“I didn’t know. Not at first. Not for a while, actually. I’m sure that when I am old, counting what remains of my life in months instead of years, I will regret those weeks that I wasted being afraid to fall in love with a good man that was already in love with me. But,” she said, making a clucking sound with her tongue, “you cannot change the past. You can only learn from it, and hope that it’s given you enough wisdom to guide your children in a better direction. Oh look, there they are!”
“Who?” Olivia asked, following the direction of her mother’s finger as the duchess pointed toward the courtyard in front of the stables. She saw a dozen men, all on horseback with Hoyt among them, his muscular frame easily distinguishable from the rest atop a large black gelding. The edges of her mouth turned downward in a small frown when she noted he was carrying a long brown cylinder over his shoulder. From this distance, it almost looked like a–
“The hunting party,” said the duchess, raising her voice to be heard above the loud baying of brown and white speckled hounds as they came cresting over a nearby hill, following a rider in a scarlet jacket with a gold horn pressed to his mouth. “Now Olivia, before you become upset–”
“My foxes!” she cried, her heart turning to ice inside her chest. “They’re going to kill my foxes!”
“Foxhunting is a time honored tradition that the gentlemen look forward to every summer, including your father. I’m sorry you don’t agree with it, but–”
Olivia didn’t hear the rest of the sentence.
She was already running out the door.
***
As a general rule, Hoyt was in favor of hunting.
When it had a purpose.
Using grown men on horseback with rifles and twenty four hounds to run down and kill one single fox didn’t seem very sporting to him, but as it seemed to be of particular importance to two lords whose parcels he needed to purchase in order to advantage his railroad, he was amendable to the proposition.
Until he learned how long it would take.
“Sevenhours?” he scowled, gathering his reins and spurring his horse into a medium canter that kept him steady with Lord Atlee, a middle-aged viscount who had taken it upon himself to teach the uneducated American all about one of England’s favorite past times. “Are we taking the damned fox to London for a pint?”
Lord Atlee gave a hearty laugh. “It depends on the wiliness of the vixen, Mr. Culpepper! The more intelligent they are, the longer the chase.”
Hoyt knewthatto be true.
Over the past week, he’d done everything he could think of save get down on bended knee to curry Olivia’s favor. He’d made her smile. He’d made her roll her eyes. Once, he’d even made her giggle. But no matter how hard he tried or what he did, he couldn’t make her fall in love with him. For a man accustomed to getting whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, not being able to get the thing that mattered most was… frustrating.
No, it was infuriating.
And now here he was, chasing after a poor defenseless animal when the true object of his desires was back at the manor likely forgetting all about him.
“The hell with this,” he muttered under his breath. “Railroad or no railroad, I’m turning around.”
“Listen!” Lord Atlee yelped as, in unison, the pack of hounds out in front of the horses began to howl. “They’re giving tongue!”
“They’re giving what?” Hoyt said politely.
“It means they’ve caught the scent! The hunt is on!” Hunching low over his horse’s neck, the viscount kicked him onward as the entire field took to a gallop, led by the bellowing hounds and the field master in red.
Squinting, Hoyt was just able to make out the two men he’d come along to cajole into selling him their land. He could catch them, if he put in his heels. But regardless of what he’d originally come to the summer house party to attain, he now had a far greater treasure in mind.
Olivia.
***
“Sorry, Muffins,” said Olivia, casting her old pony a baleful glance as she anxiously waited for the footman to finish tacking her mare, a shiny chestnut Arabian named Delphine. “You’re not going to buck me off today.”
Shoving her shirt into the waistband of the breeches she’d yanked out from under her bed – she was always fastest when she rode astride – Olivia grabbed the reins the instant Delphine was ready and was in the saddle before the mare had cleared the courtyard.
“Hurry,” she urged the attentive chestnut. “Ember and Ginger are depending on us!”
She’d discovered the mated pair almost three years ago, completely but accident. During an autumn house party – shorter than the summer, but with no less people – she’d been hiding in the garden shed when she heard a peculiar sound. The half whine, half mewl, had lured her into an investigation that had ended with her finding a young female fox, not yet a year old, crouched under the shed. The fox’s paw had been caught in a snare that she’d dragged along with her from whatever terrible trap a hunter had set. After stealing some chicken fromthe kitchens, Olivia had managed to distract the vixen just long enough to cut the wire with sharp a pair of shears. The fox had sprang away into the woods, but she’d returned the very next day… presumably seeking more chicken, which Olivia had happily provided.
Over the next several months, whenever she was at the estate, she’d made sure to leave some food out for her newfound furry friend. And in the spring, just as the earth was beginning to thaw and the daffodils were springing up in cheerful yellow bunches, the fox she’d dubbed Ginger had reappeared from under the garden shed… this time with three adorable fuzzy kits frolicking and rolling behind her.
