He realized she wasn’t coming. And why should she? She probably expected Amelia to be present. She probably expected his own foul humor. The earl sat down, refusing to acknowledge his disappointment. He was used to dining alone. It made no difference to him.
Chad had his own Shetland pony, a fluffy black-and-white gelding that had been a gift on his fourth birthday. He was already a superb rider for his age. Like his father, he rode bareback with ease. It was a sight, the two of them. The earl on a lean, seventeen-hand hunter, his son on the fat, eight-hand pony. They were trotting through a cow pasture on their daily ride. Two wolfhounds ranged alongside them, sniffing at every tree and rock and gopher hole.
“Papa,” Chad cried, “look at the log. Can I?”
A big old oak had rotted and fallen and lay sprawled in front of them. The earl studied the log; Chad pleaded with him. “Please, Papa, please? I can do it!”
The log was bigger than anything Chad had already jumped, but his son was ready for it. The boy rode as if glued to his mount, better bareback than with a saddle, his balance impeccable. “Wait here,” the earl said, and he rode ahead.
The earl circled the log. When he had determined that the ground was safe, he came back, but not before breaking a branch off of the fallen tree. He handed it to his son. “Give him two swats, Chad.”
Ponies had bad, variable tempers. This one was better than most, but the earl had no intention of taking any chances that the pony might decide to balk at the last minute and throw his son. Chad understood. He smacked the Shetland smartly on the shoulder once, to wake him up. His head came up, ears went back. Chad grinned, nudged him with his heels and smacked his flank. They set off at a canter.
“Keep him collected,” the earl called, his chest tightening with pride. Chad rode beautifully, gathering up the pony beneath him, controlling the willful little beast, and then the two of them soared over the log as one.
Chad crowed with delight, stroking the Shetland and patting him enthusiastically. “Did you see? Did you see us?”
“Well done.” The earl smiled. He rode round to his son. “Here, reward him.” He handed his son a carrot and the boy leaned forward to feed the pony.
The earl’s thoughts changed. Again. Where was she? He and Chad had left after tea. The earl of course did not drink tea, but for his son’s sake, he observed the afternoon snack with the boy. Jane had not appeared. She had been gone for hours. Nick had to face his feelings, and he didn’t like doing so. He was worried.
What if she had twisted her ankle and could not get back to the house?
What if she had been accosted by vagabonds?
He and Chad continued on. His son was quiet, having already told him all about his day. Every other sentence had been about Jane. Today she had shown him how to make a sling shot. They had been having a shooting contest, their target a row of bottles on a fence. He had won, he had said proudly. Tomorrow she was going to teach him how to talk through cans.
“Through cans?” The earl was dubious.
“Through cans,” Chad confirmed.
It did something, hearing of his son together with Jane. It also made the earl think of how badly the boy needed a mother—not stern Governess Randall. Nick cut off his thoughts. One marriage—particularly his—was enough to last a lifetime.
They took a path through the woods on their way back to the stables. They rode in a companionable silence, their horses blowing softly. A late-afternoon sun had dissipated the day’s heavy mist, and now it pierced brightly through the canopy of leaves overhead, glittering on the damp bark and foliage. The forest sparkled. Ahead of them a brook gurgled, followed by the sound of splashing and laughter.
“Someone’s swimming in the creek, Papa,” Chad alerted his father.
“Probably a couple of the tenants’ boys,” the earl responded, not caring. After he left Chad back at the house, he would have to search thoroughly for Jane. She could not just walk off and disappear for hours and hours without telling a soul where she was going.
They entered the glade that the brook crossed. The earl at first saw that he was right. A couple of boys stood knee deep in the water, fishing. He recognized Jimmy, the head groom’s nephew, and his cousin, who was a few years older, maybe fifteen. And then he saw her.
He yanked his mount to an abrupt halt and stared.
Jane stood on the far side of the stream, in the shadows. Like the boys, she was in the water—but up to her thighs. Like the boys, she held a stick and line. Like the boys, she was soaking wet, from head to toe. That was where all similarity ended.
Her blouse and chemise were practically transparent. It molded her firm young breasts like a second skin. It left no doubts as to her gender, nor to her burgeoning womanhood. Her skirts molded her slim hips and her curved thighs and what was between them. She was practically naked.
“Jane!” Chad squealed. “Jane! Can I fish too? Papa—can I fish too?”
The earl was so stunned that he couldn’t speak. Then the beginnings of hot, hot fury started its slow burn. He looked at Jimmy and his cousin, somehow, miraculously, controlling his rage.
Jimmy was only twelve, and the earl dismissed him. His cousin was another matter. The redhead stood near Jane, in the sunlight, not the shadows, and he was no boy. He was nearly full grown, tall and lanky, almost as tall as the earl. He had been saying something to Jane, grinning. She had been laughing. At Chad’s voice, all conversation and activity ceased.
“Pop, let’s go fishing!”
“No, Chad,” the earl said unequivocally, and Chad fell silent. “Get out of the water, Jane.”
Her smile faded. He saw her confusion. His heart was thrumming hard and fast. He watched her wade out. Her long, long legs became visible, the skirt clinging to every feminine inch as she climbed to shore. The redhead was staring too. Not with a little boy’s interest. The earl saw him tug at his crotch.
