Juliet Landon - His Duty, Her Destiny

Lathered with sweat, Janus dropped his head as Nicola slid to the ground, ready to hand him over to the waiting groom. She was tired, angry and bitterly disappointed that this man should have spoiled what had begun as fun and games, no more. Now, it was the same as ever, and she had been robbed of her success because he couldn’t bear to be beaten by little Nicola Coldyngham.

He turned back to meet her, smacking the sweating neck of the glossy bay, not as smiling in victory as she had expected him to be, though surrounded by admirers. Leaning down, he held out a hand to her. ‘Jump up behind me, my lady. Put your foot on top of mine.’ It took him barely four seconds to recognise the defiance in her eyes, and his dismounting was a quick roll off the horse’s back that brought him very close to her. ‘I’m taking you home, Nicola,’ he said, grimly.

‘I am not ready to go home, sir. I’m staying here with my friends. I know you can claim the prize, but you’ll have to wait,’ she said, trying to dodge round him.

Fergus was not inclined to argue, for now the other riders were approaching, Lord John amongst them leading his exhausted horse through clouds of steam and shouts of congratulations. Fergus acted. With one sudden dip of his body, he caught Nicola like a puppet and tossed her up on to the wide rump of his bay, behind the saddle. Then, before she could protest or wonder how to get down from that perilous height without breaking an ankle, he was seated in front of her, gathering the reins and moving away, calling to Nicola’s groom to lead Janus behind them.

On this rare occasion, Nicola saw the wisdom of holding her tongue. For one thing, much as he deserved it, she did not want Fergus’s overbearing behaviour to become an issue or to spark off an incident. For another, this conclusion to her losing and his winning was so unlike the way it used to be when she had been left alone and dismal, that something in her rejoiced, childlike, to be acknowledged as the one who might…just…have won.

Lord John was not so impressed. ‘Who are you, sir?’ he snapped at Fergus, his coarse skin blotched and sweating profusely, his fair hair dark and sticky and very untidy. He looked suddenly dissolute and old.

‘Sir Fergus Melrose, my lord, at your service. The Lady Nicola and I claim our prize. First man. First lady. I’m taking her home now. She’s been out long enough.’

From behind his back, Nicola nearly spluttered with indignation at this latest piece of interference, but again she kept her peace. Joining in would gain nothing except, possibly, to be the centrepiece of a brawl.

‘And who are you to say when Lady Nicola has been out long enough? Are you related?’ Lord John said, coldly eyeing Fergus’s expensive saddle and boots.

‘Distantly,’ said Fergus. ‘Lady Nicola and I have an agreement of long standing. We shall soon be betrothed. I give you good day, my lord.’

‘What!’ Lord John’s colour drained away as they watched. ‘You are—? Is this true, my lady?’ He looked up at Nicola with eyes, usually so merry and teasing, now staring and cold with fury.

Determined not to be drawn into an unseemly discussion before all these sharp ears, Nicola put on what she hoped was a brave smile intended to placate her friend. ‘We’ll talk about this another day, my lord, if you please, when we have more privacy. This is not the time or place. Sir Fergus is a friend of the family. I’ve known him since we were children.’ By the time she had finished the last sentence, Fergus had put his heels to the bay’s flanks and was already moving away through the envious and curious spectators, and Nicola had to snatch at his belt to keep her balance, leaving Lord John truly speechless with rage at being robbed of his prize. He would certainly have been allowed to win if Fergus had not appeared.

The look on Lord John’s face as they left made her arms prickle with an icy chill: it was a look she would remember for some time.

She waited until the friends were out of their hearing before launching into a reprimand of the kind she would like to have delivered twelve years ago, if she had had the courage. ‘If you think this is the kind of behaviour appropriate from a suitor to a lady, Sir Fergus, you had better take some lessons, it seems to me. Your rudeness was well-nigh unbearable when you were sixteen. It certainly hasn’t improved, has it? Is this the best you can do?’

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