He wanted to lay her down in the grass and finish what they’d started all those years ago, when he had been too unskilled to know how to please a woman.
But she deserved better than an act of reckless depravity.
“I see a fish,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, her face alight with excitement. “It’s a big one, hiding over there in the reeds.”
He came beside her to observe the water with its rocky bottom and melodic babbling. Spying the sleek shape gliding through the shadows, he said, “A pity we don’t have a rod and reel. Between the two of us, we used to catch quite a few trout here.”
