Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

Without warning, Thea’s eyes stung, with a longing more forceful than the thirst for revenge that had dominated her life for nine agonizing months. What would it feel like to have a man lavish affection upon her, not merely a brief handclasp over her elbow? A man who communicated care and tenderness, like Mr. Stone with that horse? Plainly he loved the animals, and perhaps owned one or two himself. If so, he might be a man of some wealth.

Which meant, if she cozied up to Mr. Stone, he’d be justified in considering her as one more Saratoga sycophant, like all the women trailing along in Edgar Fane’s wake.

Uncertainty glued Thea’s feet to the ground.

One of the horses in a nearby stall snorted, then kicked the boards with his hoof. An involuntary gasp escaped before Thea could stifle it. Mr. Stone glanced casually around. Slowly he removed his arm from the horse’s neck and turned to face her, the gentleness on his face hardening to—to stone.

“Miss Pickford. What a…surprise.” Without looking away he gave the horse a final pat, then ambled down the aisle toward her. “I admit to chagrin. I…ah…wasn’t prepared to see you again so soon, certainly not in this setting.”

Thea squared her shoulders. “I didn’t expect to find you in this setting either.” He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader. Without the straw boater to soften his appearance, an aura of danger hovered around him now more than ever. Not the danger of a snake like Edgar Fane, but that of a thunderstorm—and she stood unprotected in an open field while lightning stabbed the sky. Thea focused on his hands—a stupid mistake because all she could remember was how they looked gently stroking a horse. “I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

“Ah. Hmm.” He seemed to hesitate. “Very well, I’m not one to gainsay a lady determined to ignore her fiancé’s existence—Miss Pickford? Are you all right?”

Unstrung by the bald reminder of the nonexistent Neville, Thea almost backed into several stacked bales of straw. “I’m perfectly all right,” she said.

In the dim stable his light eyes bored into hers; he lifted a hand to shove a lock of hair the rich color of polished mahogany off his forehead. Despite herself, Thea stiffened. Something flickered in his expression, then without fuss he stepped back a pace or two and folded his arms. “Are you a horse lover, Miss Pickford?”

“I’ve never been around them enough to know. But I admire them, very much. A chestnut with a white strip down his nose let me pat him for a second. I…you love them, don’t you?”

“Yes. More than just about anything else on this earth. Most of the time, I prefer them to people.” He hesitated, then added matter-of-factly, “Don’t be afraid, Miss Pickford. I don’t abuse horses, or women. Those who do best keep out of my way, however. May I offer an apology, for frightening you this morning?”

“I wasn’t frightened, but an apology is definitely called for,” she agreed.

The lock of hair fell back over his forehead. He brushed at it, and Thea stared, transfixed anew at the long supple fingers, the tanned wrist almost twice the size of hers. Why, that hand looked strong enough to break a brick, yet a moment earlier his touch had transformed a high-strung Thoroughbred to a purring kitten.

Blinking, she reminded herself of her purpose in hunting this man down. “You voiced several ungentlemanly accusations, which I’m willing to overlook because I—” The words faltered into awkward silence until she added breathlessly, “Mr. Stone…you’re staring at me.”

“Merely returning the favor, Miss Pickford. I’m flattered. You’re a lovely young woman, but I’m thinking your fiancé should conduct his courtship from a much shorter distance than the other side of an ocean.”

Thea’s parasol slid free and fell with a soft plop onto the packed dirt stable floor. Mortified, she bent to retrieve it, but Mr. Stone stepped forward and swooped it up instead, his fingers brushing hers as he returned the parasol. The jolt of sensation fried the air between them. “I would never dishonor my fiancé…” she began feebly, the once-facile lie now stumbling from her lips. “I merely need to ask you something, about someone else.”

“Oh?”

As if in a dream Thea watched him idly stroke the side of his nose. The vivid image of that finger brushing her nose burned a fiery trail all the way to her toes. Hot color scorched her cheeks. Her grandfather was right: despite her sophisticated education and her acquaintance with numerous intellectual gentlemen, until today she had remained unblemished emotionally. A perfectly rolled and floured biscuit which had never seen the inside of an oven.

The friendly courtship she had enjoyed the previous summer with a neighbor’s grandson by comparison now seemed a tepid thing, ending without fanfare when the young man returned to Boston. In Thea’s opinion, romance between a man and a woman was vastly overrated.

This is not a romance, you limp-noodled ninnyhammer.

“Miss Pickford? You wanted to ask me about something, or someone?” Mr. Stone prompted.

“Oh. Yes, yes I did.” Thoroughly rattled, Thea snatched a piece of straw from the bale of hay and distractedly wove it between her fingers. “I wanted to ask you about…about—you told Mrs. Van Eyck and me you planned to attend the races. It’s, ah, past two o’clock….”

“So I did, and so it is.” Mr. Stone’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he stared down at her without speaking. “I don’t know what to do about you,” he eventually murmured, his voice deep, the drawl warm and lazy. “You need to be more careful when you lie, and how you look at a man when your heart is promised elsewhere.”

“Well, I’m not doing it on purpose,” she blurted, stupidly. “As for telling lies, you’re the one who pretended an acquaintance with my fiancé. How would you feel if I reported you to the local constable, or alerted—”

The words backed up in her throat when Mr. Stone took a single long stride toward her. The scents of starch and sweat and horse filled her nostrils. Before she could react, he plucked the straw from her fingers and skimmed it along the line of her clenched jaw. “No, you won’t. You have too much to lose, don’t you, to risk that sort of attention.”

Stepping back, he sketched a brief bow, then swiveled on his heel and sauntered down the aisle, turned a corner and disappeared.

Thea remained motionless, one hand braced against the rough stable wall while she waited for the churning in her stomach to settle. After several moments she lifted her hand to the cheek the straw had touched. A tingle still quivered along her veins.

This bizarre physical attraction could be contained and ultimately controlled. But the absence of any signs of vertigo from their confrontation alarmed her profoundly. Such a reaction indicated a moral weakness in her character far worse to Thea than the facade designed to procure justice on behalf of her grandfather. A godly young lady of impeccable virtue should be outraged, or even nauseous with that vertigo—the latter her reaction on the four occasions when she had spoken to Edgar Fane.

Despite her sheltered upbringing, perhaps she had truly become her mother, whose acting skill was superseded only by her affinity for men.

The possibility cast a murky film over the summer afternoon, but Thea refused to abandon her purpose. Life offered choices, her grandfather told her frequently. She wasn’t doomed to follow her mother’s path; she would simply choose to avoid any further encounters with Devlin Stone. Another opportunity would arise to ingratiate herself with Edgar Fane, a man for whom she would never feel anything but disgust.