by Sophia Nash
Lost in thought, Jane almost failed to notice she had arrived at the field. It was eerie in the mist with the dark tree trunks and branches covered with a hint of new leaves.
“Mrs. Lovering, it is almost time for breakfast. I assumed you had forgotten our engagement.” The earl was attempting to bridle the stallion, who kept pawing the ground. He was wearing the same deplorable outfit in which she had first seen him. Almost against her will, she verified that one could positively see the man’s smalls through the tear on the hip of his breeches. If anything, it had grown larger!
“Fear not. I would not dream of depriving you my help in taming your beast, sir.” Jane averted her eyes, jumped down from her sidesaddle, and secured the reins to a tree. She had a difficult time maintaining a composed expression, as his arrogance seemed misplaced given that he had new mud stains on his shoulder and cheek. “And how lovely that you dressed on my account!” she continued.
She detached the riding-habit skirt, revealing form-fitting, dove-colored riding breeches. She had had her seamstress make the skirt of the habit and breeches to her specifications years ago, much to the shock of her father.
“As did you, I see, Madam,” the earl said with one eyebrow raised.
“If I am to get on, and more importantly stay on, your animal, it will have to be astride. I would only ask that you not discuss my attire with anyone.”
Lord Graystock rolled his eyes and smiled. “Heaven forbid, Mrs. Lovering. I fear your reputation could not bear another mark.”
“And yours, sir? Is it superior to mine?”
“I daresay it could withstand word of my riding astride wearing breeches.” His eyes roamed slowly down over the offending article of clothing. “Not that I am complaining, you understand.”
Jane refused to allow him to make her blush. “Yes, well, at least my smalls are covered.”
“More’s the pity,” he said, from much nearer than Jane recalled him being.
She disregarded the comment and walked toward the animal in the middle of the field. “Now, sir,” she said, taking possession of the bridle from the earl along the way, “let us see what is to be done about this recalcitrant stallion of yours. And by that—lest you find yourself confused—I do mean your horse.” She was rewarded by his laugh, which caused a sensation in her midriff that she would just as soon not examine.
When she was within reach of the warm, moist breath of the stallion, he snorted, wheeled around, and galloped away.
Lord Graystock chuckled. “You must have better methods in your repertoire. I daresay your entire arsenal won’t do the trick.”
“We shall see,” Jane retorted as she watched the horse. She felt little of the self-confidence she tried to show. The stallion exhibited a sort of wildness in the eye that she had rarely seen before.
“Care to wager on it?” he asked.
“Wager on what?”
“On your ability to ride the beast, of course. Or perhaps”— his eyebrows quirked insolently—”we should better your odds by making it on your ability to capture him?”
“I have never wagered in my life.”
“Are you unsure, Mrs. Lovering, of your abilities?”
She looked at him for a long moment. “What would I win?”
He smiled. “More importantly, what would you lose?”
They paused for a moment, each thinking as quickly as possible. The earl closed the gap between them. “A kiss. If you lose, that is,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“A kiss if you win, then, if you prefer.”
“No,” she said again.
“Then we are back to if you lose.”
She knew he expected her to refuse again, stomp off and refer to her reputation and the like. What could she counter it with to wipe the smug expression off his face and end this entire wagering business?
“All right,” she said slowly. “But if I stay on the brute, you’ll marry me.” Really, she only wanted to see him unsettled, just a little. Titled gentlemen were so sure of themselves, this one in the extreme. He antagonized her beyond measure. And she knew she could unseat herself if she did manage to ride the beast. She could tell by the strained expression on his face that she had outmaneuvered him.
“Mrs. Lovering, ah, your wager is so very tempting, but…” She smiled as she realized he was not going to accept the challenge. “But not very equal in terms. What say you to upping my end to a bit more than a kiss?”
She felt flustered and annoyed. “I think not,” she responded as she jutted out her chin.
He looked delighted. “Ah, well, then, let’s shake on the original wager,” he concluded as he reached for her hand. “And by the by, he seems to favor trees. Best be careful.”
She was too embarrassed to ask for clarification of the original wager or the comment regarding the trees. The truth was, the infuriating man had her doubting her own abilities. Jane had ridden many young, difficult horses but never a difficult stallion in his prime. And she was distracted by Graystock, who sat on a log in the shade of a young sapling, watching her with a hooded expression in his gray eyes.
After a full hour, the stallion was caught, bridled, and shaking. She had got within a few feet of the horse and then turned her shoulder to him while pretending to be working on the bridle. The horse’s curiosity had gotten the best of him in the end, as she had known it would. He had walked up to her and put his head over her shoulder. She had shown him the bit, and he had allowed her to slip on the piece of tack with only one whinny and a head toss.
Jane checked the tightness of the girth and swung up into the saddle with well-practiced ease. Before she was seated, the horse began backing up at full speed and then reared. She leaned forward and pulled down hard on the reins. With a half turn, the stallion came down on all fours at breakneck speed. Instead of hauling back on the reins, Jane let the animal have his head. After circling the field four times, he changed tactics.
