by Regina Scott
The hostess called to the group and began a game of charades. Throughout the evening, Christian covertly observed Lord Wickburgh, but the older man made no further attempt to approach Miss Marshall. Unfortunately, the more Christian tried to keep his attention off of the beautiful lady, the more he stared.
As the games ended, guests broke off into smaller groups, chatting and laughing. Others retired for the evening, including his father, to Christian’s relief. When Genevieve Marshall left with her parents, he relaxed; she’d be safe from Lord Wickburgh in their company. And Christian would be spared the agony of trying not to look at her.
Christian bowed to the host and hostess. “Good night, sir, ma’am.”
Miss Widtsoe appeared at her parents’ side and gazed up at him. “So soon, Mr. Amesbury?”
“I wish to be well rested for the hunt tomorrow.” He bowed and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
“Oh, of course. Do you enjoy hunting, then?”
“I do.” He added, “Although what I enjoy most about it is a good bruising ride through the countryside.”
“My friend Jenny does, as well. I believe I heard you like the steeple chase?”
“Very much. Well, good night.” He said the last part to all three of them.
“Good night.” She smiled so brightly, so hopefully, that he fled like a frightened lad.
Chapter Five
Early the following morning, Genevieve ducked to avoid a low hanging limb and tapped her horse with the riding crop to urge him forward. She didn’t dare fall behind the hunting party and give the men a reason to suggest she return home to sit with the ladies sewing while the men had all the fun. She enjoyed sewing on occasion, but riding sidesaddle at breakneck speed over rugged terrain filled her with exhilaration few other activities provided.
The woods thinned, and the group charged down a hillside following the barking, howling dogs. She galloped with the hunting party, laughing for sheer joy as the wind sang in her ears, and her body moved in harmony with the horse’s stride. Fresh, woodsy scents filled her lungs, reminding her of rides with her father back home.
Christian Amesbury glanced back at her again. Whether he checked on her so often out of simple chivalric duty since she was the only woman in the group, or out of belief that she couldn’t handle herself, she did not know. Each time he did, a warm flush raced down her limbs. The other men gave their full attention to the hunt, except Papa, who occasionally shared a grin with her.
As dogs barked, tack jingled, horses whinnied, and hooves pounded, the party raced along a ravine and then up the other side, winding between trees and scrub. The dogs’ barking and howling reached a crescendo, and then all at once, they lost their prey. No amount of sniffing and false starts found the scent. Their quarry vanished. Some of the men voiced their displeasure, but many shrugged and said it was all part of the game.
Lord Wickburgh scowled as if the host had failed in his duty, but Genevieve refused to let him dim her pleasure.
Christian Amesbury wheeled around, grinning and rosy-cheeked from the chill morning air. “Race you back?” he called out to the nearest few riders.
Though not specifically included, his challenge was general enough that Genevieve joined in. They galloped, leaping over fallen trees and stumps, crashing through brush, and dodging rock formations that leaped in their path. As they reached the perimeter of the abbey’s gardens, Mr. Amesbury’s stallion pulled ahead. His nearest two contenders leaned over their horses’ necks and made a valiant effort, but Mr. Amesbury reached the paddock first. Genevieve arrived only seconds behind them.
The men laughed and congratulated each other on a fine run. Genevieve walked her horse around the perimeter to cool him before returning to the stable doors.
“May I assist you in dismounting?” Lord Wickburgh appeared next to her horse. Classically handsome and elegant in his red riding coat, the older man smiled and extended a hand. But a chill in his gaze cooled her joy of the ride.
“Er, my father usually helps me,” she said lamely, looking around for Papa.
She found him slapping Mr. Amesbury on the back and laughing with the men who’d encircled the impromptu race’s winner. He seemed unaware of her plight.
“It’s no inconvenience to me, Miss Marshall,” Lord Wickburgh said.
Since there seemed no graceful way to refuse, she accepted his aid. His hands stayed longer than necessary on her waist. She stepped back and held onto her riding crop with both hands to put some distance between them.
