“Are you going to mount up?” Denbigh asked, a measure of humor in his voice.
“It would seem so,” she said, glad he hadn’t abandoned her.
“And does a parson’s daughter ride?”
She ground her back teeth. Was he mocking her?
“As well as a pampered earl’s daughter,” she snapped, then added, “Perhaps I’ve never been on so fine a horse as this one. Ours tended to be broader in the hips, and certainly never jumped a hedge.”
His expression turned serious. “Hopefully, you won’t be doing any jumping either. Hollingsworth certainly shouldn’t have, and nor should you.”
“Gracious, I hope not,” Sarah said, looking up at the roan horse. “Sitting sideways, how would I remain atop the beast?”
“You wouldn’t,” he agreed, “which is why women don’t hunt.”
“I suppose if I had some type of bifurcated gown and could ride astride as you do.”
They smiled at each other at the ridiculous notion. Then she sighed. No reason to tell him how up until she reached the age of twenty, she’d regularly tucked her loose day dress up and ridden facing forward on the horse as God intended, at least for the quick journey from their tiny parsonage in Kent county to their equally tiny village. It had occurred to her then, not for the first time, men were the ones who should sit upon a sidesaddle for noticeable reasons of what might get banged up and damaged.
Again, better not to mention that, either.
In any case, wearing her current walking dress of thick wool with its form-fitting coat, sitting astride was an impossibility. Unless she removed her skirts entirely! As it was, she didn’t know how she was going to keep from showing quite a bit of leg even riding sideways on the saddle.
“Hold it still,” Denbigh ordered the huntsman. “Her ladyship is going to ride.”
Bending down, he interlaced his gloved fingers and created a step. Looking down at his bowed head, she hesitated. Ultimately, she had no choice. Hoping she didn’t make an ungainly fool of herself, she put her foot into his hands.
“On three,” he muttered, glancing up at her with a smile.
“All right. But I get to do the counting. I don’t want you pushing me up and over when I’m not prepared.”
“Do get a move on,” Denbigh said. “Even the fox will have died of old age before we get you in the saddle.”
She nearly said something saucy about having already been in his saddle—twice!—but held her tongue.
“One,” she said, giving a little bounce on the toe of her other short boot on the firm ground. “Two.” She had her hands up and reaching for the pommel. “Three.” She pressed her booted foot down upon his gloves as he lifted her, and she sprung high and landed in the saddle, grabbing for the horse’s neck to steady herself.
Immediately, she realized being seated sideways on a gentleman’s saddle was most uncomfortable. Her hips were tilted and squashed, and she felt she could simply slide off at any moment. She didn’t know how she would make it all the way home.
“This is awful,” she decried.
Denbigh looked up at her. “Many ladies use a regular saddle,” he said, and she fixed him with a withering glare. “Well,” he amended, “some do, I’m sure.”
Fidgeting, she turned more toward the horse’s head and hooked her right leg up and over the pommel. That was a little more comfortable, although it was pulling her thick blue pelisse and her dress tightly across the saddle, not to mention all the other layers now riding up her left leg, which was swinging perilously free. She was discomfited.
“Why didn’t you wear a riding skirt?” he asked, referring to the thick wool skirt the fashionable ladies wore in Hyde Park, voluminous and comfortable when in the saddle with yards of extra fabric to drape across the saddle, covering everything one could wish to hide for modesty’s sake.
“Because I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything more than sitting in a blasted carriage,” Sarah reminded him, feeling cross, “and walking on the grass, and perhaps eating a sandwich if one was offered. I certainly was not anticipating being atop this brute.”
“It’s not a brute, but a fine hunter. All Lady Macroun’s horses are tip-top.”
“I must undo my pelisse, at least at the bottom,” she said, and began to do so, but her fingers weren’t working, either due to the chill or the slight nervousness of her situation.
“Let me,” Denbigh said and, in front of the huntsman, began to undo the cloth-covered buttons of her wool coat and the extra decorative frog closures.
Good God! More than once since they’d arrived at Forde Hall, she’d imagined him undressing her, but hardly like this. He went as high as her knees, until she could move again and didn’t feel like a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes.
“High enough?” he asked, and she could feel the weight of his hand on her leg.
Nodding, she wriggled around to secure herself.
“Can you adjust my stirrup, too?” Sarah didn’t want to sound demanding, but it came out as if she were addressing a groomsman and not a viscount. “Please,” she added.
His hand clasped her exposed ankle.
Taking in a swift startled breath as all sorts of pleasurable memories flowed through her, warming all the parts of her that had frozen on this infernal outing, she swayed and nearly fell off her horse.
Chapter 8
Feeling unbalanced, Sarah realized she’d closed her eyes, while enjoying his touch, and she hastily opened them. Glancing down, she found his chocolate brown gaze staring up at her, smoldering. Yes, she was definitely warm now.
“I was merely … checking … the sole of your boot,” he told her, “to see if it would stay in the stirrup.” Then he released her leg. Unfastening the stirrup buckle, he pulled up the leather strap. This time, she was prepared for his hand upon her ankle again as he guided the toe of her boot into the metal ring.
