Julia Justiss - The Rake To Ruin Her

Unless she could work out some way to turn one of them to account, the future stretched before her like a grimly unpleasant repetition of her curtailed London Season: evening after evening of dinners, musicales, card parties, balls and routs, crowded about by men eager to relieve her of her fortune.

Was there any way she could avoid being dragged through all that? Maybe she should write to Harry after all, proposing a long-distance engagement. But would Lady Denby consider such an informally made offer binding?

By the time they reached the end of the field bordering the paddock, she was no closer to finding an answer to her problem. Thrusting it aside in disgust, she turned her attention back to putting Sultan through his paces.

If only, she thought as she commanded him to a trot, life could be schooled to such perfection as a fine horse.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Max shouldered creel and rod and followed Alastair to the stables. His cousin, having learned from his factor in the village that the fish were running well in the river, had dragged him from his bed before first light so they might try their luck at snagging some trout.

They were tromping in companionable silence down the path leading to the river when Alastair suddenly halted. ‘By Jove, that’s the finest piece of horseflesh I’ve seen in a dog’s age, trotting there in the paddock,’ he declared, pointing in that direction. ‘Whose nag is it, do you know?’

Max peered into the distance, where a stable boy was guiding a showy bay hack in a series of high-stepping motions. His eyes widening in appreciation, he noted the horse’s deep chest, broad shoulders, glossy sheen of coat and steady, perfect rhythm. His interest piqued as well, he said, ‘I have no idea. The bay is a magnificent beast.’

‘That’s not one of our grooms, either. Horse must belong to one of Mama’s guests, who brought his own man to exercise it.’ Alastair laughed. ‘I might resent providing the food and drink these man-milliners consume while they loiter here, but an animal as magnificent as that is welcome to my largesse.’

‘Aunt Grace’s largesse, to be fair.’

‘Not that I truly begrudge Jane the expense of their party. I just wish the guests were less tedious and the timing not so inconvenient.’

At least one guest, Max thought, had not been ‘tedious’ in the least. He smiled as images of Miss Denby ran through his head: staring up at him with a grin, bug-eyed in her spectacles; the atrocious puce gown she’d employed to ‘disguise’ her loveliness; and ah, yes, the luscious breasts whose rounded tops enticed him above the low neckline of her dinner dress …

Desire rose in him, surprising in its intensity. Reminding himself that seducing Miss Denby was not a possibility, he thrust the memories of her from his mind and turned his attention back to the horse, now being put through several intricate manoeuvres.

Finally, the groom pulled up and leaned low over his mount’s head, probably murmuring well-deserved compliments in his ear. Straightening, the lad kicked him to a trot across the paddock towards the lane leading back to the stables.

‘I’d like a closer look at that horse,’ Alastair said. ‘If we cut back at the next crossing, we should reach the stable lane about the same time as the groom.’

Max nodding agreement, the two cousins set off. Confirming Alastair’s prediction, after hurrying down the path, they emerged from behind a stand of trees just as the rider trotted past.

Apparently startled by their unexpected appearance, the horse neighed and reared up. With expert ease, the lad controlled him.

‘Sorry to have frightened your mount,’ Alastair told him. ‘We’ve been admiring him from the other side of the paddock.’

Max was about to add his compliments when his assessing eyes moved from the horse to the rider. With a shock, he realised the ‘groom’ was in fact no groom at all, but Miss Caroline Denby.

Alastair, no sluggard where the feminine form was concerned, simultaneously reached the same conclusion. ‘Devil’s teeth! It’s a girl!’ he muttered to Max, even as he swept his hat off and bowed. ‘Good morning, miss. Magnificent horse you have there!’

Miss Denby’s alarmed gaze leapt from Alastair to Max. As recognition dawned in her eyes, her face flamed. ‘Stepmother is going to be furious,’ she murmured with a sigh. Apparently accepting that she’d been well and truly caught, she nodded to him. ‘Good morning, Mr Ransleigh.’

Alastair’s brows lifted as he looked enquiringly from Miss Denby back to Max, then gestured to him to perform the introductions. Bowing to the inevitable, Max said, ‘Miss Denby, may I present my cousin, your host, Mr Alastair Ransleigh.’

She made a rueful grimace. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. I thought surely I’d be able to return before anyone but the grooms were stirring. Couldn’t you just pretend you hadn’t seen me?’

‘Don’t fret, Miss Denby,’ Max said. ‘We’re not supposed to let you see us , either. Shall this unexpected encounter remain our secret?’

She smiled. ‘In that case, I shall be pleased to meet you, Mr Ransleigh.’

‘And I am absolutely charmed to meet you, Miss Denby,’ Alastair replied, his rogue’s eyes avidly roving her form.

Max restrained the strong desire to smack him. Hitherto he’d thought nothing could accentuate a lady’s body like a silk gown, preferably thin and cut low in the bosom. But though he’d be delighted to see Miss Denby garbed only in the sheerest of materials, there was no escaping the fact that, in male riding attire, she looked entirely delectable.

Tight-knit breeches hugged her slender thighs and the curve of her trim derrière upon the saddle, while riding boots outlined her shapely calves. Beneath her unbuttoned tweed jacket, her shirt, open at the top since she wore no cravat, revealed a swan’s curve of neck, kissable hollows at her throat and collarbones, and a lush fullness beneath that made his mouth water. Several lengths of the glossy dark hair she’d thrust up under her cap had tumbled down during the ride and lay in damp, tangled curls upon her face and neck—looking much as they might, he thought, if she were reclining against her pillows after a night of lovemaking.

The heated gleam in Alastair’s eyes said he was envisioning exactly the same scene, damn him.

‘Bargain or not, I’d best return immediately and get into more proper clothing,’ Miss Denby said, pulling Max from his lusty imagining. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’

‘Wait, Miss Denby,’ Alastair called. ‘There wasn’t a soul stirring when we left the house but a short time ago. Tarry with us a minute, please! I’d like to ask about your mount. You were training him, weren’t you?’

She’d been looking towards the stables, obviously anxious to be away, but at Alastair’s expression of interest, she turned back, her eyes brightening. ‘Yes. Sultan is the most promising of our four-year-olds. Father bred him, Cleveland Bay with some Arabian for stamina and Irish thoroughbred for strength in the bone. Easy-going, with wonderful paces. He’ll make a superior hunter or cavalry horse … although I’ve about decided I cannot part with him.’

‘Your father … you mean Sir Martin Denby, of the Denby Stud?’ Alastair asked. When she nodded, he said, ‘No wonder your mount is so impressive. Max, you remember Mannington brought several of Sir Martin’s horses to the Peninsula. Excellent mounts, all of them.’

‘Lord Mannington?’ Miss Denby echoed. ‘Ah, yes, I remember; he purchased Alladin and Percival. Geldings who are kin to Sultan here, having the same dam, but a sire with a bit more Arabian blood. I’m so pleased to know they performed well.’