His smooth voice reminded her of melted glass in a glassblower’s shop. “Your riding habit is beautiful. It suits you.”
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, looking down at her hands to avoid his chilling stare.
“And you ride uncommonly well. I was surprised you chose to accompany a hunt—surprised your father allows you to do something so dangerous.”
“He and I often enjoy vigorous rides together.” She gathered the train of her riding habit and laid it over her left arm. “If you will please excuse me, my lord.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and strode toward the house.
Her father caught up to her. “Jolly good morning, eh?”
She hushed her disquiet and found a smile to give him. “Perfect weather for a ride.”
“That Amesbury fellow seems to have caught your eye, Jenny.”
“Oh, no, he is not for me. Matilda has formed an attachment to him, and I am only trying to take measure of his character.”
“Uh-huh.” His disbelief rang clear.
“Truly, Papa. I would never encourage the attention of a gentleman that a friend—”
“I know, daughter. I am not questioning your intentions. But he is young, handsome, the son of an earl . . .”
“He is gallant. And gentle. And intelligent.” She might have listed at least a dozen more qualities she’d observed in him but stopped, lest her father misunderstand her praise. “I am persuaded that he will be an excellent match for Matilda.”
“Yes, he will be an excellent match for any young lady.”
An uncomfortable prickling between her shoulder blades had her glancing over her shoulder. Lord Wickburgh stared after her. He nodded before turning away.
“Papa, what do you know of Lord Wickburgh?”
“Very little except that he is a viscount, a man of fashion and considerable wealth and influence. He has buried two wives.”
“Oh, poor man. He must be lonely.” That must have been it. She’d misunderstood him. What she’d perceived as a cold sort of ruthlessness must have been pain and loneliness.
“I am sure.” Her father’s face clouded, and he cast a glance up at the window where he shared a bedroom with Mama during the house party. Did he worry that he faced losing Mama?
Genevieve linked her arm with his. “Mama has been ever so much stronger lately. Why, the trip didn’t seem to tire her much at all.”
“Yes, I believe you are right.”
“Don’t you worry about her. Between you and me, we will make sure Mama lives a long and healthy life.”
Papa kissed her temple, and they strolled into the house. After a quick wash and changing out of her riding habit into a morning gown, Genevieve joined the ladies in the back parlor where they sat gossiping and sewing. Matilda sat at the pianoforte, practicing a particularly difficult piece, a Haydn, if she were correct. Genevieve sat next to her, careful not to jostle her on the bench. She followed along and turned the page at the correct time. Matilda stumbled over a particularly grueling passage.
“E flat,” Genevieve murmured.
“I know,” Matilda snapped. She stopped. Sighed. “Forgive me, Jenny. I’m trying to get this right so I can play it tonight for Christian. I want him to like me.”
Genevieve put her hand on Matilda’s back. “I don’t think his good opinion of you will change if you fail to learn this new piece by this eve.”
“I know, but I just wish . . .” She turned sad eyes upon Genevieve. “I conf
ess, I am starting to doubt that he returns my regard. He’s very kind, but doesn’t appear to feel a grand passion for me.” She returned to her music and worked at the passage until she got it right.
“You are a lovely and accomplished young lady,” Genevieve murmured. “And he does seem to admire you on some level. Perhaps when he draws your portrait, you will have better opportunity to become acquainted.”
“Do you think he favors blue?”
“I wouldn’t know. Why?”
“He wears it a lot. I thought if perhaps I wore blue when he painted my portrait . . .”
“Blue is lovely on you. It brings out your eyes.”
Matilda’s usual buoyancy returned to her expression. “I have a new sarcenet evening gown of Cambridge blue with a pale blue parted overskirt. Perhaps I should wear that for my sitting?”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful on you. And even better if he favors the color.”
“What else might I do to win his regard?”
