Sense lingered, though. “If we undo too much, we will not be able to correct it in time,” she said. “But—whatever we can do without undoing too much…”
“Yes,” he replied. “Beautifully reasoned. This will allow us to be much more creative. But I do think I can safely shrug out of my coat.” He did so, tossing aside the dull garment. The red satin of his waistcoat gleamed, sleek and liquid over the strong lines of his body. His shoulders, broad in their shirtsleeves, looked capable of carrying anything.
She stroked him with her gaze, down, down, to the snug buckskin breeches that revealed the lines of his arousal. He must be vibrating with eagerness; she certainly felt as though she was. “Might I…” She trailed off.
“Yes.” He stepped closer, and she explored the planes of his chest, his ribs. She grabbed at his shoulders and traced the line of his hip bone. She tantalized him—and herself—by outlining his hardness. By dragging her nails along the buckskin fall of his breeches, making him groan.
As she touched him, he kissed her. It was amazing, the number of ways he found to kiss her without removing her clothing. He kissed the line of her neck; he kissed her temples. He bent his head to kiss the swell of her breasts, and she gasped at the erotic pressure through the layers of her clothing. When her eyes closed, when she pressed herself into his touch, he kissed her lids with such tenderness that she wanted to yield all, to take everything.
He drew back to arm’s length, and her eyes struggled open. She was drugged by sensation, craving more.
“What do you want for yourself?” His gaze was steady and dark, like a river. She wanted to float away on his words, his touches.
She leaned forward, reaching for him as she swayed precariously above the checkerboard tiles of the floor. Digging her nails into the dip of hard muscle at the side of his buttocks, making him shudder again.
“What do you want?” he repeated, and she smiled. She loved the way he asked questions. He didn’t ask nearly so many as she did, but for each one, he steadily awaited the answer. Not as though he wanted her to give his turn to speak; no, as though he truly cared.
“Do you truly care?” About this? About me? About…us? She could manage no more than a whisper. If the answer was no, she hoped he would have the kindness to overlook the question.
“Yes, very much,” he answered at once. Since she was not sure what she had asked about, she was not sure what he answered. But yes was good, and what he said next was even better. “I led you here. Now it is your turn to lead.”
He gave the seat a nudge, setting Hannah to swaying weightlessly. “You are the jockey, are you not? You must take control of the race. What do you like?”
“I…I’m not used to thinking about what I like.”
“Nor am I, I suppose. This is the perfect time and place to begin. Together.”
Every maiden had overheard tales of ruined servants, of babies out of wedlock. “Nothing—permanent. But anything else.”
“Anything?” One of his brows shot up, and a wicked smile she never thought to see him wear crossed his features. It suited him, for all its unfamiliarity. It was that touch of the mysterious he had referred to in jest.
“Anything.” Her heart galloped as it never had before.
With furtive touches under her bedcovers, she had learned what pleasure was, and how it could be brought to a crest. Even so, it seemed like something she ought not to do.
At the moment, she could not imagine why. Every bit of knowledge about her own body was precious, was powerful.
She tugged up the full skirts of her riding habit, revealing tidy boots, then the line of her calves. “Begin here, please.”
“Gladly—but that’s only a beginning.” Crouching before the seat, he caught the hem of her skirts and rucked them up. He caressed her calves in their stockings. With a gentle tug, he pulled her down until her toes tapped the floor, then he released her, and the tension of the balance sent her drifting up in a sensual seesaw ride.
The pan of counterweights clattered against the floor, then swung up again as Hannah came down, hovering as equilibrium was reached.
For the balance, at least. Hannah herself felt coiled and eager, wanting to move, to press, to spring. Spreading her legs as wide as she could within the confines of the small seat, she rolled her hips.
Bart rested his forehead against her knee and heaved a great breath. “Hannah, you delight me.” Returning to his crouch, he stroked higher on her legs, finding the ribbons of her garters. A fingertip dipped underneath, relieving the pressure of that tight ribbon. It was startling, so intimate, to have him touch her beneath her garter without removing a stitch.
Again, he tugged her down until her toes tapped the floor, and this time she helped herself to spring upward, a tiny swoop of flight.
His hands found her inner thighs. “You said anything, yes?” He looked up at her, as tousled and heavy-lidded with lust as she must be, yet he asked again.
“Anything.” Again, she rolled her hips toward his touch, and one of his fingertips found her private curls, her most sensitive parts.
Those careful hands she had admired from their first meeting at his stable—those strong, flexible hands—woke her to shivering pleasure. They used her own slickness to slide about, teasing delicately, making her gasp and strain. Frustrated, she grabbed at the metal hoops holding up her seat and shook them. “More. Please.”
That smile; he was so wicked and kind at once. “That is the best request I have ever heard in my life. And the answer…”
He paused, adjusting his posture, and Hannah let her head fall back with a groan. But only for a moment, for he was touching her again, rucking up her skirts in a great pile of green wool, until the ribbons of her garters were exposed to her view.
Far more was exposed to his. She was not in the scandalous habit of wearing drawers, which meant he could see all of her now, a thought that made her squirm with embarrassed eagerness.
