Laura Martin - Courting The Forbidden Debutante

‘Lady Georgina,’ he said, his voice deep and warm as he slowed to match her pace. Richards was just coming up behind them and she motioned for him to keep his distance, signalling everything was all right.

‘Mr Robertson, what a surprise to see you here,’ she said drily.

‘You think I’m following you?’ he asked, a smile forming on his lips, revealing surprisingly white teeth contrasting against his bronzed skin.

‘It is rather a coincidence...’ she said, even though she’d convinced herself this was nothing more than chance. Or fate. As she looked at him she tried to limit her admiration to the easy way he sat on his horse, his good posture and clearly excellent riding skills, but she found her eyes roaming over his body. It was hard not to notice the sculpted muscles under his riding garb and the tanned skin that spoke of his time under the blazing sun... Quickly she snapped her eyes back to his and tried to focus.

‘I suppose I did follow you from the ballroom last night,’ he said, ‘but even I wouldn’t dream of ambushing a young lady while she’s out riding for pleasure.’

‘And you? Are you out riding for pleasure?’ Georgina asked.

Even though she knew very little about Mr Robertson she did know quite a lot about how society worked. A man newly arrived in London, with few family connections, would struggle to easily find a horse to ride. To want to hire one for the Season showed either a deep love of riding or a view that all gentlemen should have access to a mount at any time. Given what she’d seen of Mr Robertson so far it seemed far more likely to be the former than the latter.

‘Indeed. Back home I’m in the saddle at least five hours a day. Riding for pleasure isn’t quite the same, but it is better than the alternative of not riding at all for months at a time.’

‘Back home?’ Georgina asked, trying to make her question sound casual.

He regarded her for a moment, and she wondered if he would once again dodge the question about his origins. ‘Australia,’ he said eventually. ‘The Eastern Coast.’

Where they transported convicted criminals.

Telling herself not to be foolish, Georgina found her imagination running away with her. Thoughts of brutal criminals, men in chains, toiling away under a baking sun filled her mind. She’d never even seen a picture of Australia, but in her imagination it had sands the colour of amber and harsh conditions.

She felt her mouth go dry as the unbidden image of Mr Robertson shirtless, toiling away in a chain gang, popped into her head. She’d felt the hard muscles of his chest the night before, muscles made strong by manual labour. Quickly she reached for a question, any question, to distract herself from the image.

‘What’s it like?’ Georgina asked.

Mr Robertson laughed softly. ‘Like nothing you could ever imagine.’

She didn’t think he was going to say any more, but after a moment he continued.

‘It’s nothing like England,’ he said, ‘In any way whatsoever. The people are coarser, no time for these customs or manners that matter so much in London. The land is beautiful, but harsh. I’ve known many a man go wandering off into the wilderness never to be seen again.’

‘That wouldn’t happen in Surrey or Sussex,’ Georgina murmured.

‘But despite all the trials it throws at you there’s something rather enchanting about it. I’ve never seen such blue sea or golden sands. Or such vast expanses of land where there’s not a single sign of a settlement.’ He was staring off into the distance as if remembering fondly. ‘I suppose that’s how you feel about your home, wherever it may be.’

‘You were born there?’ Georgina asked.

He looked up abruptly, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘No,’ he said brusquely.

They rode in silence, side by side, for a few moments, Mr Robertson clearly still deep in thought, reminiscing about the land he seemed to both love and fear a little.

‘You were born in Hampshire,’ he said after a few minutes.

‘You’ve been enquiring about me?’

Shrugging, a gesture not normally seen among the men of the ton , he grinned. ‘I’m residing with Lady Winston. She seems to know everything about everyone.’

‘That’s how it is,’ Georgina said, almost glumly. There was no mystery among the ton . Those whom her mother deemed to be suitable friends or companions for Georgina numbered very few and her social circle was small. The wealthiest members of society, those with the oldest family names and largest estates, only socialised with people of a similar position, meaning even if you didn’t like someone very much you ended up spending rather a lot of time with them.

‘Are you related to her?’ Georgina asked as they neared Hyde Park Corner, turning their horses for another lap of Rotten Row.

‘Not exactly...’ He paused. ‘I’m in England with two good friends, Mr Sam Crawford and Mr George Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald is Lady Winston’s nephew.’

It was a strange way of putting it, not exactly , but she supposed some people had friendships that were as close as family ties. It might be that he considered these two men his brothers and as an extension Lady Winston as a relative as well. In a way it was only like her considering Caroline a sister.

Georgina was about to open her mouth to ask another question, when she heard a shout in the distance. She saw Mr Robertson turn his head and focus in on the cry, and followed the direction of his gaze to do the same.

Hurtling towards them, although a good few hundred feet away, was a riderless horse. The groom who had been exercising the spirited animal had been thrown to the ground and was now struggling to rise. The horse seemed petrified of something, nostrils flaring and head thrashing from side to side, and as they watched, it showed no signs of slowing.

‘Stay to one side,’ Mr Robertson ordered, gripping her horse’s bridle and guiding her next to the fence. Here she was in very little danger, a good few feet away from the main path, but Georgina knew better than to move at all. She had a great respect for horses, knew the damage they could do by throwing a rider, or worse stampeding.

As she watched Mr Robertson narrowed his eyes as if trying to work out something, then urged his horse forward into a canter, heading away from her and the runaway beast. At first she wondered if he was fleeing, but quickly dismissed the idea. Of the little she knew of the mysterious Australian, she could tell he wasn’t one to shy away from a little danger.

The runaway horse was gaining on him and Georgina watched as slowly he picked up the pace, so that by the time the riderless horse was level with him he was travelling more or less at the same speed. They were running out of path and if he didn’t do something soon the horse would escape into the rest of Hyde Park where it could injure an unsuspecting person out for a morning stroll, or even worse dart onto the street, causing an accident.

Just as she thought there was no hope she saw Mr Robertson lean across and take the horse’s bridle, then in one swift manoeuvre he leapt off his horse’s back and onto the runaway animal’s. The horse bucked, but after a few seconds seemed to settle and within half a minute was wheeling round in a gentle trot.

As Georgina watched Mr Robertson dismounted, caught his own horse and began leading both animals back up towards her and the amazed groom. She could see him muttering soothing words, all the time working to keep the animals calm.

‘Thank you,’ the groom said, his cheeks red with embarrassment at having to be saved in such a fashion.

‘Spirited beast,’ Mr Robertson said, almost admiringly, handing the reins back over.

‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Georgina asked when they were once again alone, although receiving curious looks from all the other grooms out exercising their master’s horses.