by Jane Toombs
Time passed and still she did not appear. Annoyed and impatient, he paced back and forth across the summit rock, then returned to his horse fully intending to mount Lancelot and ride back to the Manor. Instead he returned to the crest of the hill and again scanned the country lanes far below.
He should abandon this folly. He could not. He must see her. Now.
A bay horse appeared from behind a screen of trees. Quentin caught his breath, his heart leapt when he recognized Justine garbed in a green habit and riding sidesaddle. And then he groaned and muttered a curse as a second rider came into view immediately behind her. Even from this distance—he estimated it was almost a mile—he could tell it was Gavin Spencer sitting tall and erect astride a white horse looking as proud as a prince, his long fair hair falling over his collar.
Quentin watched them ride slowly from his left to his right past the bottom of the hill. Justine appeared to be listening to Gavin, deferring to him as she nodded while saying very little herself. Certainly not the way she behaved with him!
Arriving at a crossroads, they reined in their horses and paused to sit side by side as they went on with what seemed to a discomfited Quentin to be an endless tête-à-tête. At last Gavin Spencer rode off in the direction of Prospect Hall, only to stop at the top of a small rise to turn and raise his hand in a farewell salute. Justine, who had been watching him, waved back until he was out of her sight. Then, rather than riding toward Round Hill, she swung her gray about and started slowly in the direction of the Manor.
Let her go, Quentin told himself. Retrieving his spy glass from the cleft in the rock, he returned to his stallion, fully intending to guide Lancelot not toward the Manor but in quite another direction. He started riding leisurely down the hill, but when he came to the first turning he swung his mount to the left and spurred him ahead. Reaching level ground, he galloped in the direction of the Manor until, seeing Justine a short distance ahead, he abruptly slowed to a canter to avoid the appearance of being in eager pursuit of her.
* * * *
Justine had heard the staccato beat of hooves behind her, had glanced over her shoulder, suppressing a sudden gasp when she saw Quentin galloping toward her. Do our paths cross by chance or by design? she asked herself when Quentin slowed his pace.
"A fine morning, Miss Riggs,” he said, bringing his stallion alongside her bay and touching his riding crop to his hat.
"It is indeed, Lord Devon.” She congratulated herself on her success in keeping her voice every bit as level as his.
"I consider this a lovely day for an early morning ride, Miss Riggs."
"I agree."
They rode for a time in an uneasy silence. “A few minutes ago I happened to observe Mr. Spencer,” Quentin said in an elaborately casual way, “riding toward Prospect Hall."
"I fail to find that in the least surprising since I believe he resides there."
Is that what brought Quentin here this morning? Did he consider Gavin Spencer as another challenge? Men seemed to thrive on challenges. They doted on competing with one another whether with their fists, their horses, at the gaming tables, or with weapons on the battlefield. And she understood, at least in part, because her father had always been one to rise to challenges. And what of herself?
Quentin reined in his black stallion. When she ignored this invitation to stop and rode on, he again brought his horse alongside hers, reaching reached over and grasping her reins. Glaring at him, she was starting to protest when he said, “You went riding with Gavin Spencer this morning. With a man you scarcely know."
Taken aback by his accusing tone, she asked, “Is it possible, Lord Devon, that a court of chancery has, without my knowledge, named you my guardian?"
"If I were ever offered such an honor, I would hasten to decline. I have no desire to be responsible for a young lady so careless of her reputation."
How patronizing he was! “By riding with Mr. Gavin Spencer? How absurd! The gentleman in question was recommended to me on very good authority as being quite out-of-the-ordinary, a man of great courage and daring, a nonpareil."
"And who, pray tell, was this good authority?"
She allowed herself a self-satisfied smile. “The best possible, at least I expect you would consider him so, since those words of commendation happen to be yours, Lord Devon, spoken in a conversation you held with Mr. Kinsdale."
He glowered at her. All at once he released her reins and, dusting his hands, said, “I wash my hands of you, Miss Riggs, once and for all.” With that pronouncement he swung his horse away from her and rode ahead along the lane toward the Manor.
