No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster
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as he dared and, squinting, discerned a woman’s form, her turquoise habit bright against the horse’s flank. Her hair had loosened, falling over her shoulders in a brilliant red-gold mass.
Paul gripped the reins tighter still. He knew only one woman with hair like that.
Irritation and a deeper, more primitive emotion clawed at him. Sweat dampened his palms. He was gaining ground. He’d be able to grab her reins soon enough.
He must be careful not to startle her animal. For a moment he imagined her thrown, her face smashed or her body crippled.
Half-standing in the stirrups, he leaned forward, his thighs clamped hard around the horse’s chest.
Then, without warning, her horse slowed.
Stalwart bolted ahead. Sitting heavily, Paul swung his animal about. Relief rushed through his body.
‘Miss Gibson!’ he shouted. ‘Hand me the reins! What on earth happened? How did he get away on you?’
‘My lord?’
The woman looked across at him. He saw no anxiety, no worry or apology. In fact, she was smiling and looked considerably happier than she’d appeared at the museum.
‘Are you all right?’
She rubbed the horse’s neck. Her hair fell forward, tangling in its mane. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Fine? Fine! You could have been killed.’
The impertinent wench laughed. ‘I was perfectly safe. Grey Lady’s a lamb and I’ve been riding for ever.’
That was true. He could see it now that the blindness of fear had lifted. He’d seldom seen a better seat, or a more foolhardy display.
‘That may be so, but you are not in the country and Grey Lady is no plough horse.’
‘She’s beautiful. It has been ages since I rode such a creature.’ Her voice softened, her hand still caressing the horse’s neck.
Paul prided himself on his rational calm. He did not give way to emotion. But the hammering of his heart did not feel rational.
Or calm.
‘Where are her ladyship and your sister? Why are you riding alone and at such a pace?’ he asked abruptly.
His question seemed to confuse her. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Lady Wyburn said I might ride ahead.’
‘I assure you she did not mean for you to dash off to Rotten Row. Ladies do not gallop on Rotten Row. Nobody gallops here even on quiet days.’
‘Really? I made certain I did not collide with anyone and a good ride is such fun.’
‘As is climbing a tree and riding livestock.’
‘Livestock?’ She stopped, head cocked, as though confused. Then her countenance cleared. ‘Why, I remember now where we met. Lady Lockhart’s garden party years ago.’
‘I hope you will not repeat that particular performance.’
‘No, that goat was too uncomfortable. I couldn’t walk for weeks. Besides, there seems a sad dearth of goats in London salons.’
Oddly, Paul wanted to smile. More than smile, he wanted to laugh. The girl’s wit, her zest for life was contagious and blotted out her odd behaviour that morning.
He felt absurdly relieved for this.
Although why he should care, he did not know. ‘You must curb your enthusiasms, Miss Gibson. Your manners are too forward,’ he said sharply.
Her face fell, the laughter leaving her gaze and two spots of anger flushing her cheeks. ‘I apologise for my rudeness and any lack of propriety, my lord.’
He nodded. ‘I do not wish my stepmother to become the subject of gossip.’
‘I would never dishonour her ladyship. I will return to her now before she becomes anxious. Goodbye, my lord.’
She spoke quietly, but he saw her anger in the toss of her head and that wild, wonderful hair. Then, to his surprise, she pulled her animal short. He wondered what insult she had forgotten.
‘About cutting so close to you,’ she said, speaking the words he least expected. ‘I should...will apologise for that. You were hidden from my view, but that is no excuse. I had my mind on other matters and could have spooked your horse.’
The fire fizzled from him. ‘It is of no consequence.’
She nodded, urging her horse ahead.
‘And, Miss Gibson?’
‘My lord?’
‘You have an excellent seat and are a fine horsewoman.’ Which, he guessed, were the words she least expected.
She nodded and turned away, urging her mare to a trot. Paul watched with reluctant admiration. He liked her wide generous smile which somehow transformed her face. More than that, he liked her vibrancy, the love of life, which seemed to exude from her.
Damn.
The realisation jolted through him. He stiffened and Stalwart stepped sideways with a nervous whinny.
He was, Paul realised, physically attracted to Miss Amaryllis Gibson.
No, it was more than that. It was more than just the physical desire he might feel for an actress or light skirt. He liked her. He liked her intelligence, her wit, her peculiar interests, even her opinions.
What other woman would be so enchanted with the Elgin Marbles?
But he would not, must not, allow it.
Miss Amaryllis was the last person for whom he should form an attachment. She was impulsive, immature and unpredictable.
Paul did not like the unpredictable.
His childhood had been a steeplechase of unpredictable, ruled by his mother’s moods. One day there would be laughter and the next...
On the next, her mood would overwhelm all else so that even the servants stooped under its weight.
And as for his father...
‘At last!’ Imogene said. ‘Our first grand ball!’
The sisters stood before the looking glass in Rilla’s bedchamber, under strict instructions from Heloise to touch nothing.
Rilla stared at her reflection with a peculiar feeling of disbelief.
It was her, of course. Yet she looked so different.
Tentatively, Rilla rubbed her hand across the expanse of skin exposed by the low neckline and watched the image do so too. The neckline, the lightness of the muslin, the way if fell loosely about her waist and hips gave her a feeling of nakedness which was both disconcerting and exciting all at once.
Of course, Rilla knew she was too tall and her movements too brisk but, despite this, she looked...good.
Well, better than she would have supposed and quite different from a girl who habitually fell out of trees.
Indeed, it would be satisfying to have Wyburn see that she did not always gallop or do outlandish things.
Not that she particularly cared what Wyburn thought.
Abruptly, Rilla shifted her gaze to her sister. Now Imogene was truly beautiful—exquisite in a light blue gown with pearls encircling her throat.
And so like their mother.
Rilla had forgotten how beautiful her mother had looked before her last illness. She remembered her now—taller than Imogene, but with that delicate pale beauty. She remembered also how her father would even abandon