“Is that better?” he asked, his tone gruff, while he tugged her pelisse, as best he could, down over her calf and ankle.
“Better,” she agreed, licking her dry lips. Each new touch was becoming a torturous titillation. What’s more, she could tell Denbigh was affected, as well.
With her heartbeat starting to race, and being a country girl at heart, Sarah could imagine them riding away from prying eyes and finding a nice patch of grass under some sheltering tree. That would be more comfortable than their first act of intimacy upon Lady Dauschande’s sofa. If only it were July instead of December! The hard, frozen ground didn’t exactly entice her, no matter how heated her body currently felt.
Sighing, she straightened her shoulders, aware of her breasts feeling overly sensitive, and her nipples now grazing the cotton fabric of her chemise as if her bodice were suddenly too tight. This was going to be a long ride back.
The huntsman, who’d remained silent through the entire exchange, now drew the reins over the horse’s head so she could take hold of them.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice coming out as a choked whisper. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Thank you.”
He tipped his hat and went back to handling the hounds. In a moment, the Master of the Hunt, and the two huntsmen with all their dogs, had disappeared between the trees.
Denbigh mounted his horse. “I suppose we should get moving. If we return long after the rest of them, tongues will wag.”
“Not if I don’t have twigs in my hair and grass stains on my back,” she quipped.
That broke the tension, which had been almost tangible from the moment he’d touched her, and he smiled.
“Besides,” she added, still trying to get the horse to do as she wanted, nudging it with her left foot, “Lady Macroun will owe me an apology for leaving me out here. It was not well done of her.”
“Agreed. You were not treated as your station warrants.”
Sarah couldn’t help but shrug. “Most of them know my humble beginnings—if not the details, then at least how I did not come from their ranks. I am an outsider, a
nd I was never properly introduced before my husband died as his countess. Then I had a year of mourning, and half-mourning. Since then, I have been making my own way in society.”
Mostly due to following Julia round, trying to keep her out of trouble.
“And yet, here you are, spending Christmastide with some of the upper echelon of the ton.”
“Forgotten by them at the hunt,” she added, definitely not admitting how she’d pulled strings for the invitation. “It doesn’t matter. I am not here to make friends.”
She nearly bit her tongue at having said such careless words.
“No, I didn’t think you were,” he agreed. And just like that, they were back to him trying to pry her secrets out of her.
“No more than you are here to do the same, I would wager,” she said.
“On the other hand, you might find yourself a new beau.”
For a moment, she hoped Denbigh meant himself, but that was dashed when he added, “Mr. Asher seems to be paying you some interest, as well as Lord Saumner.”
Games, including making someone jealous through false pretenses, did not interest her. “I have no interest in either of them.” She might as well cap her thought: “I have no interest in any man here in that way, except one.”
His head swung around sharply. There, she had caught his attention and stated her peace. Now, it was up to him to make of it what he would. As long as he left off digging into her purpose for being there, she could think of no reason why they couldn’t be … friendly.
And her body was giving her a hundred reasons why they should.
Miles stared at her. Once again, Sarah had surprised him, this time with her frankness. Apparently, he’d been forgiven for his oafish, intrusive behavior of the previous evening, and there was still a chance—and a good one—they could indulge in a passionate encounter.
He wanted to urge his horse into a gallop, reach the manor house as quickly as possible, and get her alone in his chamber. Silk stockings and petticoats would fly! But she would be unable to keep up, perched as she was. He was nearly ready to help her sit astride and forget the nonsense of riding like a lady.
They both fell silent, concentrating on picking out the trail and finding their way back.
At last, when the house was in sight, Sarah spoke. “I thought we’d gone much farther. My time in the carriage felt longer, interminable actually, but I believe it was the poor company.”
“I prefer your company to anyone else’s,” he blurted, deciding he could be honest since she had. “At Forde Hall,” he amended, although even that limitation bespoke of his admiration for her.
She remained looking straight ahead for a long time. At last, she looked at him, her cheeks were red, and not only because of the cold, he was sure.
“I wonder if there will be some quiet time when guests retire to their rooms before the next planned event.” Her question was softly spoken but full of meaning.
Swallowing, he fervently hoped such was the case. This was precisely like the first—and the second—time he and Sarah had come together. An overwhelming desire raged, causing flames in his blood, making his pulse race. The ride was becoming more uncomfortable with each passing moment as his loins throbbed, and his cock hardened against the fall-front of his pants.
Tilting his hips up, he managed to keep his now-proud hair-splitter from being pinched between his body and the rigid saddle. In the past, upon occasion, he’d felt a slight tenderness to his drummers when landing awkwardly after an unexpected jump. But this was a new sensation. He could not recall ever being aroused while in the saddle.
Miles was ready to dismount and walk the last hundred yards, but restrained himself. Finally, they passed the carriage-house and reached the stables beside it, and a stable hand met them. Leaping from the saddle, Miles hurried to help Sarah down.
It was simple, he held his hand up, and she unhooked her right leg from the pommel before sliding into his arms. He nearly drew her to him right there, but the manor house had a hundred eyes—windows behind which important members of the ton were undoubtedly peering.
