by Amanda Scott
Nevertheless, she could not bring herself to accept his guidance in everything else, and if he would not allow her to discover her own limits in the hunting field, how could she believe he would allow her to discover those limits anywhere else? Though her thoughts always seemed to come back to that same point, the course they took seemed to grow more and more complicated until there was nothing more than a jumble of words in her brain, but at last she slept, and when she awoke there was little on her mind other than the thumping on her door.
Sitting bolt upright, she called, “Who’s there?”
“ ’Tis Alice, my lady. The door be locked.”
Remembering, Philippa jumped from the bed and snatched up her dressing gown, flinging it around herself as she moved to unlock the door. Alice stood in the corridor, holding the chocolate tray and looking rather sheepish.
“ ’Tis sorry I am, ma’am, that I didn’t be here to help when you came to bed.”
“Never mind that now, I know how it must have been,” Philippa said, “and I came up quite early, you know.”
“Well, I know the dancing went into the wee hours, ma’am. They say the dowager was the last to give it up and that the poor musicians was ready to throttle her by the time she did.”
“Oh, dear, I hope that does not mean she will not hunt today!” Philippa exclaimed. Then, ruefully, as she realized how selfish she must sound, she added, “I would not wish her to overtire herself, of course.”
“No chance o’ that,” said Alice, setting the tray down upon a table when she saw that her mistress did not intend to get back into bed. “Her grace left orders to be awakened for the hunt breakfast. Said she means to be in at the kill. She’s a grand one, she is, right enough.”
Glancing at her clock, Philippa was dismayed to see that it was already ten o’clock. “What time is breakfast, then? I should have thought they would be finished by now.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. They will begin serving at half-past, but the meet ain’t till half after eleven, so you’ve plenty of time.”
Nonetheless, Philippa hurried, with the result that she, like Cupid, whom she had chosen as her first mount, was fairly champing at the bit before the huntsman had organized his hounds to draw the first covert. At last, however, the horns were sounded, the hounds were loosed, and it was not long after that before the “View Halloo” was heard and the field was off in a burst across the Vale of Belvoir. The dowager was there among them, just as she had promised, wearing an emerald-green habit and a matching hat with a startlingly bright red plume and a veil that she could pull over her face to protect her if she had to push through a bullfinch.
Philippa’s hat also boasted a veil, but her habit was not nearly so dashing, being of dark brown velvet with gold trim and barrel snaps down the front. She guided Cupid in the dowager’s wake, settling well into her saddle, feeling delight swell within her at the exhilaration of the hunt.
There were nearly one hundred riders in the field, and it soon became obvious that the duke had not planned a tame ladies’ hunt but one that would test the mettle of every hunter. The fox made a long point, and the scent was breast-high. Across the pleasantly undulating country of alternate grass and plow they rode until they came to a wood, where it seemed at first that the fox must go to ground. But the wood was cut in both directions by rides, broad corridors made to accommodate an even bigger hunt than this, and the earths had been efficiently stopped. After disappearing momentarily into the underbrush, the fox was sighted first across one of the rides and again as he broke covert at the end of the wood.
“Gone away!” shouted the huntsman, and the cry was taken up by hounds and men as the long sound of the hunting horn echoed through the wood. Glancing to her right, Philippa saw Rochford beside her on his big black. She grinned, feeling nothing but pleasure in the sport and wanting nothing more than to be in charity with everyone. To her relief, he smiled back at her, and when the suspicion crossed her mind that he was riding near in order to keep a sharp lookout for her safety, there was no resentment in the thought, only a deepening of her love for him.
A part of the pack, in high feather, had struck the line of a fresh fox, and the hunters thundered past, leaving it to the whippers-in to clear the hounds from the wood. Fortunately for them and for some of the hunters, as well, there was a check a few moments later, the huntsman having to make a wide cast, and before he hit the line again most of the stragglers had caught up.