“The answer is yes,” he murmured, and he bent his head to lick where his fingers had just touched.
Hannah gasped, almost shrieked at the piercing pleasure of it. The tip of his tongue was hot and firm against her folds, lapping at the evidence of her desire. Then up he traced, finding the sensitive knot at the apex of her sex, sucking and kissing at it as one finger slid within her depths. She tightened about him, an instinctive clutch of inner muscles that made him moan against her skin.
He sat back on his heels, then pulled her seat downward as his finger thrust deep. Holding her poised, low, he plunged another strong finger within to stretch her tight. For a moment, they held this taut balance. His dark eyes met hers with delight, questioning.
“I want it,” she begged, and he did what she was too incoherent to request. Letting the seat shoot up, free; withdrawing with a featherlight touch. She felt nothing else in the world but his fingers and the heated memory of his mouth on her.
Another tug downward as he drove his fingers into her, and she gasped at the double jolt. Again, he released her, then pulled her back to him in an erotic cadence she wished she could ride forever. Too soon she tensed, like a coiled spring tightened to its limits, and pleasure burst its bounds, shooting through her in a climax that made her tremble all over.
As she sank back to earth, Bart’s cradled her hips gently. “My God,” she said, sighing. “You delight me.”
It was easier to use his words than think up new ones from her sated, fogged brain. Especially when his words suited her feelings so well.
“The feeling is mutual.” Withdrawing his hands, he smoothed her skirt over her legs, then stood. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes…” His voice was tight with strain.
Guessing he meant to bring himself off, she said, “No, please. I want to watch. I want to help you.”
Blowing out a labored breath, he smiled. “As I said, you delight me. All right�
��if you like, we shall try this.”
He grabbed a handkerchief from the pocket of his discarded coat, then fitted himself into the valley between her skirt-covered knees. Tidily, he spread the handkerchief over her lap. “I don’t want to muss you.” She had to laugh at this fastidiousness from a man who had bunched her skirts to her waist.
At this level, she could easily reach the buttons holding closed the fall of his breeches. One by one, she coaxed them open until the buckskin parted, freeing him to her sight and touch.
His male shaft was larger, harder than she had expected. It was hotter too, she realized when she wrapped her hand about it. He clutched at the metal hoops on either side of her seat, eyes squeezed closed, surrendering to her touch.
She played lightly over his length, then worked it firmly, sliding from tip to base and back. Clear fluid beaded at the tip of his erection, and when she touched it, he groaned. She repeated the motion he had liked so well, then the slide up and down. Again and again, steady and quick, until his arms corded tightly within their thin linen shirtsleeves and his neck muscles strained.
Keeping the steady rhythm with one hand, she reached the other up to rake through his short hair. She guided his face to hers, kissing him gently on the cheekbones, the jaw, the lips. Yes. Yes. I choose you.
Tilting his head, she caught one earlobe and nipped it with her teeth. Her hand below found the tightened sac at his base and stroked over that too.
His back arched and his grasp on the seat hoops shook, setting Hannah to rocking in her perch.
“I need to—” He scrambled for the handkerchief, covering himself as a climax racked him.
When the shudders passed, they looked at one another with some marvel. Nothing permanent, Hannah had said, but after such intimacy, there was no going back to the way things had been before. For so long, she had thought of him as an enemy. Then the past few days had transformed him into an ally. A friend. A flirtation—and now a lover.
So quickly, her emotions had altered. What name ought she to put to them now?
Again, her heart galloped, and this time it was not aided by frantic lust.
As soon as Bart had cleaned and righted himself, he helped Hannah hop down from the balance and smooth her clothing. “You never removed your hat. Not a hair out of place.”
Tucking back the stubborn strands at her ears, she grinned. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
He was pawing at his coat, trying to coax it back into shape. “No, I never do anything like this either.” Donning the coat again, he matched her smile. “I shall never be able to look at a balance again without fond recollections.”
“Fond?”
He cleared his throat. “More than fond. Much more.” He picked up their discarded gloves and held hers out to her.
“Will your recollections be—” She paused, wondering if she was bold enough to name the feeling. “Erotic?”
No, she wasn’t bold enough. It was far easier to speak of the deed that the emotion that motivated it.
Still, he dropped the gloves.
Snapping them up, he straightened. “Gravity is strong today,” he said gravely. “Right here. Very strong.”
“So I see.”
He pressed her gloves into her hand. “Any word that you put to it, I am sure I will feel when I think of this afternoon.”
The gesture and the words felt like a farewell, and her smile melted.
Oh, she knew they couldn’t remain in here forever. The bustle of the track awaited. Race day. Their families’ livelihoods. Nothing permanent, she reminded herself again. Nothing was permanent. Not a feeling. Not a moment.
Not even a rivalry that had shaped so many of the boundaries of her life.
And if those boundaries were shifting…if she could choose what to do next…
The notion was startling. She had grown used to thinking of change as someday or possibly. She had not expected it to seize her so suddenly from within.
“I would love to stay”—she stumbled a bit over the words—“but I realize it must be time we return to the Rowley Mile.”
