Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress

by Lara Temple

  ‘To bet against Lord Hunter?’

  ‘Against Hidgins, miss. His lordship’s pride is rather more...flexible.’

  Once again the two men went down onto the grass.

  ‘Those stains will never come out.’ Biggs sighed.

  The crowd had closed again and for a moment it looked as though they might all join in the fray and she lost sight of the two men on the ground. Then both a great concerted groan and a rival cheer stretched out.

  ‘He has him pinned,’ Biggs informed her and the groan and cheer scattered into laughter and the settling of debts. The knot unravelled, revealing the two dishevelled men who might just have well been rolled down a hill into a bog, Nell thought as her breath finally began to settle.

  Then Hunter turned and saw her and her breath lost its rhythm again. He came towards her, his strides long and less graceful than usual. There was almost a bounce in them, as though he might suddenly leap from the ground. She tensed because his stride spoke of anger, but his face was still alight with laughter even though she could see he was trying to school it into disapproval. The combination was doing something to her and it wasn’t just the saggy platform of hay under her feet that made her feel off balance.

  He wore no coat or cravat and his shirt was untucked and marred by various stains which were likely, as Biggs had said, to resist extraction. It was also rent at the shoulder, revealing a triangular patch of skin which was almost the same warm tan as the skin at his neck. He must go shirtless quite often for his shoulders to be sun-touched like that, she thought. Where on earth could a gentleman do that? At Hunter Hall? If she had agreed to marry him, would she see him striding towards her just like that, but bare chested, with those powerful shoulders she had clung to and those arms that could control a four-horse team with less effort than it took most men to drive a gig?

  ‘Biggs, why didn’t you see Miss Tilney back to the house? It’s not proper for her to be here.’

  The words were perfectly sensible and in complete discord with the movement of his body and the brandy and honey eyes which were as hot and enticing now as the spirits they resembled.

  ‘Who, my lord?’ Biggs asked and received a quick sardonic glance.

  ‘Subverting my servants, Nell?’

  ‘I think that is a lesser sin than beating them up,’ Nell replied. ‘Are you all right, Hidgins?’

  Hidgins grinned at her and pressed his hand to his ribs with a pitiful moan.

  ‘I think you broke a rib, sir. I’ll be laid up for a week, I will.’

  ‘Oh, poor Betsy,’ Nell said before she could stop herself and Hidgins dropped his hand and burst into laughter. Then, with a glance at Hunter, he and Biggs headed off towards the central stable. Nell realised she and Hunter were the only ones remaining on the patch of grass and she was still standing atop her perch as Hunter looked up at her with a very unsettling expression and resembling a pirate after a pitched battle. An incredibly handsome pirate. Most pirates would probably be grimy, with missing teeth and perhaps stunted from scurvy and not at all an object for admiration, she told herself, but the image clung. At least to her less-than-sensible imagination he did look like a pirate with the wind tangling in his warm chestnut hair with its shades of bay and cinnamon and flapping the edges of his shirt, threatening to lift it up so she might be able to see if his abdomen was also that colour as it dipped downwards into his buckskins, whether he was heat and warmth everywhere.

  She tried to be sensible.

  ‘It really is quite silly to be brawling like that. You two could have hurt each other!’

  He grinned, tucking in his shirt and looking very much like a boy just returned from a successful raid on a neighbour’s trout stream.

  ‘Not really. This is what is called mere flourishing. After the first time, Hidgins and I agreed we would avoid blows to the head and below the waist. This way the only marks are easier to hide than a black eye.’

  Another allusion to waists! She was not going to look or think about tucking in the ruined shirt herself and wondering if he would feel soft or hard there.

  ‘So Biggs explained. Have you ever had a black eye?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘Several. That is impressive; most people can only have two.’

  His grin widened.

  ‘Very amusing, Saxon. Now come down before I decide to put all this hay to good use.’

  She really should come down, but she didn’t want to, not yet. As she remained unmoving the raffish quality of his grin shifted, mellowed, his lashes dipping.

  ‘You do look like a Saxon queen up there, about to bestow her favour on her knight,’ he observed and Nell planted her feet more firmly as the bale quivered beneath them, or maybe that was just her legs that had wobbled. She was used to looking down at men, but very contrarily looking down at him made her feel dainty. Dainty?

  ‘She would probably be a Norman queen if there were knights,’ the schoolmistress corrected, and then, more to the point and in a less resolute voice. ‘I don’t have anything to bestow.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  How could three words turn a quiver into a blaze? He might as well have touched a match to the hay the heat was so intense. Also the sense of danger. He was making love to her in the middle of a stable yard without raising a finger and she didn’t want it to stop. This is not making love, just flirting, the schoolmistress pointed out and was kicked off the bale of hay.

  ‘I do?’

  She would have preferred his hands, but his eyes were just as thorough and they left a scalding trail as they moved over her, a light shining and picking out the elements of her body, one by one, and she felt them as clearly as if he pressed his mouth to each point—to the skin just where her cheek sloped towards her ear, to the hollow below her chin, to the rise of her breast under the soft scrape of her fichu. All the way down her arm and so warm into the palms of her hands, telling her they could touch him, slide under that torn linen shirt...