By the time they neared Bottesford, Cupid was beginning to sink, but the dowager had warned Philippa to have a second horse ready, so she was able to change to Black Nestor after the second exciting run. More than half the field, including Lord Robert Manners, Lord Alvanley, Kegworth, and nearly all of the ladies, fell out at Bottesford or before for lack of a second mount or merely because they were exhausted. Philippa was not tired at all, and she and the dowager were at the head of the field after the change. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Rochford and the Duke of Rutland were close behind them.
There was another check ten minutes later, and the huntsman was forced to cast again, but the hounds soon hit the scent, giving the hunters scarcely time to draw breath before they were off again in full cry, sterns feathering merrily. The second run was well over eleven miles long, through bullfinches and over blackthorn hedges, timber fences, water-filled ditches, and oxers, before the fox went at last to ground. By then they had crossed into South Nottinghamshire, so by rule the fox could not be dug out nor the covert be drawn for another fox—not without risk of bringing the wrath of Squire Osbaldeston, master of the South Nottinghamshire hunt, down upon all their heads. The horn was blown, calling the halt.
While the huntsman and his whippers-in stopped the hounds, several of the gentlemen could be heard cursing their bad luck, but most of the hunters, like Philippa, cared more for the hard riding and the challenge of the obstacles than for the kill and were perfectly contented with the day’s sport. At first the twenty or so riders who remained stayed together, but as they passed one inn and then another, the numbers dwindled accordingly until by the time they were within three miles of the castle, Philippa found herself riding in a much smaller group with the dowager, another lady whom she did not know, two gentlemen who seemed to be with the lady, the duke, and Rochford. A few moments later, the two gentlemen and the lady turned off together when one of the gentlemen mentioned knowing an excellent posting house less than a mile to the east.
When they had gone, the dowager chuckled. “I confess I should have liked to go with them but for the stir it would cause,” she said. “Haven’t had a chase like that in weeks. The exercise does bring on a thirst.”
The duke smiled at her. “You never cease to amaze me, ma’am. At your age, you ought to be thinking of a nap, not a mug of stout ale.”
Philippa looked at the dowager duchess, wondering for the first time just how old she was, and catching her look, the dowager winked. “Fifty-seven my last birthday,” she said, “though ’tis the fashion to keep such stuff a deep dark secret. Born in August like my illustrious, long-awaited grandson, and they say those of us born under August stars are like to be stubborn and cling to the things we enjoy, even when good sense tells us to leave well enough be.”
“I, too, am August-born,” admitted Philippa.
“And stubborn,” muttered Rochford at her side.
She shot him a speaking look, but the dowager laughed and said, “No need to swallow your words like that, Rochford. Say it or don’t say it. To my mind, there is nothing wrong with a lady’s having a bit of spirit.”
Philippa looked at Rochford again, grinning saucily, but he said nothing further. In fact, now that she came to think about it, he had been strangely silent most of the way back.
They had been riding at an easy, distance-eating canter across an open plowed field flanked by a thicket of stout oaks on one side and a field of stubble on the other. Ahead of them rose a long, low, neatly trimmed blackthorn hedge. Philippa, thinking about Rochf
ord’s odd silence, was no longer concentrating or she might have chanced to remember Black Nestor’s contrariness with regard to hedges, but by the time she realized he had not gathered himself for the jump as he ought to have done, he had refused it altogether and she had flown right off the saddle. Twisting frantically to avoid landing on her head or shoulder, she landed flat on her backside instead, the wind whooshing out of her in a sharp cry of dismay.
The duke and dowager, riding far enough ahead that they were already committed, made the jump, but Rochford, slightly behind her, wheeled his mount at the last moment and slid quickly down from his saddle to rush to her side.
“Philippa, are you hurt? What a ridiculous fall! My good child, one must pay heed when one is in the field. Here, can you get up?”
Angrily shaking his arm away, she said, “Leave me be, Rochford. Of course I am not hurt, and you need not say anything more about how heedless I was. I know that without your pointing it out to me, but I daresay that you will throw this up to me if I am ever so cork-brained as to ask you to let me hunt again. This fall proves, does it not, that there is no place for ladies in the hunting field. Though you know perfectly well that I merely suffered a momentary lapse of attention, such as might happen to anyone after a long day’s hunting when one’s concentration has been intense, but you will no doubt continue to be the greatest beast in nature and will—”
“I say, Lady Philippa, are you all right?” It was the duke, peering at them from the other side of the thorn hedge.