Stiffly, he moved back and formally offered her his arm.
“A smart choice,” she murmured, keeping her gaze upon the footman who held the door for them rather than looking at Miles.
“Indeed.”
As soon as they entered the house, they were greeted by pandemonium. It was still the day after Christmas, a day most servants had off, which might have explained why some of the female guests were carrying teacups and a tea tray toward the library, laughing as if it were a silly game.
When Miles and Sarah marched steadily up the stairs and past the upstairs drawing rooms, two gentlemen were attempting to light the fire in the hearth. As they walked along the hall, Lady Clayson appeared, dashed past, stopped, and turned back to them.
“Where on earth did you get to?” she directed her question to Sarah.
“You all left me at the hunt,” she said, sounding ever so factual and not the least bothered. “I rode a horse to come back.”
Lady Clayson offered a nervous giggle before clapping a hand to her mouth.
“I am so sorry. Not that it was my fault, of course. Besides, who could have guessed you wouldn’t catch a ride in one of the other carriages? Lady Macroun has sent me to find out how long the doctor will be, but I don’t even know whom to ask.” She turned away, heading for the stairs, then she called back, “Such a bad idea having the hunt on a day when the staff are slacking. No one is where they should be.”
And she vanished from sight.
Miles turned to Sarah, who looked back at him. Then he asked the question he’d been dying to ask for the past hour, “Your chamber or mine?”
It was improper, entirely wrong, and might even be cause for regret later. Sarah ignored the warnings in her head and agreed to his wicked invitation.
“Yours,” she declared. Who knew when Dorie might pop in? Besides Lord and Lady Hollingsworth were on her side, so people would be coming and going whereas … “I believe the single gentlemen’s quarters will be quieter.”
“Agreed,” he said.
Sarah liked it when he answered simply in such a way. It was an intimate gesture, indicating no need for long, overly polite speech.
Since they were going the wrong way, they spun about and headed past the grand staircase toward the bachelor’s wing. Immediately, Asher and another man came into view, and Miles and Sarah pivoted once again.
“You should go to your room and at least remove your coat and hat,” he suggested. “I’ll ask after Lord Hollingsworth and show myself, and you should do the same, and then—”
“Then I’ll meet you, as quickly as possible, in your room.”
“If someone should come out of one of the doors,” he began.
“I’ll say I’m returning a book you lent me and rush in the other direction.”
“But you’re not holding a book,” he pointed out.
“I’ll bring one,” she said, and swift as a sparrow, she absconded down the hall at a trot.
It wasn’t more than a quarter of an hour when she hurried toward Denbigh’s room, carrying a copy of—she glanced down at what she’d taken from the bookshelf in the upstairs sitting room and grinned at the fitting tome—Clarissa, Richardson’s masterpiece of a young woman forced into a loveless marriage, who then fell for a rake.
Luckily, she met with no one, and before she could even raise her hand to tap, the door opened, he yanked her inside, and swiftly closed it again. Then he turned the key.
That small sound was the single most alluring one she’d ever heard. She shivered as desire danced its way down her spine. In the next instant, he took her into his arms.
“I always suspected these country parties were places of unbridled passion,” Denbigh confessed, “but I never experienced it before.”
“You always kept your bridle on,” she quipped, pleased this wasn’t a usual occurrence for him. “It’s hard to fathom how such an att
ractive man, also a viscount, wouldn’t have ladies knocking at his door at all hours.”
She felt him shrug under her hands. “Some knocked, but I didn’t have to answer, did I?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“A lovely sound,” he said, catching her face in his hands before kissing her thoroughly, causing the tingling to start again in anticipation of what was to come, and then he released her.
Walking farther into the room, she barely glanced at the size and furnishings, similar in opulence and comfort to her own, yet with more reds and pinks befitting a virulent man, whereas her own chamber had more of the soft blue attributed to the weaker sex.
Her focus went directly to the bed, a four-poster with a boxy cloth-draped canopy and curtain hangings drawn back for easy access. It looked far more comfortable than the divan in the corner or the sofa upon which they’d had their first melting moments in London.
Without coyness, Sarah decided to get to the matter of their mutual obsession and, with a foot on the tuffet, hardly needed but a little hop to gain her seat upon the bed. Much easier than mounting a saddle!
She began to unlace her boots. In an instant, Denbigh was on the floor at her feet.
“Let me,” he said.
She nearly protested for expediency’s sake. If he were taking time with her footwear, he could hardly be undressing himself, and she longed to see him unclothed. Nevertheless, she let him remove her boots and toss them toward the door. However, when he reached his hand up her skirt, she shivered.
“Why haven’t they lit the fires?” Denbigh muttered, turning toward the hearth. “It’s like we’re at the bloody frost fair in here.”
“The servants are off for most of the day,” she reminded him, glad it wasn’t quite as cold as the winter before when the Thames had frozen. Moreover, the previous year, they’d had so much snowfall, she doubted any of them would have made it as far as Lady Macroun’s manor house. And at that moment, she was exceedingly happy to be at Forde Hall in Denbigh’s room.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 51