  ‘Your ribbon,’ he said. He must have moved closer without her noticing. Now she could see the thick strands of his hair rising and falling against his forehead in the mounting wind, just touching the beautifully sculpted cheekbones. Was it ridiculous to feel envious of the wind that was doing what she so desperately wanted to do? It had to be.

  ‘I will settle, for now, for your ribbon.’ He spoke slowly, as if aware she wasn’t quite listening.

  ‘My ribbon.’

  He nodded and took her by the waist and lowered her to the ground so gently and slowly she realised there must be even more strength in those arms than she had imagined. Now she was so close she could see the shading of his eyes. How could there be so very many shades of brown and how could they be so very warm? His scent, too, was composed of the same elements of sultry warmth, reaching her below the familiar scents of the stable yard and fields beyond. She had been cold a moment before, wrapping her cloak around her. Now it choked her, she wanted it off...

  ‘This ribbon.’ His voice was even slower now, treacle slow and warm, and when his fingers caught the fluttering end of the ribbon of her bonnet it became a thread of tingling, an extension of her dancing nerves.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your hair. I need to see it.’

  Her hair, her hopeless, shapeless pale-as-dust hair, and he wanted to see it. Either she had no better charms or he actually, really did like her hair. He needed to see it. She could feel the truth of that word and it was very strange.

  He didn’t wait for her permission. The ribbon tautened, pressed over her bodice and down, and the slide of the satin fabric over the layers that kept her at bay was torture. She wished he could keep pulling and everything between them would unravel and peel away.

  Her bonnet landed on the bale of hay and inevitably her hair, released so incautiously from its cage, slipped from its kno
t and settled on her right shoulder. The wind, scenting new prey, set about making as much of a tangle of it as possible. While he just stood there and watched it dance and flick about, his hands fisted on her cloak.

  She shivered and it wasn’t from the cold, but the sense of being bare though she was fully clothed. But it did make her think of him in his linen shirt. He must be freezing. She wrapped her cloak about his hands, drawing them into hers. They weren’t in the least cold, but she chafed them anyway.

  ‘You must be cold.’

  ‘I am many, many things at this moment. Cold is not one of them.’ But he didn’t draw away his hands.

  ‘Sorry, my hands are rough,’ she said as she slid her palm over his, feeling his calluses and hers, regretting all those years of reins and harnesses and brushing down horses because at this moment she wished her hands were as silken and soft as his lovers’ probably were. She wanted to be a woman in every sense of the word.

  ‘The hands of a queen are never soft. They aren’t passive. They take what they want. They are beautiful and elegant and strong. You can take what you want.’

  She didn’t know what she wanted beyond this pure present instant. She wanted time never to exist again so she could remain just there in the universe created around his voice throbbing inside her and her palm against his. But the moment the thought of time intruded, it began to rush again. She could hear horses coming along from the gravel drive. A curricle and riders. For a moment his hands moved deep under her cloak, catching her and pressing her the length of him convulsively, his face sinking towards her. It was seconds, but she felt the hard ridge press against the pliant skin of her stomach and her whole body clenched against a rush of heat that centred between her legs, making her squirm against him, seeking.

  ‘Nell.’ His voice was a warning as he whispered her name against the corner of her mouth. Then his lips brushed up and against her and he was already a few steps away, taking his coat from where it hung on a railing. By the time the riders appeared he had knotted his cravat and was now marginally presentable but still looked like a pirate, just in rumpled riding clothes.

  ‘What? Did we miss the match?’ Meecham called out, his pug-like eyes crestfallen. He bowed and smiled shyly at Nell. ‘Hello, Miss Tilney.’

  ‘Did Hidgins win this time?’ another man asked hopefully as he inspected Hunter’s dishevelled state.

  ‘Sorry, Walters. Maybe next time. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to see Miss Tilney back to the house.’

  Nell followed meekly, still shocked at her own behaviour. With that light, humorous and wicked charm he kept slipping through her defences and she didn’t even realise it until he was ready to make it clear, as he just had. This man was a walking, talking Trojan Horse.

  They came around the paddock by the small stable and she caught sight of Charles holding Griffin’s reins well near the bit. The great dark stallion was clearly being his endearing self, shaking his head, his hooves tattooing on the ground, his rear dancing even as Charles tried to control his front. In the neighbouring paddock a large bay stallion was tethered to the fence and he also didn’t look overly happy at being so close to a rival stallion.

  ‘Oh, no. Stop,’ Nell cried out, but it was too late. Griffin ripped the reins from Charles’s grasp with a great backward heave and shied away, bouncing off the ground.

  ‘Charles, get out of the paddock. Leave him be.’

  She kept her voice low, but either Charles didn’t hear her or he chose to ignore her because he kept moving towards Griffin. The stallion’s movement was so quick it was over in seconds. He had stood with his rear to Charles, but in a flash he turned, lowered his head and charged like a bull, slamming Charles into the fence and dragging him along it before pulling away. Charles dropped and half-rolled, half-crawled under the fence and straight into Nell’s arms as she knelt on the grass to pull him through.