Recalled to her surroundings, Philippa reluctantly allowed Rochford to help her to her feet, and forced a smile for the duke. “I am indeed quite unharmed, sir, since this field has so fortunately been recently plowed.”
“Not recently,” he corrected her. “Before the freeze, actually. And the fog, of course. But like as not, when it thawed again, only the outer crust was hardened—fortunately, as it happens.”
“Please, sir,” Philippa said dryly, drawing the reins through her fingers and congratulating herself on not having released them as she fell, “don’t you begin to scold me for my inattention. I assure you that Rochford has already said all that is necessary.”
“Oh, not by any means everything that is necessary,” corrected Rochford in a low tone, sterner than any she had heard him use before. Raising his voice, he said, “I hope, Rutland, that you will not take it amiss if I tell you that your presence has become infinitely de trop.”
Philippa looked at the viscount and saw that he was regarding the duke with a challenging look in his eye.
The duke responded with an amused grin, “You will understand, I hope, that I shall more willingly take my congé from her ladyship, Rochford. She is a guest in my house, after all, and therefore entitled to demand my protection.”
“Rutland, take a damper,” recommended his mother outrageously, bringing her mount to his side. Straightening her hat, she regarded the two on the ground with a sympathetic eye, and added dryly, “You must forgive him, my dears. He has an unceasing sense of the ridiculous, which is why he so much enjoys making it clear to disbelievers that he gives his duchess her head in all things. He is roasting you, Rochford, but I cannot say you have done nothing to deserve it. You have been a fool, my lord.”
“Indeed, I am grateful for your grace’s generous reading of my character,” began Rochford with gathering wrath, “but I should—”
“You would think me more generous if I would but take my precious offspring and disappear with him as quickly as possible,” the dowager finished for him, still twinkling.
Reluctantly he returned her smile. “Indeed, your grace. That’s the nut with no bark on it.”
“Well, I shall do so, then, but you will displease me, sir, an you return to Belvoir without having settled your affairs in a suitable fashion.”
“Wait, your grace,” Philippa called. “You cannot truly mean to leave me here. I assure you I have no wish to be alone with him. I do demand your protection!”
Rutland looked hesitant, but his mother put an end to further discussion by snatching the reins of his hunter into her own hand and wheeling her mount toward the castle, thus forcing the mighty duke to follow.
“I say, ma’am!” was all they heard of Rutland’s protests before the hoofbeats faded into the distance, leaving the field wrapped in silence.
True silence was only momentary, for Philippa was quickly aware of the sound of her own breathing. Then came the noisy screech of a magpie, followed by a black-and-white flash of movement as the bird, or another like it, took wing from the nearby thicket. A moment later, a trilling chirp heralded the appearance of a small goldfinch, recognizable by the gold and red markings on its black head and wings as it shot from the hedge a little way from where she and Rochford stood. For a long moment Philippa focused her attention on the hedge, noting dried brown stems and heads of cow parsley among the thorny green branches and, below, a soldier beetle struggling to climb a plowed ridge of earth at the foot of the hedge. Even as she watched these fascinating things, however, Philippa was entirely too conscious of the tall, silent man beside her. In an effort to break the gathering tension between them, she looped her reins in the hedge, shook her skirts, and began to brush dirt from her hips.
“Here, let me help you,” said Rochford dryly, and before she knew what he was about, one of his strong hands had clamped itself to her upper arm and the other was brushing energetically at her backside.
“Rochford, stop that!” She wriggled, trying to pull away from him, but all she got for her trouble was a harder smack on the area he was attempting to dust for her. “Ouch, you beast, that hurt!”
