Helen Dickson - The Bride Wore Scandal

So engrossed was Christina in her thoughts that she was unprepared for the sight that sprang upon her. A horse was nibbling the lush green grass that grew along the riverbank, and its owner was about to plunge into the water.

Hidden by the dense foliage across the narrow stretch of land that separated them, Christina let her gaze make an admiring appraisal of the man as the sun beat down on his almost naked form in shimmering waves of heat. A narrow cloth covered his loins, and provided a minimum of modesty as it moulded itself to his manhood. As a respectable young woman she knew she should avert her innocent eyes but, urged to see more, carefully she parted the branches.

Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a silent O on recognising Lord Rockley.

HELEN DICKSONwas born and lives in South Yorkshire with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

THE BRIDE WORE SCANDAL

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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On reaching the bank of the wide river, the lone rider dismounted. After doing a quick scan of the surrounding area, with no one else in sight, he removed his frock-coat. The day was hot, the water too tempting to resist. Unbuckling his belt, he sat down on a tree stump and removed his boots. This done, he removed his breeches and shirt, laying them out on the ground. Moving to the water’s edge, he stretched his arms high above his head, the muscles rippling beneath the firm flesh of his magnificent body showing a ready, capable strength, gleaming golden brown under the hot rays of the sun.

Moments later there was a splash, followed by the lesser sound of a body, like a dark, sleek blade, cutting its way just below the surface of the water with slow, controlled strokes.

Meanwhile, just half a mile away, a young woman trotted along on a grey mare, following a narrow and twisted path, the tall trees—mainly beach and oak—through which she rode dappling her glorious mane of fair hair and body with shades and light. In the pungent smelling undergrowth, small animals foraged, and above her head squirrels darted along the branches of trees, birds fluttered and sang and starlings flew frenziedly in the blue sky. Ahead of her, in a meadow bordered by a wide meandering brook, a spread of deep pink-and-white campions, ox-eyed moon-daisies and golden buttercups brightened the gloominess.

The dark-haired man emerged naked from the river, droplets of water clinging to his bronzed skin and tinier beads sparkling in the dark furring on his broad chest, while, following a narrow, well-worn path, Christina Atherton rode in the shadow of the sturdy stone walls that surrounded Oakbridge, her home. Having ridden her horse hard for the past hour, she now rode at a more leisurely pace, breathing in the humid, sweet scented air. She was hot and tendrils of damp, ash-blond curls clung to her cheeks.

The brook offered the only relief in sight and the temptation to dip her bare feet in the cool, flowing water was almost overwhelming. She guided her mare across the meadow, and on reaching the brook she dismounted, patting the sleek chestnut neck before turning her attention to the stream. She took a moment to turn and gaze back at the house, beautiful in its ancient splendour, with appreciative, loving eyes, refusing for now to allow herself to dwell on the tension that existed within its walls and the worries that awaited her there. Turning her head in another direction, she gazed at the slope of land, to the gentle fold of hills that went on into the hazy distance. She was quiet, deep in her own thoughts, distracted by the splendour of what lay about her.

As she approached the brook, her walk was graceful, the gentle sway of her hips seductive, causing her mane of softly curling hair to lift and bounce about her shoulders. Sitting on the grassy bank, she removed her shoes, casting her eyes about her to make sure she was quite alone, before raising her skirts and peeling down her stockings. The look on her face was one of pure rapture as she dangled her feet in the ice-cold water, raising them now and then before dunking them back in, disturbing the tiny minnows darting about beneath the surface.

So absorbed was she in her pleasure that she was unaware of the lone horseman watching her from the shelter of the trees a short distance away, or the smile that curved his lips when she hitched up her skirts and stretched her long and slender legs out in front of her to dry.

Christina lay down on the dry grass, letting the fronds touch her face. The ground was vibrant with life. Through half-closed lids she saw a shiny black beetle scurrying away, and here and there tiny blue-and-white flowers. After a while, on a sigh she sat up and reluctantly donned her stockings and shoes.

The watcher sat on his horse without moving. The beauty of the young woman was such that he could not tear his eyes away. It brought home to him the starvation of his long celibacy. Her light blond hair tumbling over her shoulders was rich and luxuriant. Golden strands lightened by the sun shimmered among the carefree curls. He felt a great temptation to cross the meadow and run his fingers through the soft tresses. It was with a will of iron that he kept a grip on himself and did no more than watch.

Mounting her horse, about to ride towards the house, Christina heard a loud yelp followed by a whimper coming from the trees. Without a thought, she rode towards the sound, entering the dark coolness of the woods once more. She was surprised to see a small white dog of indeterminate breed caught up in some bramble bushes.

The distressed dog was familiar to Christina and, dismounting quickly, she went to try to set it free. Cleary frightened, it growled and bared its fangs, trying to back off.

‘Toby—good dog. Dear me, what a pickle you’ve got yourself into.’ She bent her head to smile at him. ‘Don’t struggle so. You know who I am,’ she murmured, holding out her hand in an effort to calm him down, relieved when he recognised her voice. Knowing he could trust her, he reduced his growl to a whimper; crawling forward on his belly as far as the clinging barbs would allow, he licked the end of her bare fingers with his sloppy wet tongue. ‘Hold still now and you’ll be out of there in a trice. Don’t wriggle so. You’ll make it difficult for yourself as well as for me.’

Falling to her knees, she carefully began prising away the brambles curling round his lacerated body, wishing she had worn her riding gloves when she felt the sharp prick of the barbs. They drew blood and spattered her gown. Hearing the heavy tread of someone coming up behind her, although her heart jumped, with a force of will she managed to ignore him, for she believed it to be the dog’s owner. But she could not quell the tremor of fear that gripped her on knowing she was alone with him in the woods.