by Mia Marlowe
“If Mr. Thatcher arrives before we do, no doubt your family will be worried.”
Olivia sighed. Drat the man, he was right. Her mother would pitch a fit if she heard Molly had been returned to the stable injured and riderless before Olivia appeared. Beatrice Symon would never listen patiently to Mr. Thatcher’s explanation. She’d be certain that Olivia was bleeding in a ditch somewhere and it all could have been avoided if only she’d listened to her mother.
Olivia’s mother in hysterics was a sight to avoid at all costs.
She grasped Rhys’s forearm, stepped on his foot in the stirrup, and let him heft her onto the scupper behind him, both her legs draped sedately on one side of the horse. Her skirt was wide enough to accommodate riding astride, but after the strange ache she’d experienced when he kissed her, she didn’t think snuggling up to Lord Rhys’s backside with her legs spread was a wise course.
Since she couldn’t hug the horse with her knees, that meant she had to hug Rhys in order to stay on Duncan’s back. Gingerly, she slipped one arm around his lean waist.
He claimed her hand with his.
“Hold on.”
Rhys nudged his mount into a quick trot. Olivia was forced to wrap her other arm around him and cling tightly lest she be bounced off Duncan’s rear. After a few yards, Rhys slowed his mount to a sedate walk, but she was obliged to continue hugging him in case he kicked Duncan into a canter without warning.
“Now then, this isn’t completely unpleasant, is it?” he said.
Far from unpleasant. The faint sun had disappeared completely behind a growing cloud bank, but Rhys Warrington threw off as much heat as a roaring fire.
“You’re wide enough through the shoulders to provide an admirable windbreak, I’ll give you that,” she said.
“One of my proudest accomplishments,” he quipped. “I live to serve, milady.”
“You know full well that I’m simply Miss Symon. I’m no lady.”
“In all the ways that matter you are,” he said, his voice rumbling through his broad back and into her ear that was pressed against it. “You may as well get used to a title, you know. You’ll have to answer to Your Highness if you wed the royal duke.”
With her cheek resting on Rhys’s strong back and her arms around his waist, Olivia decided the prospect of an aging groom, royal or not, was more depressing than usual. When she kissed the Duke of Clarence for the first time, would he make her toes curl?
Somehow, she doubted it.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he said when they’d ridden in silence for several paces.
“They’re worth far more than that.” Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She couldn’t admit she’d been thinking about his kiss so soon after trying to convince him to pretend it didn’t happen.
When they reached the hedgerow, Rhys reined Duncan to a stop. He tossed a leg over the horse’s head and slid off to retrieve Olivia’s saddle from where it had been trampled into the wintry turf.
She took the opportunity to scoot forward and settle herself astride on Duncan’s saddle. By the time Rhys turned back with the sidesaddle in hand, Olivia had adjusted her skirts to make certain her ankles were modestly covered.
“My turn to handle the reins,” she said with deceptive sweetness. She suspected he disliked not being in control, but after her accident, the sooner she held the reins, the better. She’d be less likely to lose her nerve altogether.
His brows knit together. “Duncan can be a handful.”
So can I danced on her tongue. After her abysmal showing as an equestrienne this morning, the boast died before it could pass her lips.
“Very well.” She held the reins out to him. “But let’s see how fast you go when you’re on the scupper for a change.”
He grinned, put a foot in the stirrup, and swung himself up behind her with her sidesaddle balanced on his left shoulder. He steadied it with his left hand and reached his right arm around her waist, cinching her close.
“Actually, with this saddle in tow, I’m rather shorthanded. It appears you do need to keep the reins,” he said, his breath warm in her ear. “But bear in mind, if I tumble off, I’m likely to take you with me, so no jumping this time.”
“Being unhorsed once a day is more than enough.” Her voice caught, thinking of poor Molly. As soon as Olivia explained to her mother that there had been an accident, but that she was fine, she intended to spend the rest of the day seeing that Molly had hot mash and a gentle rubdown and all the care she required to mend.