Without having the slightest understanding of how it came to pass, she suddenly found herself wrapped in his arms, her face pressed against his broad shoulder. She could smell the masculine scent of him, mixed with the warm-wool odor of his dark jacket, and she could feel his breath soft against her cheek. Then one of his hands moved to her hat, pulling it loose, and when she looked up at him in protest, he said, “It’s most damnably in my way, you know, though I fear I’ve mussed your hair badly.”
“In the way, sir?” she repeated, clinging to important matters.
“Yes, for I mean to kiss you before we have our little talk, sweetheart.”
“Do you? I thought you were angry.”
He spent the next moments proving to her that he was nothing of the sort, and not much to her own surprise, she could discover no wish to stop him. Instead, as warmth spread rapidly through her body, she discovered she had a great desire to urge him on. When one of her hands found its way inside his jacket to the softness of his shirt, Rochford drew a long, ragged breath and reluctantly set her back on her heels. He regarded her ruefully.
“Perhaps I should not have done that,” he said. “I keep telling myself I ought not to press you—”
“It is not thought of Wakefield which keeps me from encouraging your suit,” Philippa murmured, looking now at Rochford’s patient horse, still standing where he had been left.
“Then what?” the viscount demanded. “Does this hunting business mean so much to you? Because if it does, I can tell you—”
“It isn’t that,” she said quickly. “Not the hunting alone, although at one point I did think that was it. But the dowager came nearer the mark, sir, when she described herself as one who clings to independence. ’Tis my own independence I guard, my need to make decisions for myself, even if they prove to be the wrong decisions. ’Twas my greatest gift from the baron, you see, and I cannot give it up so freely, even for love of you, my lord.” She would have gone on then to attempt to explain her relationship with Wakefield, but Rochford stopped her with a gentle finger to her lips.
“I do wish you would learn not to interrupt, sweetheart. Someday I hope you will come to understand that my opposition to ladies in the hunting field stems not from mere male arrogance but from my care for their safety.”
“But, Rochford—”
“No,” he said, givi
ng her a shake, “you will listen to me, if you please. I was wrong to let my concern for you keep me from hearing the things you were saying to me. The one time I actually saw your prowess in the field, I let my anger keep me from realizing that I was becoming as stubborn as you over what was essentially a petty argument. No, no, you will listen until I have quite finished.” He glared at her, waiting to see if she would again attempt to speak. When she remained meekly silent, she was rewarded with a smile of approval. “You were right to be angry with me, sweetheart, but you also made a few mistakes. I need not point them out to you. Indeed, I have said I will say nothing further on that head, but there is one thing I must say, for it covers a broader range. You made it clear enough when we discussed annuities with Alvanley that you have a good head for matters of business. You do not, however, approach more emotional matters with that same clear head.”
“No,” she said forlornly, “you are right. Cousin Adeliza says I don’t think matters through. Wakefield said the same on occasion, but I thought I had learned better, and the business of the hunt was important to me. It still is, for all that.”
“Then let me say at once that I should have to be the greatest of nodcocks not to admit that if a lady of the dowager’s years can hold her own in the field, you can do as well if not better. You are a bruising rider, sweetheart, and even if you were not, I have indeed come to recognize your need to discover that fact for yourself.”
“You have?” Her eyes widened.
He smiled at her. “I have. I was trained to a habit of command, Philippa, so seeing myself as you do has not been easy for me. I went from a household where my father made all the decisions, to the army, where I had only to give an order to see it obeyed. But I have seen changes, even in my home, where my sisters now make decisions of which my father is not even aware, out of concern for his health. They deferred to me, of course, and to their husbands, so I was not quick to see the change, but I did note that they are not nearly so dependent on masculine authority as my mother was. Then I saw how Rutland is with his amazing duchess. If ever a lady gave the appearance of being a sad shatterbrain, that one does, but she is nothing of the sort, for the duke is no namby-pamby dandy, but a man as sound as a roast who was raised knowing he would wield great power. And although his mother is a demanding lady who knows her own mind, she would never have made the mistake of raising a duke who could not make decisions. Therefore, ’tis plain as a pikestaff that the duke gives his duchess full rein only because he wishes to do so.”
