their conversation.
Did she mean to drive him away or pull him in on Miss Tisdale’s behalf?
“Besides, have you danced with the Prince? Hardly worth the effort,” she said, breaking the peculiar spell that had been cast over their exchange.
The horn sounded just then, Pokey’s ears pricking forward with eagerness. “I believe it is time,” Marcus offered in farewell.
“Happy hunting, Lord Weston,” Claire finished, slapping Pokey on the rump as they trotted off.
* * *
Pokey was slow for a regally bred Thoroughbred, hence his telling soubriquet. But as compared to most of the fine yet lesser-known stock ridden by Marcus’s fellow hunters, he was a whirlwind who could quite literally run circles around them.
Which he very much wanted to do, despite Marcus’s urgings otherwise. Finally, Marcus gave up and allowed the horse free rein, taking off at a clip that no one save Bennington’s horse could hope to match.
They’d been riding some time with nary a growl from the pack of dogs. Marcus thought it as good a time as any to engage Bennington in conversation. Though he continued to doubt the merit of Carmichael’s concern, he was still obligated to do his duty.
And James Marlowe’s information concerning the London business still niggled at the back of his mind. He pulled gently at the reins, and Pokey abandoned his canter for a trot.
“I apologize, Weston,” Bennington offered as he pulled his bay alongside Pokey. “I don’t know what has become of the fox today.”
Marcus smiled, thinking back on Claire’s comment. “Perhaps Miss Tisdale did warn him of the hunt, after all.”
“Ha!” Bennington laughed out loud, slapping his thigh. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
They slowed to a walk and continued on in companionable silence, the other men still some distance behind. Marcus could not help but like the man, Bennington’s utter lack of concern for Marcus’s heritage seemingly as real as his love for his bonny wife.
Bennington would have invited him to hunt whether he liked Marcus or not, that much could be assumed. But he wouldn’t have asked for his help in planning the day’s events, nor listened to Marcus’s advice in the end.
There were Young Corinthians whom Marcus trustedwith his life, even a few whom he counted as friends. But he’d always assumed they were the exception.
“I had the good fortune to call upon Sir Arthur—and his exquisite brandy—the other day,” Marcus remarked conversationally, hopeful that Bennington would pick up the thread.
“Ah, yes, his brandy. The finest in the county—some say in the entire country.”
Marcus curbed his eagerness to continue and waited the appropriate amount of time before pressing further.
“Do all of Lulworth’s residents so heartily support smuggling, then?”
Bennington nodded. “In a word? Yes. Even his son plays at smuggling, acting as a courier now and again. Nothing dangerous, mind you …”
He stopped, the troubled look on his face confirming that he realized what he’d shared. “The Tisdales, for all their eccentricities, are a fine family, Weston. I would not want my words to lead you to believe otherwise.”
Weston gave the man a reassuring nod. “Of course. You’ve in no way dissuaded me from believing the Tisdales to be anything but what you claim.”
Marcus knew he was good at lying, and Bennington’s look of relief only underscored his talent.
Still, in all likelihood he’d use the man’s words against him, and not without pain.
The sudden cry of the pack as they shot off toward a copse of trees to the north caught both men by surprise, the unexpected appearance of Dixon as he raced past irritating to both.
“We cannot leave Dixon to win,” Bennington announced, spurring his bay into a gallop.
Marcus allowed Pokey his reins, the giant chestnut catching up to Bennington’s in no time. “On that we are united.”
“Cricket?” Sarah’s voice rose in disbelief as she and
Did she mean to drive him away or pull him in on Miss Tisdale’s behalf?
“Besides, have you danced with the Prince? Hardly worth the effort,” she said, breaking the peculiar spell that had been cast over their exchange.
The horn sounded just then, Pokey’s ears pricking forward with eagerness. “I believe it is time,” Marcus offered in farewell.
“Happy hunting, Lord Weston,” Claire finished, slapping Pokey on the rump as they trotted off.
* * *
Pokey was slow for a regally bred Thoroughbred, hence his telling soubriquet. But as compared to most of the fine yet lesser-known stock ridden by Marcus’s fellow hunters, he was a whirlwind who could quite literally run circles around them.
Which he very much wanted to do, despite Marcus’s urgings otherwise. Finally, Marcus gave up and allowed the horse free rein, taking off at a clip that no one save Bennington’s horse could hope to match.
They’d been riding some time with nary a growl from the pack of dogs. Marcus thought it as good a time as any to engage Bennington in conversation. Though he continued to doubt the merit of Carmichael’s concern, he was still obligated to do his duty.
And James Marlowe’s information concerning the London business still niggled at the back of his mind. He pulled gently at the reins, and Pokey abandoned his canter for a trot.
“I apologize, Weston,” Bennington offered as he pulled his bay alongside Pokey. “I don’t know what has become of the fox today.”
Marcus smiled, thinking back on Claire’s comment. “Perhaps Miss Tisdale did warn him of the hunt, after all.”
“Ha!” Bennington laughed out loud, slapping his thigh. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
They slowed to a walk and continued on in companionable silence, the other men still some distance behind. Marcus could not help but like the man, Bennington’s utter lack of concern for Marcus’s heritage seemingly as real as his love for his bonny wife.
Bennington would have invited him to hunt whether he liked Marcus or not, that much could be assumed. But he wouldn’t have asked for his help in planning the day’s events, nor listened to Marcus’s advice in the end.
There were Young Corinthians whom Marcus trustedwith his life, even a few whom he counted as friends. But he’d always assumed they were the exception.
“I had the good fortune to call upon Sir Arthur—and his exquisite brandy—the other day,” Marcus remarked conversationally, hopeful that Bennington would pick up the thread.
“Ah, yes, his brandy. The finest in the county—some say in the entire country.”
Marcus curbed his eagerness to continue and waited the appropriate amount of time before pressing further.
“Do all of Lulworth’s residents so heartily support smuggling, then?”
Bennington nodded. “In a word? Yes. Even his son plays at smuggling, acting as a courier now and again. Nothing dangerous, mind you …”
He stopped, the troubled look on his face confirming that he realized what he’d shared. “The Tisdales, for all their eccentricities, are a fine family, Weston. I would not want my words to lead you to believe otherwise.”
Weston gave the man a reassuring nod. “Of course. You’ve in no way dissuaded me from believing the Tisdales to be anything but what you claim.”
Marcus knew he was good at lying, and Bennington’s look of relief only underscored his talent.
Still, in all likelihood he’d use the man’s words against him, and not without pain.
The sudden cry of the pack as they shot off toward a copse of trees to the north caught both men by surprise, the unexpected appearance of Dixon as he raced past irritating to both.
“We cannot leave Dixon to win,” Bennington announced, spurring his bay into a gallop.
Marcus allowed Pokey his reins, the giant chestnut catching up to Bennington’s in no time. “On that we are united.”
“Cricket?” Sarah’s voice rose in disbelief as she and
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