She gave a deep sigh of satisfaction as she watched him ride off. Good, she had bested him once and for all and, better still, in a few moments he would be gone from her sight; in all likelihood he was riding out of her life forever. Now, at long last, she told herself with a vigorous nod, she could forget Quentin Fletcher.
"Wait!” The cry burst from her lips, startling her by its fervor. Sometimes she failed to understand herself.
Why, if she was so delighted by his departure, was she calling him back? And what did she mean to do or say if he heeded her cry?
When Quentin swung around in the saddle, Justine looked frantically around her and saw, across the fields, a lone oak perhaps half a mile away. Inspiration struck. “A race to the oak,” she called and, without waiting for his reply, swung her bay from the lane and urged him toward the distant tree.
At first she was unable to tell whether he had accepted her challenge, but then she heard hoofbeats behind her and, glancing over her shoulder, saw him leaning forward in the saddle, his riding crop raised. A quiver of excitement ran up and down her spine, the thrill of the race, the pursuit. And something more.
They pounded across the open field, Justine holding her lead. She had started with an advantage of several lengths which, she told herself, was fair since she rode sidesaddle while Quentin rode astride.
Seeing a double fence ahead, she slapped her bay's flank and he leaped high, easily clearing both top rails and recovering without losing stride. He galloped across a lush meadow, leaped a small stream bordered by weeping willows. Looking up she saw the oak looming ahead of her at the top of a low hill.
The pounding hoofbeats of Quentin's black grew louder. She glanced at him as he drew even and, when his black stallion edged ahead, Quentin's gaze met hers, the glint of sunlight reflecting from his eyes, and then he pulled away, increasing his lead with every stride, reaching the oak in time to rein in his perspiring horse and bring him around to face her as she cantered toward him, nodding to acknowledge his victory.
Strangely enough, rather than being disappointed by her failure to win, she felt a throb of eager anticipation.
Without a word he swung to the ground, taking the reins of both horses and walking them for a time before leading them down the hill toward the willow trees bordering the stream in the meadow. When he reached the water, he let the horses drink while he walked to stand below her, raising his arms. She hesitated an instant before sliding down to him, his hands grasping her about the waist as he set her firmly on the ground and released her.
"A forfeit,” he said, his voice strangely husky, “the loser must pay a forfeit."
Her heart skipped a beat. Quentin stood only a breath away, his eyes dark, hooded, dangerous. His hands were at his sides, waiting for her to come into his arms, waiting to enfold her, waiting to hold her close. His lips were slightly parted, ready to greet her lips in a demanding, passionate kiss.
"A forfeit?” She whispered the question even though she knew full well what he meant.
Quentin said nothing, ignoring her words, seeming to read the truth of her fearful desire in her eyes. He reached to her, the fingers of one hand first caressing her cheek and then tilting her chin upward.
She saw sudden movement in the distance beyond him. Stepping back, she whispered, “Lord Alton."
Quentin stared at her, annoyed and confused. “Alton?"
> "And another gentleman from the Eclipse Party. On the road to Round Hill."
Quentin turned and watched the two horsemen who, though still a considerable distance away, were riding toward them. He stepped quickly to one of the willows and parted the hanging fronds as though drawing a curtain aside, inviting her to enter the shadowed circle beneath the tree. Once she was inside the cocoon of concealing branches, she realized they could see Lord Alton while remaining hidden from his view. Even their two horses, now grazing beside the brook were concealed by the willows.
Lord Alton and his companion, deep in conversation, drew nearer and then nearer still. The road veered away from the meadow and the two riders followed it. Justine let out her breath in a sigh of relief.
She and Quentin were enclosed in a twilight land, hidden from the inquisitive eyes of the world by an undulating green veil, the only sounds the sibilant murmur of the brook and a faint distant humming of bees. The air was soft and warm, a breeze rustling the willow fronds brought with it the sweet summer scents of wildflowers blooming in sun-drenched fields.
