“It’s lovely,” she said finally, before the servants could begin their muttering speculation again.
“There’s a card for you,” Mary said, dimpling.
She knew who they were from without looking. Only one man had ever asked her what her favorite flower was, and that had been a long time ago. Her heart raced as she lifted the card out of the leaves and ribbons.
Her name was scrawled on the outside, in a hand she recognized. Trying to keep her fingers steady, she unfolded the small card. “Entwined,” was all it said, with a “T” written beneath it.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. This was becoming very complicated, indeed.
Chapter 15
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
—All’s Well That Ends Well, Act IV, Scene iii
Georgiana liked to ride early on Mondays. With that in mind, Tristan dragged himself out of bed at half past five, threw on his riding clothes, and went downstairs to have Charlemagne saddled.
If nothing else, his pursuit of Georgie was keeping him out of the clubs and gaming hells he used to haunt. He’d also received several notes, as annoyingly perfumed as the ones to her had been, from ladies expressing their displeasure at his recent absence from their bed chambers. Still, he had no desire to find relief from his frustration elsewhere.
Six years ago, he hadn’t taken a single step out of his way to woo her. She’d come, wide-eyed and practically panting, to him. It wasn’t until after he’d taken her that his life had become irreversibly and permanently knotted.
The look in her eyes the next night when he’d approached her at the Ashton ball was something he would never forget. And it was something for which he would never forgive himself. She had known then that he’d only been amusing himself; and what had been an act of desire and pleasure instantly became base and deceitful. Whatever she thought to do to him, whatever lesson she thought he deserved, they would never be even.
But for the first time, he thought he might be able to gain her forgiveness. He wanted that from her, and for the first time, he wanted more. He wasn’t certain what, but when he gazed at her, and even more when he held her in his arms, something felt right.
He caught up to her halfway down the Ladies’ Mile in Hyde Park. She wore his favorite riding dress—a deep, brushed green that made her eyes look like emeralds. Her breath and Sheba’s clouded in the chilly dawn air as they galloped down the path, her groom falling farther back with each step. She was glorious.
With a kick to Charlemagne’s ribs, he went pounding after her. Leaning low to duck the wind, he and the bay slowly began to gain ground. Sheba was fast, but Charlemagne was bigger. She could probably beat him in the turns, but on a straight track and flat ground, the mare didn’t have a chance. Georgiana glanced over her shoulder, obviously hearing their approach, and urged her mare on. It wasn’t enough.
“Good morning,” he said, as they drew even.
She grinned at him, the mare’s mane whipping up into her face and tangling dark hair with her golden curls. “I’ll race you to the bridge and back,” she said breathlessly.
“I’ll win.”
“Maybe.” With a snap of her reins, she sent Sheba into a dead run.
Racing was forbidden in Hyde Park; they would be fined if they were caught. Hearing her throaty laugh floating back to him as she pulled ahead, he didn’t care how much it might cost.
He kicked the impatient bay in the ribs again, and they lunged forward. By the time they reached the bridge that spanned one of the park’s narrow streams they’d caught up again, and she tried to crowd Sheba into them. Tristan had no intention of ending up in the water a second time, and he sent Charlemagne into a wide turn, avoiding her.
Obviously seeing her chance to pull ahead once more, she used her crop to send Sheba into an even tighter turn back toward the track. Tristan saw the stone just as the mare’s foot caught the edge of it, and his heart stopped. “Georgiana!”
Sheba’s foot rolled, and the mare went down headfirst, pulling the reins from Georgiana’s hands and throwing her to the damp ground. Swearing, Tristan yanked the gelding to a halt and jumped from the saddle. He ran to Georgie as she lay in a tumbled heap on the ground, the mare thrashing and whinnying a few feet away.
He flung himself down beside her. “Georgiana? Can you hear me?” Her hat had come off, her golden hair splayed across her face. His fingers shaking, Tristan gently brushed the curls aside. “Georgiana?”
With a great gasp, she opened her eyes and sat up. “Sheba!”
Tristan grabbed her shoulder. “Sit still and make sure nothing’s broken,” he ordered.
“But—”
“Are you all right?” he demanded again.
She blinked, then sagged back against his chest. “Ouch.”
“What hurts?”