They rode in silence, and after only a few paces, Olivia decided it hadn’t been a very good idea to change places with Rhys after all. His chest expanded and contracted against her spine. His strong thighs were tight around her hips. And his arm at her waist felt strangely proprietary. Even on a dance floor, she’d never been so physically close to a man.
Every fiber of her body was on high alert. She was acutely aware of his deep breathing, even if his warm breath hadn’t been washing over her nape. His splay-fingered hand touched the slightly ticklish spot at the base of her ribs, but she didn’t feel at all like laughing. That odd fluttery feeling was back, threatening to swamp her chest.
A cold wind soughed over the rolling hills. The clouds that had been gathering began to spit rain at them, stinging needles of it with a hint of ice thrown in for good measure.
“I think we might chance a bit more speed,” Rhys suggested. “Unless you prefer a drenching.”
She squeezed the gelding with her thighs, and he answered with a brisk trot that quickly smoothed into an even, rocking canter.
Olivia loved to ride, loved the speed, the freedom, the thrill of power that controlling such a large animal gave her. Having a large man at her back only intensified the experience. She and Rhys moved as one, settling into the rolling rhythm of Duncan’s gait.
The effect was decidedly…unvirginal.
She was relieved when they pulled into the stable just as the rain turned to snow. Rhys dismounted and then helped her down, holding her longer than necessary before allowing the tips of her boots to touch the hard-packed stable floor. She moved away from him quickly and stood at the open doorway.
“Poor Molly,” she said, looking out at the gathering whiteness.
“You there, boy,” Rhys called to the stable lad who was mucking out stalls. “Have you a cart that will hold Miss Symon’s mare? She’s been injured and needs to be brought in without having to walk through this weather.”
“Right-o, guv.”
He told the boy where he might find Mr. Thatcher and the two horses he was leading back. When Rhys promised him a crown if he managed to bring the mare back safely in less than half an hour, the lad fairly flew to the other part of the stable where the draft horses were kept.
“A crown?” It touched Olivia that Rhys seemed as concerned for Molly as she was. “For a man who lives by the turn of a card, you’re liberal with your gratuities.”
“I’ve been winning of late. Why not spread the good fortune around?”
“And what do you do when you lose, my lord?”
“I buck up and bear it.” He propped one booted foot on a stall slat and looked out the stable door at the white flurries. “But I don’t lose often. And what happened to calling me Rhys?”
“We’re close enough to the house that it’s time I stop addressing you so familiarly.” Olivia hugged her arms around herself against the wet cold that drafted in the open door. “Count upon it. You’ll lose our wager.”
“That’s yet to be seen.”
“No, it’s not. The wager hangs upon a willful act. I have purposed in my heart not to call you by your Christian name in public. Therefore, you’ll lose,” she said. “You’re a sporting man. Lay odds on which of us has more self-control. The virgin or the rake?”
His dark-eyed gaze swept over her, sending a delicious tingle across her skin. “You might be surprised to learn how much self-control I’m exercising at this very moment.”
“Oh really
?” She knew it was dangerous to bait him like this, but the same reckless part of her that rode astride when she could and took jumps when she shouldn’t plowed ahead. “That must be difficult for you. I can’t imagine you have much practice with restraint.”
“I don’t, but my current quandary is your fault.” He ran a hand over his dark hair, dusting away a few snowflakes, and Olivia’s palm itched to do the same just to learn what those thick locks felt like. She’d never much thought about a man’s hair before, but Lord Rhys had such a glorious head of it. “You see, I’ve been thinking about something you said earlier.”
His words jerked her back from her musings over the man’s hair. “What’s that?”
One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “That our kiss had made you a knowledgeable virgin.”
Olivia’s chest tightened. Whether it was because of his words or the way his dark hair fell forward and obscured one eye, giving him the disreputable aspect of pirate king, she couldn’t be certain. Either way, she didn’t trust herself to speak.
