The Last of Lady Lansdown by Shirley Kennedy

to such an extent? It was fun just to envision the look on Mama’s face should she appear at dinner in her bright pink satin.
    The fourth morning after Beauty came home, Jane strolled down the path to the stables wearing her favorite habit—a blue, close-fitting jacket worn over a cambric shirt, a blue riding hat decorated with two high-standing feathers and a matching riding skirt, extra full, long enough to completely cover her shoes when she sat sidesaddle. She carried a riding crop, too, knowing she looked extra elegant when Timothy gave her a boost and she settled into the sidesaddle. The minute she did, she felt better. The problems that had plagued her of late slipped away like drops of quicksilver. On even the shortest of rides through the peaceful countryside, a feeling of well-being overtook her. She forgot about horrible Beatrice, Mama’s stress over a nonexistent baby, poor, heartbroken Millicent, the missing jewels, the future state of her finances—which, if what Sir Archibald said was true, was about to change disastrously.
    Over the past few days, she had ridden over parts of the estate she had never seen before. Today, though, she chose the familiar river trail. It really was the best and had a long, straight stretch where she could let her horse full out. She walked Beauty to the trail, gave her a nudge, and off they went at a gallop. Instantly, her mind cleared of all the hassles and frustrations. She could concentrate on the trail, the horse ... and Douglas Cartland. What was the matter with her? Since the day he caressed her foot, she could not stop thinking about him. He was totally unsuitable. Everyone thought so, and she thought so, too. She should never see him again. The problem was, ever since they went riding, the image of his laughing face danced in her head, and she could not get rid of it. No matter. If she met him on the trail, she would give him a polite hello then be on her way.
    She saw a speck of something in the distance. As she drew closer, she saw it was a horse and rider. Closer still, her heart jumped. Speak of the devil. Douglas Cartland.
    They drew parallel and reined their horses. “Good morning, Countess.” Like last time, he was dressed informally in a white shirt open at the neck, breeches and Hessian boots. He scanned her critically and beamed approval. “No mourning today? What happened? Don’t tell me they brought the old boy back to life.”
    “You are absolutely blasphemous.” She was not the least perturbed. Now was the time to bid him good day and move on, but she couldn’t. She smoothed her blue velvet skirt, grateful that she looked her best. “You were right about the black. It is so unbecoming. I cannot bear to wear it unless I absolutely must. I do apologize. I can see how properly shocked you are that I’ve broken the rules.”
    “Shocked, indeed.” With a careless laugh, he circled his horse around hers so they faced the same direction. “Let’s ride together, shall we? We’ll go back to where we had our picnic.” He touched one of his saddle bags. “I trust you haven’t eaten. Mrs. Groton has fixed us a marvelous breakfast of Bolognese sausage, hard-boiled eggs, bread, cheese, and a bit of Russian caviar and brandy to wash it down.”
    She wanted to ask why he was so sure he would meet her on the trail but thought better of it. “Actually, I haven’t had my breakfast yet, so, yes, I accept your offer. If you think I’m going to drink brandy at this hour of the morning, you are sadly mistaken.”
     
    The brandy slid down her throat like velvet. Her stomach full, Jane leaned back against the big oak tree, just as satisfied and comfortable as before. Once again she found herself under the spell of that scoundrel, Douglas Cartland. He had been gone a few days to oversee the work on Lord Rennie’s canal, his return having been delayed by many problems.
    “Forgive me, but I cannot see what is so difficult about building a canal. Isn’t it