“Well, having not made a match of my own, I can hardly say, but Mama says a lady should always ask a gentleman questions about himself and encourage him to speak, while speaking very little about herself.”
“But he doesn’t say much when I do that.”
“Perhaps you aren’t asking the right questions. Have you asked him what his interests are?”
“Oh, yes. He’s mad for the steeple chase, and he boxes and fences. Almost a Corinthian, isn’t he? And, well, aside from art and music, I don’t know much else about his interests.”
“Try to word the questions so they can’t be answered with a simple yes or no.”
A few gentlemen drifted in, including the Earl of Tarrington, but not Mr. Amesbury. The ladies continued chatting while the gentlemen filled in around them.
“Where do you think he is?” Matilda asked.
Genevieve didn’t have to ask which “he” Matilda meant. “Out sketching the abbey?”
Matilda let out a breath of glee. “I do believe I wish to go for a bit of a ramble.”
“I do, as well.” Genevieve returned her smile.
They took up hats and gloves, and changed into half boots for walking. Genevieve grabbed a parasol to protect her skin from the sun’s burning rays. After leaving behind the manicured gardens, they climbed nearby hills, looking for a place where Mr. Amesbury might have chosen to draw the abbey. They were both tired and almost willing to admit defeat and return to the house when Matilda let out a gasp.
“Oh! There he is!”
Bareheaded amid a stand of poplars at the top of a hill, Mr. Amesbury sat as still as a painting. The dappled light shone on his golden head and played with the blue of his frock coat.
Matilda made a straight course for him, but Genevieve pulled her back. “We must appear to be out for a stroll, Mattie, not hunting him.”
Her friend made a sigh of exasperation but slowed her steps as they followed the rocky, narrow path carved into the side of the hill. “You’re right, of course. Did you know we’re going to have a ball tonight? After dinner, we’ll roll up the carpets and dance. Mama even arranged to have some musicians play for us. Won’t that be lovely? And Mama agreed that we can even waltz.”
“Oh, dear. I never learned to waltz.”
“No? Pity. I learned with a dance master Papa hired this winter. I can’t wait to waltz with Christian,” Mattie said dreamily.
“Would you show me how?”
“Well, it would be difficult without a partner, but if you know the basic steps, you ought to be able to follow when you do have a partner.” She cast a longing glance at Mr. Amesbury. “Shall we do it now?”
“Oh, no, let’s not waste a moment of your time with him,” Genevieve said. She looked back at where he sat, but he remained motionless, as if he had not yet seen them.
“It will only take a moment to teach you the basics.” Mattie stood in front of her so Genevieve could follow her. “It’s narrow here, and rocky, so watch your step. Begin with your right foot, taking a step back. One. Then bring your left through and to the left side. Two. Then bring your right foot to your left and switch your weight onto it. Three. That’s the first half. Then you begin again, but this time stepping forward with your left.”
Genevieve followed, her movements clumsy at first but then catching on. Matilda repeated with Genevieve following.
After several times, Matilda’s steps began to rotate slightly. “Then start to turn just a little. One, two, three. One, two, three. Ah!” She let out a sharp cry and went down, pitching sideways over the edge of the hill.
Genevieve’s breath strangled. “Mattie!” she gasped. She charged after her friend.
Matilda tumbled a few times before coming to a stop as the hill leveled off. She lay still. Stumbling and sliding in her haste to reach her friend, Genevieve rushed to her.
“Matilda?” She slid to her knees next to her friend’s motionless form.
Matilda rolled over. “I’m all right. I think.”
Genevieve almost sobbed in relief. She helped raise her to a sitting position. “Does it hurt anywhere?”
Heavy footsteps pounded to them. “Miss Widtsoe? Are you injured?” Christian Amesbury took long, commanding strides to reach them. Concern carved itself into his features, and his whole focus fixed upon Matilda.
With her face red, Matilda hurried to straighten her skirts to cover her legs. “I don’t think so.” She looked down, but the shimmer of moisture on her eyes gave away her distress.