“The idea that you’re a knowledgeable virgin, that’s not true, you know,” he said. “Your sensual education is still woefully thin. We’ve only scratched the surface of what’s possible between a man and a woman.”
He came and stood next to her, close but not touching. Olivia felt pulled toward him like a daisy to the sun, but she didn’t give in to the attraction. The snow fell heavier now, in large fluffy flakes that attached itself to the grass and trees and sucked up all sound in its heavy whiteness.
Then Rhys’s seductive voice broke the silence. “What would you say if I were to tell you there is much more for you to discover?”
She swallowed hard. “Undoubtedly, there is. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. Innocence and ignorance don’t always go hand in hand.”
“Yet they are frequently seen in close company. Few virgins are well-versed in the sensual arts.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“I would have thought you to be the sort who abhors any gap in her education,” he said, his voice a rumbling purr. “I could teach you, you know. There’s so much delight to be had. And through it all, it’s possible for you to remain technically pure—”
“But not morally pure.”
He shrugged. “Semantics.”
“Reality,” she countered, squaring her shoulders. “When two people share a part of themselves in the manner you’re suggesting, it’s impossible to get that part back. Or do you really believe we can so separate our bodies from our minds and hearts?”
He was silent for the space of several heartbeats. Then he turned and cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Olivia hoped he thought the way she trembled was due to the cold, but it wasn’t. Her insides were jumping about like a spring lamb loosed in the meadow for the first time.
“Tell me you haven’t been thinking about that kiss, Olivia.” His masculine scent, all saddle leather and spicy bergamot, crowded her senses. “Haven’t you been wondering what comes next?”
He was a libertine. A rake. A cad. How many women had lost their resolve to this whisky-voiced, blindingly handsome man? Olivia gave herself a stern mental shake.
“Here’s what comes next, Lord Rhys.” She slapped his cheek in a stinging blow. Then she lifted her skirt and ran toward the main house, heedless of the falling snow.
Chapter 8
“Absolutely harrowing, that’s what it was,” Mrs. Symon was saying to the aging Baron Ramstead at her right hand at the long dining table. Flickers from the centrally placed candelabra bathed Olivia’s mother in the most flattering light. Rhys suspected Mrs. Symon had been something of a village beauty when she was a girl and hadn’t ever gotten over not being the center of attention.
Rhys occupied the place to her left “as a mark of special favor” Mrs. Symon had declared before the party settled into their chairs. After three courses of non-stop histrionics from his hostess, Rhys didn’t feel so favored. The only bright spot was that Olivia was seated next to the baron, kitty-corner across from him. She was close enough he could send her looks that made her squirm to his heart’s content.
Rhys didn’t regard that slap she’d given him as a setback. In fact, it was proof positive he’d struck a nerve with his offer to educate her. If her occasional flush of color was any indication, he’d wager the entire contents of his wallet that Olivia had thought about his indecent proposal more than once since they sat down to dine.
Lord knew he had.
Mrs. Symon signaled for the footmen to clear the plates of poultry and bring on the beef. “I swear that girl scared a year off my life today.”
“Mother, by the time you learned about the accident, I was standing right beside you,” Olivia protested.
“But only think what might have been.” Mrs. Symon put a hand to her breast, no doubt believing it an affecting gesture of motherly concern. “And in the presence of His Highness’s representative too. Imagine how the Duke of Clarence would have taken the news if you’d tumbled into that horrid chasm. I told your father he ought to do something about that ravine. It’s not safe to have such a dangerous natural feature on the place. If I told the man once, I’ve told him a thousand times.”
Rhys didn’t doubt that for a moment.
Mrs. Symon kept talking, but Rhys was adept at only seeming to listen. Instead he surreptitiously swept the dinner party with his gaze, wishing he could ferret out their secrets simply by looking at them.
After Olivia had stormed out of the stable and back to the house, he’d learned something that changed the nature of his business at Barrowdell completely.
Oh, he still intended to bed the girl. That was a given and not just to meet Mr. Alcock’s requirements. Olivia Symon had done something no other woman had since he returned from Maubeuge.