“Yes, it probably is.” He sounded delightfully reluctant as he donned his own gloves and hat. With a gruff exclamation, he turned to the balance pan and removed the weights he had placed there, stowing them in their proper location. “No evidence left behind.”
They left the building in a mirror of their arrival: unlocking the door, leaving the thatched cottage of a building, then securing the entrance again.
Hannah would have liked to close off her feelings as quickly. Matching Bart’s brisk stride, she found no distraction. Her sex was sensitive, pulsing with every step. Their easy conversation had faltered; anything they said would be too little. Too frail for what had passed between them. And as they neared the Rowley Mile and the increasingly crowded grounds, it was impossible to speak of anything intimate.
They located Sothern, and Bart reclaimed the reins of his gelding with thanks. As Hannah patted the nose of her mare, ready to remount, the groom spoke up. “Why, there’s Morrow, getting our Bridget onto the gallop.”
She turned, squinting into the distance until she identified a groom from her father’s stables guiding a brown Thoroughbred onto one of the exercise tracks.
“Did you speak to Morrow when he arrived?” At Sothern’s affirmative, Hannah asked, “How is Bridget today?”
“Making more fuss than usual, Miss Chandler, but feeling his oats well. He should have a good run, if you’d both care to watch.”
“Happy to.” Handing the reins back to Sothern, Bart pulled forth his timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat. Red satin. The fabric was forever enchanted in Hannah’s eyes.
As she forced her attention back to the gallop, the brown horse splashed through a puddle. His head jerked up, and he struck out with a foreleg.
“Making a fuss indeed,” Hannah said. “It’s not like our Bridget to bother about getting his hooves wet.”
At her side, Bart dropped his watch. As it swung from his pocket on its fob, he went as stiff as a pointer scenting game. “My God,” he said. “That’s not your Bridget’s Brown. That’s Golden Barb.”
Seven
Before Hannah could make any reply—could even take in what Bart had said—he shot off in the direction of the horse.
She would not let him get away. She stuffed her reins into the hand of the startled Sothern, blurting, “Please—I shall return directly.” Cursing the heavy fullness of her wool skirts, she caught them up about her ankles and dashed after Bart.
The turf was springy and thick, the crowd even thicker. She had to dart around and in front of and behind, shaking off curious stares and calls of “Oy, miss!” The long plumes on her cap bobbed and loosened, patting against her cheek. Once she had to leap sideways to avoid a colt being walked to cool off after a gallop. She didn’t care; she moved by instinct, her gaze fixed on the man in the drab coat running toward the dark brown colt he insisted was not the right one.
They were chasing the truth, and she would fight through more than irritating fashions and a crowded track to reach that.
Slower than Bart, she was gasping and had a stitch in her side by the time she reached Morrow and the horse. Pressing at her ribs, she fought to get her breath under control. Bart was already explaining to the wide-eyed groom. When he patted the horse’s face, his gloved fingertips came away dark.
“It’s true,” murmured Hannah. He was right. This wasn’t Bridget’s Brown.
With the aid of daylight and the knowledge of what to look for, she picked out the wrongness of the horse’s coat.
Though the two colts were much the same size and build, Bridget’s Brown was so dark as to be almost black, with the sheen of sunlight picking up lighter hairs at his muzzle and flanks. This horse was the right color, mostly, but sweat had lifted dye and caused it to concentr
ate in the lines of his muscles. Where Bart had touched the horse’s face, rubbing away the dye, the red-brown tinge of a bay coat was revealed.
As if to cement the impression, the colt nuzzled at Bart’s coat with the calm of great familiarity. Bart patted his pockets. “No apples today.”
The horse snorted.
“Whoever used dye on a horse,” Hannah muttered, “I hope he was kicked for his trouble.”
“How could this have gone unnoticed?” Bart was saying. Whether to Morrow or Hannah, she was not sure.
“Begging your pardon, Sir Bartlett”—the groom drew up stiff with piqued pride—“but if this colt’s been in our stables unknown to me, then the dye was fast before today.”
“The carrots,” Hannah murmured. “He wouldn’t eat them. I should have suspected something.” Disbelief made her legs watery. Disbelief, and then its dark cousin, dismay.
She had been so secure, thinking herself wronged but safe. Knowing that Bart’s groom was culpable, that Bart’s groom had wronged them both—and Russ and Sothern—through battery and theft. That his mother had taken Hannah’s money. Meanwhile, Hannah herself had come from the high ground, paying out her guineas for a colt to which she had a moral and financial right. Her family was innocent.
But this was not true. Someone in the Chandler stables had shared in the crime. This was no simple string of deception to be traced and cut off at the source. This was a web, and somehow she was ensnared in it too.
Bart’s eyes were too perceptive, and she turned away rather than see anger fill them, or the pity she had once insisted she did not feel herself. Far, far easier to forgive him his sins when he was the only one in the wrong.
And then fear seized her. “Bridget!” She whirled back, searching baronet and groom alike with wide eyes. “What has happened to my colt, if Golden Barb has been in Bridget’s stall for two days?”
Sport of Baronets Page 7
