Soon enough she was settled on Sampson’s back and galloping for the open fields beyond the stables, Cosgrove at her side. Goodness, it almost felt as if she’d never been on the back of a horse before! That wasn’t the case, of course—her father was cavalry, after all, and they did keep a few horses—but there weren’t any stallions like Sampson to be found on their tiny estate.
This was a horse fit for a duke.
She leaned low over his elegant arched neck, her fingers gripping the reins, hoofbeats pounding in her ears and a magnificent explosion of dust billowing around her, a grimy cloud she inhaled along with each of her panting breaths, fine grit coating her teeth.
It wasglorious.
Such a rare moment of freedom! Because surely this was what freedom was, the wind whipping color into her cheeks and cooling the sweat at her temples, the horse’s broad back surging between her thighs.
Had Lord Stoneleigh ever surged between a lady’s thighs?
Oh, dear, now where did that thought come from? It wasn’t at all proper to wonder such things, but it must be acknowledged that what she knew of Lord Stoneleigh so far argued against surging of any kind.
But she wouldn’t spoil her ride by thinking of him now. Lord Stoneleigh, the Duke of Montford, her father’s debt, and the scandalous ruby earrings would, alas, all still be waiting for her when she returned to Basingstoke House.
For now, it was only her and Sampson, flying across the duke’s estate, the ground a blur beneath them, with Sampson’s long, powerful legs eating up the distance. His chest was heaving, his lovely black coat gleaming with sweat by the time she reined him into a trot, and then a walk, leaning low over his neck to croon into his twitching ear. “Such a good boy, Sampson! You’re a beautiful runner.”
“You’ll have a good view of Montford Park once we clear this next ridge, Miss Thorne.”
“What, the Duke of Montford’s estate? I didn’t realize it was as close as that.”
“It’s quite close.” Cosgrove came up alongside her, his horse’s spotted brown and white coat also damp, and pointed his riding crop toward the tree line. “It’s just there, behind those trees.”
“As close as that? Why, how wonderful to have a chance to see it from this vantage point. “It’s meant to be a terribly elegant house, isn’t it?”
“Aye, miss. It’s a grand old place, to be sure, and the grounds even more so. Basingstoke and Montford hold a good portion of Kent between them.” Cosgrove settled his horse with a twitch of the reins. “There will be fine shooting, if the weather holds.” He cast her a doubtful glance. “You don’t shoot, do you, miss?”
“Indeed, I do, Cosgrove.” Shooting wasn’t a sport for ladies, but she’d never been much like other ladies. “I adore shooting.”
Shooting, angling, billiards—even fencing, though admittedly she was a novice at it. She’d tried her hand at bare-knuckle boxing, too, much to the delight of her father’s friends, who were frequent guests at Thornewood and always encouraged her antics.
She’d even smoked a cheroot once, which had proved to be one time too many. They tasted of ash, and the dratted thing had burned her bottom lip.
Cosgrove grinned. “You can ride, sure enough. I thought Sampson here might be too much horse for a lady, but I haven’t seen many ladies who handle a mount as well as you do.”
She grinned back at him, pleased. “If I’d been born a boy, I’d have made an enviable Corinthian.” Instead, she was the only child of a military father who’d made the best of his dearth of sons by turning his daughter into a proper hellion.
But not much of a wife, alas. Not much of a friend, either.
She’d have to confess the whole of the dreadful business with Montford to Franny, and the sooner, the better. She’d planned to tell her on the journey from London to Kent—she’d spent the entire morning screwing up her courage—but at the last minute the duke had decided not to ride, and had joined them in the carriage.
But there was no hiding it, especially now that Montford was at Basingstoke House. He was sure to tell Basingstoke she’d taken his earrings, if he hadn’t already. Truly, it would be a relief to unburden herself to Franny. She despised secrets, and was dreadful at keeping them, and she couldn’t stomach lying to her dearest friend.
Of course, there was every chance Basingstoke would take offense and send her back to Wiltshire at once, and that . . . well, she may not be madly in love with Lord Stoneleigh, but the threat of ending up right back where she’d started was enough to shake some sense into her.
It wasn’t as if there was anythingwrongwith Lord Stoneleigh. There wasn’t. Not a single thing. Goodness knew London had a great deal worse to offer in the way of husbands. He just wasn’t the sort of gentleman who was likely to find her eccentricities charming.
But then, there’d never been much chance she’d find a gentleman who would.
If ever there was a lady unsuited for marriage, it was her, a natural result of being raised by a gruff, military father. She was a crack shot, yes, but that wasn’t likely to get her far with the fashionable gentlemen of London. They’d all expect her to draw, play, and sing as other ladies did, and to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of dancing, at the very least.
Indeed, she’d be lucky to get Lord Stoneleigh. It was a great pity she hadn’t acknowledged that truthbeforeshe’d made that disastrous proposal to Montford. Oh, why had she been so foolish as to attempt to blackmail a duke? In hindsight, it hadn’t been such a wise idea at all.
Fortune didn’t, as it turned out, favor the bold.
It didn’t matter that she’d asked for far less than the earrings were worth. Blackmail was blackmail, regardless of the amount. The moment she’d mentioned her father’s wager, she’d sealed her fate.
It wasn’t like her to misread a situation so drastically, but that walk with Lord Stoneleigh had left her in a panic, and she’d been all muddled in her head when Montford had confronted her about the earrings.