She was going to get hurt. She could feel her tenuous control over the animal slipping from her grasp. Desperate to unseat her, the stallion began bucking and twisting in midair. An abrupt stop after a near-fatal sideswipe of a tree found Jane somersaulting off the horse’s back. She fought for control of her lungs when she realized the wind had been knocked out of her. The earl’s shadow fell across her face as she tried to sit up.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. When she did not respond, he began feeling her legs and arms. She pushed away his hands and tried to get enough air to speak. Really, she just wished he would give her space and time to regain her senses. When she opened her eyes and sat up, she noticed a gash on her thigh. The earl examined the wound as she tried to compose herself.
“You are in luck,” he said grimly. “Looks like you’ll not need stitches.” He pulled a flask out of the leather saddlebag lying in the grass and began sprinkling the contents on the slash. She bit her tongue as the liquid burned the raw edges of her skin. He untied his loose neckcloth to bind the wound.
“I’ll send a doctor to see to this, once you return to your aunt’s house. It should be fine as long as it doesn’t become putrid,” the earl added, rocking back on his knees.
“I’m fine, really, just fine,” insisted Jane, embarrassed. She paused before continuing, “I now see how your breeches came to be in their current state of disrepair.”
He smiled. A heavy silence descended on them as the earl looked at the widow’s person for any other signs of misfortune.
“Well, then.”
“Well, then, what?” asked Jane, trying on her most innocent voice but feeling all the nervousness of a never-been-kissed girl of six and ten.
The corners of his lips curled when he looked at her and pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “I fear you have a bit of dirt on your face.” His large hand felt warm as he brushed the earth from her face. She could read desire in his gaze.
“As do you, my lord.” His hand touched her cheek again and she held her breath with anticipation and a bit
of fear. “Are you going to kiss me now?”
“Was that not the wager?” he asked with a lazy drawl.
She looked up at his heavy-lidded eyes and whispered, “Yes.” Jane felt as if it were inevitable, yet she was so uncertain. She had always been in control of every situation. This was uncharted territory. Forbidden territory, really.
As he pulled her to her feet, he took her hands. “Come, come, Mrs. Lovering. I am a gentleman. I would not take advantage of you without your permission, especially when you have already suffered battle wounds.”
She looked at him.
“I’ll take that as permission to continue.” He cupped one side of her face with his palm and lightly kissed her. She could feel the hot creep of a blush forming and dared not look up at him. “You are embarrassed now,” he said.
She raised her eyes to his with anger. “I am not.” She deliberately reached up and placed her arms around his neck. She tugged his head down to her and placed her passive lips on his.
She felt him laugh against her lips. “Oh, no, Mrs. Lovering,” he said. “That’s not the way of it at all.” He leaned one of his hands against the apple tree behind her and pulled her waist close to his body with the other arm, forcing her to arch into his broad chest. “This is the way,” he whispered as he lightly bit at her lower lip and then used the tip of his tongue to gain entrance beyond her lips. She felt awash with heretofore-unknown longing and excitement. No one had ever kissed her like this. His tongue urged her to respond in kind, as she yielded fully to his embrace. She shivered with desire, and a small moan escaped her lips.
His fingers moved to her buttocks and pressed her to his arousal. Jane almost recoiled in shock. She had been around horses all her life and knew exactly what was pressing into the juncture of her thighs. Never had she been so out of breath or so embarrassed. She let him continue out of a mixture of unknown desire and curiosity and the fact that she could not seem to call forth any words to her mouth. She breathed deeply. The scent of male and cologne made her throat ache. She could hear his ragged breaths as his mouth moved down her neck, feathering kisses to her breast. She stopped breathing when she felt his warm palm massage her breast through the thin fabric. He gathered her hand in his other and raised it to his lips.
“Really, my dear, we should continue this in the cottage nearby,” the earl whispered.
His words jolted Jane into action. She shook off the mesmerizing trance and confronted the earl. “I think not.”
“Mrs. Lovering, you are a widow. I am a widower. What more need be said? Do you not long for a liaison? I am here for you now, for the asking,” he whispered as he nipped the lobe of her ear. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed gently.
“You are very kind to offer. However, I am not inclined.” Her words hid the truth. She was terrified by his suggestion. As Jane did not want to show her fear and naiveté, she continued, “Perhaps another time—if I am ever inclined, that is.”
Lord Graystock gazed at her. “If I did not know you to have been married, I would take your reaction to be that of a very green girl. Or are you just a coquette?” he said.
He could see through her. Jane reached down to retrieve the wrap skirt and secured it. She dared not say another word, lest she say the wrong thing. Distance was the answer. She walked to her horse and mounted without looking back.
“I hope I have not scared you. It wasn’t my intention.”
“You did not scare me, my lord. I am expected by my aunt. She was unhappy with the idea of my riding your horse. It seems a groom’s sister alarmed her with a description of your brute. It is long past the time that I should be on my way.”
“There will be no further training sessions, then?”
Jane refused to take the bait. “Good day to you, sir.”
“And good morning to you, Mrs. Lovering,” he said, and stood looking after her long after she had gone from sight.