Quentin touched her arm, his fingers gentle, and she turned to him.
"Alton's gone,” he said. “You have nothing to fear now."
Justine frowned. She had been afraid of discovery, she admitted to herself. Even though she had nothing to hide, had committed no indiscretion, she had been fearful that Lord Alton would find her with Quentin and, suspecting a rendezvous, use his new-found knowledge in some mean-spirited way. She did not trust the man.
She walked away from Quentin to the willow curtain, grasping one of the fronds, biting her lip as she idly twisted it around her hand. How she despised furtiveness! Though she had to admit she still longed for Quentin's embrace and for his kiss, she must not give way to temptation. She refused to live a clandestine life, hiding a secret love from the eyes of the world.
"Justine?” Quentin came to stand behind her.
She held, her heart pounding. If she turned to him, she would be lost. And, she admitted to herself, she wanted to be lost, wanted to be swept up into his arms, to feel his lips on hers. She was tempted by the chance to risk all, exhilarated by hint of danger.
She started to turn to him, hesitated, and then shook her head. What could she have been thinking? Had she completely lost her senses?
Releasing the willow strand, she pushed the fronds aside and stepped from the shadow of the sheltering tree, blinking in the sunlight as she walked hurriedly to the horses. She heard Quentin behind her and she turned to him—it was safe now to turn to him—and saw him start to speak but, as though sensing their moment had passed, he said nothing.
As they rode back to the Manor, saying little, Justine realized how afraid she had been, afraid not of Quentin nor of discovery by Lord Alton, but afraid of her own undefined, tumultuous feelings and where, unbridled, they might lead her. Even so, and despite herself, she barely suppressed a sigh of regret. She had missed something, she felt with a searing ache of loss, a chance that would never come her way again.
She glanced to one side at Quentin. Finding him intently watching her, she looked quickly away. How close to the precipice she had ventured! But now she was safe, the danger avoided, the temptation recognized and conquered. There were other men in the world besides Quentin Fletcher, amiable men, suitable men, men prepared to love and to cherish a woman rather than to challenge her. Gentle men.
Men such as Mr. Gavin Spencer of Prospect Hall.
CHAPTER 12
Early the following afternoon, Justine joined Prudence and Daphne for tea on the Manor terrace. It was a perfect summer day, a day of sun and shadow, of soft breezes and the sweet scent of flowers, all accompanied by the singing of birds.
"And did you enjoy Mr. Spencer's book?” Prudence asked as Justine stirred sugar into her tea.
Justine smiled at her. “Immensely. It was close on to one in the morning before I finished it."
"The book,” Prudence explained to Daphne, “was Mr. Spencer's narrative recounting his adventures in the land of the czars."
"Not only is Gavin Spencer an intrepid explorer,” Justine said with enthusiasm, “but he writes with a quite unexpected flair. I shivered with fear for his safety when a pack of wolves pursued his sled during a blizzard on the steppes."
"How terribly exciting,” Daphne said, “and how fortunate Mr. Spencer survived. Otherwise we should have been denied the delightful anticipation of attending the costume ball at Prospect Hall which will give all of us, but particularly Justine, the opportunity to become better acquainted with him. Was the ball his idea, I wonder, or might it have been his mother's inspiration?"
"I may be mistaken,” Prudence said, “but I do suspect the notion came to Mr. Spencer on the spur of the moment. After he met you in the music room, Justine."
Was it possible, Justine asked herself, that Mr. Spencer had suggested the ball because of her? The idea, though appealing, struck her as being highly unlikely. “I imagine he wishes to become better acquainted with everyone staying at the Manor."
Prudence shook her head. “That may well be true, but yesterday Mr. Spencer went riding with you, Justine, and not with any of the rest of us."
"I do hope nothing goes awry at the ball,” Daphne said with a covert glance at Justine. Turning to Prudence, she asked, “When will Rodgers and Mrs. Hoskins travel to town to fetch material for the costumes?"
