Page 111 of Courting the Country Miss

He grinned and her heart leaped like a crazed circus performer. He met her halfway across the room, took her hand, and brought it to his lips. After kissing the back of her hand, he kept it nestled in his. The contact of his bare hand on hers gave courage to that crazy circus performer in her heart.

“You are radiant this morning, Leticia Love.”

Love. Did he mean that? Did he love her?

His grin turned intimate. How long they stood there, hands intertwined, looking into each other’s eyes, she could not have guessed. With his free hand, he touched her cheek. Did his touch mean he saw her as different, that he had never felt this way about someone else? That he had never treated anyone else as he treated her? That he would love her faithfully all his life?

“You seem to be taking very careful measure of me today.”

She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

He leaned down and kissed her brow, a feather-light touch. Then he kissed her cheek. Finally, he leaned lower. She lifted her face upward, aching, craving, starving for another kiss from Tristan. His lips touched the hollow below her earlobe, then her cheek.

The kiss on her mouth never came. Instead, a soft rumble of his laughter brushed over her. She opened eyes she didn’t remember closing.

Tristan whispered, “I’m very encouraged that you want me to kiss you. I may grant your wish—later.” A playful glint entered his eyes.

Her face burned that he’d read her so easily, and worse, denied her desire. How truly vexing man! He deserved a contemptuous set down—if only she could think of one.

His teasing grin reappeared. “I can’t tell you how gratifying it is that you seem happy to see me today.” He stepped back and spoke loudly enough to have been overheard. “It’s a fine day outside and I have it on good authority that we will be blessed with a rain-free ride.”

Still unable to speak, she picked up her riding crop and strode toward the door past the table of flowers. Tristan caught up to her before she’d stepped foot outside and offered his arm. She battled to regain control of her wits.

“You are a scoundrel,” she muttered.

He chuckled softly. “Are you trying to tell me you are not happy to see me?”

She sighed. “You can be so aggravating.”

“I hope there will be more happy times than aggravating times in store for us, Love.”

There he went again, calling her “love.” What was she supposed to make of that?

She waved toward the vases of blooms. “By the way, thank you for the flowers.”

“You are most welcome.”

A footman held two horses saddled and ready to ride. After greeting her mount and letting him get her scent, she accepted a boost up from Tristan and arranged the skirts of her riding habit. Still wearing that irrepressible grin, Tristan rode beside her to Hyde Park.

Inside the park, birds trilled and twittered like so many prima donnas vying for center stage. Wind whispered in the trees bringing scents of freshly mown grass and spring flowers.

As they headed for the fenced-off riding trail known as Rotten Row, Leticia scrambled for something to say to this different Tristan. “I always thought Rotten Row was a strange name. I’m told it’s named for La Route du Roi, or King’s Road, although last week, someone said the row led to Eton College, so they called it Rue d’Eton. It seems it eventually got corrupted to Rotten Row.” Oh heavens, she was rambling on about a boring subject.

He lifted a brow but drawled in a tone of cultured urbane boredom one normally reserved for a new acquaintance in a drawing room, “Oh? I thought it was named for the mix of gravel and crushed tree bark to create a pliable surface for the horses’ feet and legs. Rotten also means soft, you know.”

“I suppose we’ll never know for certain.” Her cheeks heated. Why did she start such a dull conversation with Tristan?

He glanced at her, mischief and challenge sparking in his eyes. “I know for certain that if I raced you there, I’d win.”

His familiar teasing eased her tension. She scoffed. “Of course you would; I won’t go running through the park like some wild little girl.”

“Come now; there’s no one about. Who would censure us?”

With a slight shake of her head, she smiled. “You’re still stinging over my beating you the last time we raced.”

He gave a dismissive wave. “That was years ago—when you were a wild little girl.”

“Getting beaten by a girl must have been a blow to your manly pride,” she teased.