Chapter Four
JANE felt ridiculous as she rode back to the cottage. She hated speaking falsehoods. And yes, it had been a falsehood, if only one by omission. As she trotted past the hedgerows with jonquils just raising their thin necks toward the sun, she cursed her inexperience with men. It left her feeling embarrassed and unsure of herself.
Since Cutty’s death, several young gentlemen throughout the season had paid court to her with her father’s urging, despite her state of mourning. Some—Mr. Billingsley was the prime example—were more determined than others. At each encounter, she felt no desire for any type of intimacy, physical or emotional. She did not want to be anyone’s possession. She had learned to avoid intimate settings such as Vauxhall at night and walks in gardens during evening entertainments. She had even fended off Mr. Billingsley’s amorous advances in an open carriage in Hyde Park when they found themselves in a secluded area. He had become so annoyed by her repeated refusal to accept his ungainly embraces that he had proposed marriage on the spot. She had had no idea that he was serious and would arrange an audience with her father. If only Cutty had not died, she wouldn’t have had to endure these sorts of situations.
Cutty had been a kind, generous man who had loved her. He was old school. Jane had slept each night of her married life with her husband. He had respected and cared for her in every way imaginable. Each night he had kissed her cheeks, held her, and even brushed her hair as she sat at her escritoire in her cozy bedchamber. But, he had explained, he was unable to… well, to complete the act that could conceive a child. In truth, it was the reason she had agreed to marry him.
She remembered how shocked she had been by Cutty’s proposal several years ago. Before she could refuse, he had explained his offer and her options. Cutty had said her father, in a drunken stupor, told him he was going to give her hand to Lord Wythe in return for restoration of the family’s finances. Cutty had endeavored to dissuade him from the appalling idea, as Lord Wythe was of questionable character. With much mopping of his brow, Cutty had even relayed to Jane in whispering tones that he understood Wythe was barred from visiting certain establishments of willing females due to the nature of his perverse sexual proclivities.
Cutty had been relentless in his efforts to change Lord Fairchild’s mind, all to no avail. In desperation, he had finally offered to wed Jane himself. He had explained to her that he had initially pondered the thought of lending money to her father. However, he had been almost sure that if the Fairchild finances were ever in doubt again, Jane’s fate might become entangled with Lord Wythe once more.
Cutty had always been kind to Jane when she was growing up. She had first met him the summer following his wife’s death. He and his young son had ridden neck or nothing over the downs of Cornwall, always inviting Jane to help chase away their grief.
So Jane had given up her dreams of marrying Harry. She had felt too much gratitude toward Cutty to even mention her desire and too much fear for her family to discuss it with her father. Cutty had in return promised to protect her, love her, and care for her in all ways save the marriage bed. He apologized to her for not being able to give her a child, but told her that at least he would never hurt her or force her to do her duty, as so many women deplored. And she in turn, free from the recent unhappiness in her familial home, blossomed. It was a pleasant, idyllic time, and only occasionally, very occasionally, did she feel something was missing. It was then that she would wonder about Harry, her first true childhood friend and love. Her intense loyalty to Cutty, however, forced many daydreams to be cut short.
She wondered if Harry was back in Cornwall after all the years at university. His sister, Fanny, had written to her that he was expected. And had he had the chance to brave the wilds of foreign soil in quest of elusive winged species? Mostly, she wondered if she still held a special place in his heart. He was the only man with whom she felt she could trust her secret if they ever married. For no one knew she was still a virgin. It was a fact that embarrassed her and could cause additional problems if ever revealed. For Cutty had explained tha
t ancient marriage laws could render their marriage void, since it was never consummated. Because of this, he had arranged an independence for her upon his death.
What Cutty had forgotten was Jane’s love of her family’s stables in Cornwall, a fact her father had used to his advantage. On darker days, she worried that Cutty’s heir by his first marriage, his son, Richard, might try to retrieve the money if it was learned that her marriage was never consummated.
Her greatest wish was to go to Cornwall, find Harry, and wed him. Material wealth was nothing to her. Her years with Cutty had proved beyond any doubt that wealth did not constitute joy. In fact, happiness died a quiet, slow death when the soul was not nurtured by a great love, or at least some hope for romantic love.
But if Harry wed her, what would become of Clarissa? By Jane’s refusal to marry Billingsley, her family now faced financial ruin. Jane worried that her aunt’s quarterly allowance might end. She could not bear the idea of Clarissa working for her living. And it was doubtful that Harry could be persuaded to include Clarissa in their wedded bliss, for Clarissa and Harry had always agreed to disagree on every topic. And so the arguments and answers swirled in her mind and terminated in another wracking headache.
“Jane, dear, you must stop writing and prepare for tea at Hesperides,” Clarissa called from the hall.
Jane obeyed her aunt by arranging the stack of writing papers, wiping her quill, and closing the drawers of the small escritoire. She looked at her ink-stained hands and sighed.
Clarissa bustled into the guest chamber holding up the pressed black silk gown. A quarter of an hour later found Jane dressed and unsmiling as her aunt brushed her hair and swept it back into a knot high above her neck. Jane took her aunt’s place and smoothed back Clarissa’s brown tresses tinged with gray.
“A fine pair of guests we will be. Without conversation, and schooling our features, if my guess is correct,” Jane said.