She made him feel something beyond mere lust.
He had no name for it, but he thought bedding her was the best way to learn what it might be. Olivia was fast becoming an itch he couldn’t wait to scratch. But now he needed to protect her as well.
Her riding accident hadn’t been so accidental.
While he’d waited for Mr. Thatcher to return with Molly, Rhys had examined the sidesaddle. The leather was thin where the girth attached. It was likely to fail if undue pressure was put on it. For instance, if the horse should happen to begin to buck and rear.
And a long thorn had worked its way into the padding under the saddle. If Rhys had found only one of those things, he’d merely have thought Mr. Thatcher was singularly unreliable. Together, the worn girth and the thorn suggested skullduggery. When Olivia took that jump over the hedgerow, as anyone who was familiar with her riding habits knew she would, the sharp spike would have jabbed the mare’s back, triggering the saddle’s failure.
It was cunningly done. Even if the thorn was discovered, there was no way to prove it hadn’t gotten there by accident. And leather wore over time. If Olivia had ended up at the bottom of the ravine, it might have been days before someone became curious about the cause of the accident and thought to look. By then, the perpetrator could have covered up those two bits of evidence.
When Mr. Thatcher returned to the stable with Molly, Rhys had snatched him up by his collar and confronted him with his findings. The man’s weathered face grew red with indignation over Rhys’s accusations.
“I put that little miss on her first pony, your lordship,” Thatcher had said with a glint of fury in his eye. “I’d sooner take a whipping than see her come to harm.”
“At the very least you were negligent in saddling her horse,” Rhys said, thrusting the man away in disgust. He heard truth in Thatcher’s tone. The groom wasn’t the culprit, but that didn’t excuse incompetence. “Why didn’t you check it?”
“Molly was already saddled when I come in this morning with a note affixed from Mrs. Symon ordering this saddle be used so her daughter would have to ride aside. Miss Olivia and her mother go round about that, you’ll colle
ct. In any case, I figured Davy had handled Molly’s tack so’s I wouldn’t have to. We pick up slack for each other like that. I didn’t think nothing about it at the time.”
Rhys had demanded the note and tucked it into his pocket. He’d found a sample of Mrs. Symon’s handwriting later in the afternoon and compared it to the note on the saddle. Whoever forged the note was good, but there were enough differences in the script to make him doubt that Olivia’s mother had sent it.
He and Mr. Thatcher both cornered the stable lad, but Davy denied having done anything but muck out stalls and pick the dray horse’s hooves that morning. And since the big workhorse was housed in the far portion of the long stable and didn’t generally cooperate when his hooves needed attention, Davy hadn’t noticed anyone lurking about Molly’s stall.
There was a chance the culprit was a servant who might have gone unremarked, but in his research on the Symons, Rhys had learned that they paid their people very well. The staff was given regular half-day liberties and alternate all day Sundays. The below stairs dining room was always generously set. It wouldn’t make sense for one of the staff to turn on so openhanded an employer.
Rhys thought it more likely that whoever tampered with the sidesaddle was seated at the long dining table, breaking bread with Miss Symon.
So he studied his dinner companions with a jaundiced eye. There was the geriatric Baron Ramstead and his much younger baroness. The lady was seated to Rhys’s right. It was a good thing she was attractive because she didn’t seem to have the brains of a peewit.
Next to Olivia was a Mr. Winfield Stubbs, a portly fellow with a nose like a misshapen rutabaga and jowls to rival a bloodhound. Despite his unfortunate appearance, he was reputedly a great friend of Mr. Symon from his days in India. Mr. Stubbs was a dedicated trencherman and had remarked several times to no one in particular, “Splendid table, what? M’compliments to the chef.”
Next to him, Lady Harrington, a distant relation of Mr. Symon, was seated. The dowager viscountess, still a handsome woman though she’d never see fifty again, was resplendent in dark silk and ropes of matched gray pearls.
