Sally by M.C. Beaton Page A

her lecture that he kept his horse to a safe amble and was barely aware, until they were once more moving along beside the lake, that the sleet had changed to large flakes of snow that were gradually blotting out the landscape.
    He thought Sally’s indifference to the weather was typical of the girl, not knowing that Sally was freezing to death but would have endured anything other than another gallop, and was trying to keep his attention away from horse riding by going on about pigsticking until she felt she was beginning to bore herself.
    When they finally arrived at the stables, Sally was making a great effort to control the shaking of her knees. She felt battered and bruised all over.
    The marquess held up his arms to lift her down, and she fell heavily against him. But not for worlds would she let him know what a physical wreck she felt, and so she smiled up into his eyes with a flirtatious twinkle in her own so that he would think she had collapsed deliberately against him.
    After a slight look of surprise the marquess held her very close and then released her, turning away to shout something to the head groom, Sanders, and therefore sparing himself the sight of his fair partner reeling like a drunk as her weak and trembling legs fought for balance.
    By the time he had turned back, she had recovered enough to walk with him to the palace without staggering or falling. Much as she loved him, all Sally longed for was a hot bath. But…
    “Good Heavens! Teatime already,” said the marquess, pulling out his half hunter and staring at it. “Don’t bother to change. We are not very muddy. Only rather wet.”
    Sally groaned inwardly. As he led her through the hall she caught a glimpse of herself in a long looking glass and almost started in surprise. Apart from the missing buttons on her waistcoat, she saw in amazement that she looked possibly more elegant and assured than she had ever done in her life. The black topper was remarkably becoming, and, underneath it, not even a strand of hair had come loose from its moorings.
    Quite a surprising number of people were assembled in the large drawing room, drinking tea. The Guthrie sisters descended on the marquess with little chirping cries and bore him off, one on either side. He cast an anguished look of mock despair over his shoulder at Sally, which every lady in the room noted, hating Sally accordingly.
    With relief Sally saw the trim and upright figure of Miss Fleming and headed in that lady’s direction.
    “I’m dying,” she muttered as Miss Fleming handed her a cup of tea. “I’d never ridden a horse before, and never, ever will I ride one again.”
    “I say, Lady Cecily,” said a voice at her elbow, “allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Firkin, Peter Firkin. Just heard Paul telling everybody about your marvelous jump. Jolly good, haw. You’ll show us all at the meet on Saturday.”
    “I don’t think—” began Sally weakly.
    “Everyone’s turning out to see you go through your paces, don’t you know. You must tell me all about the time you went pigsticking.”
    “You
what?
” interposed Miss Fleming.
    Sally suddenly put down her teacup with a hand that shook. “Later, Mr. Firkin,” she said.
    “Miss Fleming, please come upstairs with me. I do not like to stand around in all my dirt.”
    Miss Fleming cast a longing look toward a plate of cucumber sandwiches and decided to make the best of it. She collared a footman and asked that their afternoon tea be served to them in their rooms and bore Sally off.
    Sally managed bravely until the door of her room closed behind her. Then she threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.
    “He didn’t… he
couldn’t have
,” exclaimed Miss Fleming, who always believed that men were only after one thing.
    “No! No!” wailed Sally. “I hurt all over, and I was so frightened, and now I am to go hunting.”
    Miss Fleming sat on the edge of the bed and took Sally’s limp hand in her own.
    “Look here,