back.”
“The groom is on the other side of the hedgerow, pretending to ignore us.”
She turned, and indeed the young stable hand who had curried the horses was partly visible beyond the hawthorn and dog-rose leaves.
“Shall we go on?” He motioned for her to precede him under the low branches of a passage. “I shall give you plenty of time to think of an answer to my question, madam.”
She pretended not to hear him and trotted past. She couldn’t stop herself from speeding up or slowing down each time he attempted to ride beside her. It was childish, but she hated being forced to play a game she didn’t know.
The pastures teemed with green blades poking past the shorn brownish winter wheat. Overhead, gulls screeched their displeasure at being disturbed when they reached the coastlands. They turned inland at Penzance, past the ancient stone circles, home to legend and lore of mysterious people long gone.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamunde noticed the duke breaking past to lead her away from the track. A quarter hour later they came to an enormous oval pond, at least a mile around, its wavelets making lapping sounds. Hoofprints and a few obstacles abounded the course, its purpose revealed.
He looked at her and raised a single black amused eyebrow, in a silent dare.
“Absolutely not,” she said quietly.
“No?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Certain,” she replied.
He paused. “You know, my dear, sometimes it’s almost as if you’re looking for an argument.”
“Almost ?” she countered.
He grinned a most devilish expression, then surveyed the circuit. “Actually I rather like that about you. Usually no one ever dares.” He leaned over, murmured something to his horse, and then gathered hisreins. “It truly is as amusing as your predictable reaction to every challenge.” His mare pranced and balanced on her hindquarters before sprinting forward into a dead run.
Caught unawares, Rosamunde muttered something and had but a moment to collect herself before her horse whinnied his intent and strained against the bit. She was not going to take the bait.
Absolutely not going to.
The gelding was very keen to follow and snorted his annoyance at her tight grip on the reins. She held fast, but coiled desire unfurled in the pit of her stomach.
She longed to let him go.
Longed to feel the wind on her face and the exhilaration of soaring over a split rail fence.
She spied the white tail of a rabbit hopping along the hedge line. A gray fox slinked around the corner and dashed after it. Her horse shied, took the bit between his teeth and bolted.
Afterward, Rosamunde halfheartedly tried to convince herself she hadn’t been able to hold him, but in her soul she knew she’d given in to temptation. She might be repentant, but it had truly felt wonderful to fly again, into the teeth of her beloved Cornish salt air.
The wind whined past her ears and the long familiar rush of excitement shot through her as she leaned forward and tried to ignore the brittle sidesaddle. There was no chance she could overtake him. For the only time in her life it didn’t matter. The mare, far in front, was kicking up sodden chunks of turf. Rosamundeguided her horse to the extreme inside curve in a daring maneuver to cut the distance.
Once or twice, he looked over his shoulder at her. He was doing it again, crinkling his eyes in an extremely vexing, knowing fashion, when she watched his horse hesitate and falter in front of a wide ditch.
In a remarkable feat, the duke lost his balance and began to fall to one side, almost tumbling into the muddy edge. At the last moment he righted himself.
Rosamunde swallowed a giggle and trotted up, the young groom a few paces behind her.
“Yes, well, that worked out nicely for you,” the duke said dryly and came to a halt.
She bit her lip to control a gurgle of laughter.
The groom stopped his small white horse alongside and jumped off, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but
“The groom is on the other side of the hedgerow, pretending to ignore us.”
She turned, and indeed the young stable hand who had curried the horses was partly visible beyond the hawthorn and dog-rose leaves.
“Shall we go on?” He motioned for her to precede him under the low branches of a passage. “I shall give you plenty of time to think of an answer to my question, madam.”
She pretended not to hear him and trotted past. She couldn’t stop herself from speeding up or slowing down each time he attempted to ride beside her. It was childish, but she hated being forced to play a game she didn’t know.
The pastures teemed with green blades poking past the shorn brownish winter wheat. Overhead, gulls screeched their displeasure at being disturbed when they reached the coastlands. They turned inland at Penzance, past the ancient stone circles, home to legend and lore of mysterious people long gone.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamunde noticed the duke breaking past to lead her away from the track. A quarter hour later they came to an enormous oval pond, at least a mile around, its wavelets making lapping sounds. Hoofprints and a few obstacles abounded the course, its purpose revealed.
He looked at her and raised a single black amused eyebrow, in a silent dare.
“Absolutely not,” she said quietly.
“No?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Certain,” she replied.
He paused. “You know, my dear, sometimes it’s almost as if you’re looking for an argument.”
“Almost ?” she countered.
He grinned a most devilish expression, then surveyed the circuit. “Actually I rather like that about you. Usually no one ever dares.” He leaned over, murmured something to his horse, and then gathered hisreins. “It truly is as amusing as your predictable reaction to every challenge.” His mare pranced and balanced on her hindquarters before sprinting forward into a dead run.
Caught unawares, Rosamunde muttered something and had but a moment to collect herself before her horse whinnied his intent and strained against the bit. She was not going to take the bait.
Absolutely not going to.
The gelding was very keen to follow and snorted his annoyance at her tight grip on the reins. She held fast, but coiled desire unfurled in the pit of her stomach.
She longed to let him go.
Longed to feel the wind on her face and the exhilaration of soaring over a split rail fence.
She spied the white tail of a rabbit hopping along the hedge line. A gray fox slinked around the corner and dashed after it. Her horse shied, took the bit between his teeth and bolted.
Afterward, Rosamunde halfheartedly tried to convince herself she hadn’t been able to hold him, but in her soul she knew she’d given in to temptation. She might be repentant, but it had truly felt wonderful to fly again, into the teeth of her beloved Cornish salt air.
The wind whined past her ears and the long familiar rush of excitement shot through her as she leaned forward and tried to ignore the brittle sidesaddle. There was no chance she could overtake him. For the only time in her life it didn’t matter. The mare, far in front, was kicking up sodden chunks of turf. Rosamundeguided her horse to the extreme inside curve in a daring maneuver to cut the distance.
Once or twice, he looked over his shoulder at her. He was doing it again, crinkling his eyes in an extremely vexing, knowing fashion, when she watched his horse hesitate and falter in front of a wide ditch.
In a remarkable feat, the duke lost his balance and began to fall to one side, almost tumbling into the muddy edge. At the last moment he righted himself.
Rosamunde swallowed a giggle and trotted up, the young groom a few paces behind her.
“Yes, well, that worked out nicely for you,” the duke said dryly and came to a halt.
She bit her lip to control a gurgle of laughter.
The groom stopped his small white horse alongside and jumped off, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but
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