"They depart later this afternoon, so I really must decide who I shall be. What person, either real or a figment of my imagination, either living or dead, do I admire the most? If only dear Eustace were here to advise me."
"I shall be Cleopatra,” Daphne said, “a woman who changed the course of history."
"Lord Devon should have no problem choosing the person he most admires,” Justine said caustically. “He will undoubtedly decide to come as himself."
Daphne gave her a speculative glance over the rim of her teacup, but said nothing.
"Have you decided who you shall be, Justine?” Prudence asked.
Justine, expecting the others to be dismayed by her choice, raised her chin before she answered. “I intend to go to the ball as Robin Hood."
Both women stared at her. “But Justine,” Prudence said, “Robin Hood was a man."
She had given up more than enough in the last few days, Justine told herself. On the matter of the costume, her costume, her mind was made up and she had no intention of retreating. “Or so we have always been taught to believe,” she said, attempting to deflect further objections with a light touch. “Did it ever occur to you that someone named Robin could very easily have been a woman?"
"Robin Hood a woman?” Prudence seemed confused as she considered the notion. “Someone who lived in the depths of the forest and robbed wayfarers? And became romantically involved with Maid Marian?"
"I do believe,” Daphne said, “that Justine is funning us since there happens to be little doubt Robin Hood was a man.” She pursed her lips. “The costume could be quite charming,” she admitted, “all in browns and greens with a long tunic and a belt to emphasize her narrow waist. And a hat with a feather. And boots."
"Not merely a tunic,” Prudence insisted, “but leggings as well. But whether Justine's costume is charming or not, however, the notion is quite outside of enough. Not only her coming to the ball costumed as a man but a lawless one at that."
"Not exactly lawless,” Justine pointed out, “since Robin Hood stole from the rich to help the poor."
Prudence sighed. “But, my dear girl, you seem to forget that we would be considered to be among the rich."
"The costume,” Daphne said, “could be quite pleasantly revealing with all the advantages of dampened muslins without having to resort to such an outrageous subterfuge."
"When we passed through the wood on our ride to Round Hill yesterday morning,” Justine told them, “Mr. Spencer expressed a great admiration for Robin Hood and his daring exploits. His comments gave me the idea."
"While Mr. Spencer
may admire Robin Hood,” Prudence said rather tartly, “you may be certain he would never consider marrying him.” She threw up her hands. “However, if you wish to go to the ball as Robin Hood, I will have nothing further to say on the subject. When I was a young lady—” She shook her head, sighed, and seemingly recalling her promise, said no more.
As they sat for a time without speaking, eating scones and sipping tea, Justine gradually became aware of a heightening of her senses, a quickening of her pulses. She had the eerie feeling that someone was watching her. Turning slightly toward Daphne, she glanced from the corner of her eye in the direction of the house. At first she saw nothing except the reflection of the lowering sun glinting from the windows but then, her gaze going to one of the upper windows overlooking the terrace, she drew in a quick breath when caught sight of the dark figure of a man staring down at them, at her.
Quentin.
She should ignore him, she told herself even as she went on surreptitiously watching him. Was he gazing idly from the window, or was he looking at her? And what were his thoughts at this moment? She would, she supposed, never know.
When she saw Quentin release the curtain and step back from the window, Justine sighed in disappointment, but then shook her head. She had put Quentin behind her; now she must look ahead to the pleasures of the costume ball, to the music and the dancing, to conversation with amiable gentlemen and, perhaps to a furthering of her acquaintance with Mr. Gavin Spencer.
* * * *
Hearing a tapping at the door behind him, Quentin let the curtain fall and reluctantly turned from the window.
"You asked to see me, my lord?” Rodgers said as he entered the sitting room.
Quentin nodded. “About the damn costume, for a start. I believe I shall appear at Spencer's ball as a highwayman. Will you see what you can unearth in London to outfit me?"
"Of course, my lord, and, if I may say so, a highwayman is an excellent choice. I picture you as a clever, dashing, mysterious, well-born romantic rogue who has been forced to temporarily descend into a life of crime by the evil machinations of his enemies."