“Do you wish to rest here a moment before you try to stand?” Genevieve asked.
Biting her lip, Matilda nodded.
Mr. Amesbury crouched next to them. “Are you sure you’re unharmed?” he asked gently.
Her eyes brimming with tears, Matilda nodded jerkily, not in pain but in embarrassment. Poor thing. And she’d been trying so hard to impress him, not be clumsy. And it was Genevieve’s fault it had happened.
Mr. Amesbury’s mouth pressed into a compassionate wince. He turned his attention to Genevieve. “Did you fall, too?”
“No. I ran after her.”
Matilda drew a shivering breath and pushed herself to a stand. Genevieve helped her, and Mr. Amesbury held his hands out as if to steady her should she need his strength. Matilda’s face tightened as she took a step.
“Is your foot hurt?” Genevieve asked.
“My ankle is a bit sore. I must have twisted it. But I can walk.”
Genevieve kept pace with Matilda as she marshaled her way down the hill, forgoing the meandering path up the hill, and taking the shortest distance back to the abbey. With each step, her face twisted in progressively more intense pain.
“Lean on my arm,” Mr. Amesbury said.
Her face redder still and tears shining in her eyes, Matilda obliged, but her breath grew more and more labored.
“Perhaps you should rest,” Genevieve suggested.
Matilda shook her head and pushed on.
Finally, Mr. Amesbury stopped. “You are aggravating your injury.” His handsome face took on an earnest expression. “I’ll go for help. Perhaps there is a cart . . .”
“Oh, dear. I’m so embarrassed.” Matilda put a hand over her eyes.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you anything but jubilant.” Looking truly concerned, Mr. Amesbury led her to a boulder and seated her upon it. He crouched next to her and took her hand. Very gently, he asked, “How can I help you? What do you wish me to do?”
The very core of Genevieve’s being melted at his compassion, his gentleness, his gallantry. Matilda had found the perfect gentleman. And he appeared—finally—to show true concern, perhaps even affection, for Matilda. Perhaps he held her in high esteem all along but was too reserved to show it.
Genevieve should have been ecstatic at this encouraging step in the right direction. Instead, the opposite emotion reared its ugly head. Envy. Envy that such a desirable gentleman looked at Matilda. Envy that no one had ever behaved in such a way toward Genevieve. Envy th
at Matilda would probably marry Christian soon, and Genevieve would still be alone, left to compare every man she met to him, and who, naturally, would fall woefully short.
Oh, heaven help her, but the only man who’d ever turned her head was the love of Matilda’s life. Genevieve was turning into a selfish beast.
Chapter Six
Christian studied the young woman in front of him. Were her tears a result of humiliation or pain or some other heartbreak he could not discern? Regardless, her distress spurred him to action. The fastest way to get her help would be to carry her, but to walk into the abbey carrying a young lady might throw her virtue into question. And such actions might give her the wrong idea about his feelings for her. He hated to leave them alone, but they had, after all, walked there on their own without escort.
“I’m so sorry about the inconvenience,” Miss Widtsoe said softly. “It’s fortunate that you came along when you did. I don’t know how I’d manage, else.”
He gestured to Miss Marshall. “Your devoted friend would have assisted you.”
“Yes, I’ve never had a truer friend!” She was already starting to lapse back into her habit of saying everything with an exclamation point at the end.
“I’ll fetch a cart and return as soon as possible.” Christian raced to the stable and enlisted the aid of a stable hand, who found a dog cart. They hitched a pony to it, and Christian led the stable hand back to the ladies waiting where he’d left them.
Miss Marshall’s eyes glowed as he arrived. He had the urge to square his shoulders and draw himself to his full height. Instead, he turned his attention to the injured lady. As the stable hand got the cart as close as possible, Christian helped Miss Widtsoe into the back of the cart. He handed in Miss Marshall, and squeezed in next to her.
Her nearness sent shivers of awareness through him, and he searched for a safe topic. “What happened that caused your fall?”