  ‘Don’t move, don’t move.’ Her voice was tight with shock, but her hands moved swiftly and surely over his ribs and arms.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Charles croaked. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Well, you don’t deserve to be,’ Nell said, her voice still shaky. ‘What on earth were you thinking, trying to discipline him when he is in full territorial mode with another stallion right there in the next paddock? You are lucky he didn’t break your back and bite your hand off into the bargain!’

  Charles’s cheeks went from chalk to cherry as he shoved to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothes, but before he could react she reached out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles. I didn’t mean to scold. I was just frightened.’

  He laughed shakily and took her offered hand.

  ‘Don’t apologise—I deserved that. I let my temper get the better of me. I should be the one apologising, Helen. I’ve quite ruined your dress.’

  Nell glanced down at the grass stains on her muslin dress.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re not hurt.’

  ‘Yes, well, we had all best change. It wouldn’t do for us to be seen like this.’

  Nell flushed at the suspicious look he cast at Hunter’s ragged state and the tousled hair escaping her bonnet. She should be happy at this sign of jealousy, but her shakiness just increased as Hunter took hold of her arm again, more stiffly than before, and they moved towards the house.

  She cast a glance back at Griffin, who was still cantering around the small enclosure like a tiger pacing its cage. It might be foolish to be worrying about that devil of a horse, but despite what she had told Hunter, she did not really believe anyone was irredeemable. It was a matter of time and patience, and once she established her own stable, and her own school, she would do her best to reach precisely those who erected the most effective barriers against warm human contact.

  As they approached the house she realised she had been distracted from her plan to go see Daisy. She would return once she was alone; she could use some time to sort through her own thoughts and she was always clearest when facing a serious equine challenge.

  * * *

  The small stable was empty, which meant Daisy was already out in the paddock, but with the clouds sinking lower and lower the afternoon fog had also rolled in over the low-lying field, obscuring most of it. She ducked under the paddock fence and leaned against it, rubbing her cold hands under her cloak. Then the fog shifted, swirled, and a dark figure came towards her with the speed of a hurtling stone. She held still as Daisy pranced close to the fence, her tail up, her thin forelegs high off the ground. Nell stood with her back half-turned, one hand on the top rung of the fence, her eyes on the ground, and waited. Again and again Daisy made the circuit, but even when her lovely tail flowed out, like hair in water, and grazed Nell’s shoulder, Nell kept her gaze on the shift and eddy of the mist around her legs, waiting. Finally a whicker just behind her told her Daisy had stopped and when the filly’s breath settled warm and moist against Nell’s cold fingers where they lay on the fence she moved very slowly away and into the paddock, her head down. She could feel Daisy just a yard or two behind her at all times, her curiosity and need for contact battling with nervousness. Nell knew what that was like.

  Once she completed the circuit she allowed herself a slow glance up. The filly stood quite close, her eyes a wide liquid brown. Very slowly Nell reached out and stroked her neck, just once. Daisy held still and then lowered her head, edging closer. Nell allowed herself another couple of gentle caresses and then placed her hand back on the fence. After a moment the filly nuzzled her hand and then turned away, rising on her hind legs and doing a strange little dance before bucking playfully and cantering off again. Nell burst into delighted laughter at the beautiful animal’s surprising show of character and at her own success.

  ‘I’m glad at least you find this amusing.’ Hunter’s harsh tones snapped her out of her reverie and she whirled around, raising h
er hands.

  ‘Hush!’

  ‘Lady Welbeck sent your maid for you and the poor girl enlisted Hidgins’s help when she couldn’t find you. We’ve been looking everywhere for you!’

  She hugged her cloak to her, not sure whether the shivering was from the cold or his anger.

  ‘I’m sorry I caused a bother. I should have asked Betsy to tell Lady Welbeck I had a headache or something. I wanted to see Daisy.’

  ‘Alone? And in this weather?’

  ‘Yes, alone. I wanted to see Daisy without anyone distracting her. Stop treating me like a child!’

  ‘You are quite right—you aren’t a child. You’re a damn walking provocation. You can’t just go tramping around the stables and fields on your own with impunity. Anyone could have...’

  He half-turned away, his jaw tight, and contrarily her resentment faded as she registered his tension. Just as Biggs had said earlier, he took his responsibilities far too seriously.

  The wind shoved at them and when they still didn’t move it flicked some needles of rain at them. Hunter took her hand and turned her towards the house.

  ‘Your hand is frozen. These gloves are hardly any more than a scrap of cotton. Don’t you know to put on real gloves before you go out in this weather?’

  She laughed at the scold.

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Very childish. Come, we need to warm you up.’

  She didn’t answer. It wasn’t so terrible after all to be treated like a child sometimes, being led by a very large and warm hand. She hadn’t quite realised how cold and stiff she had become until his fingers forced hers apart and laced between them with his palm pressed against hers.

  * * *

  When they reached the door to her room she turned to thank him, but there was a burst of laughter from the stairs and she suddenly found herself inside her room with Hunter.

  ‘You can’t be here,’ she whispered. ‘What if Betsy comes?’

  He turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Problem solved. Besides, you need someone to light your fire.’