Читать книгу The Rake To Ruin Her - Julia Justiss - Страница 12

Still brooding over her failed interview with Mr Ransleigh, Caroline rose at the first faint light of dawn, quickly donned the hidden boots and breeches, and crept silently to the stables before the tweenies were up to light the fires. She encountered only one sleepy groom, rousted from his bed above the tack room when she went in to retrieve Sultan’s saddle.

After last night’s dinner, the guests had stayed up playing interminable rounds of cards, so she felt fairly assured they would all be abed late this morning. Her peep-of-dawn start should give her at least an extra hour to ride Sultan before prudence required her to slip back to the house and change into more acceptable clothing.

He flicked his ears and nickered at her as she entered the stables, then nosed in her pockets for his usual treat as she led him from his stall. She fed him the bit of apple, quickly saddled him and led him to the lane, then gave him his head. Eagerly the gelding set off at a gallop, the calming effects of which she needed even more than the horse.

For the next few moments, she gave herself over to the unequalled delight of bending low over the neck of the magnificent animal beneath her, heart, mind and soul attuned to his effort as the ground flew by beneath his pounding hooves.

All too soon, it was time to pull up. Crooning her approval, she schooled him to a cool-down walk while her attention, no longer distracted by the pleasure of riding, returned inexorably to her dilemma.

Unwise as it was, it seemed she’d pinned her hopes on the mad scheme of being ruined. She hadn’t realised until after he had turned her down just how much she’d been counting on coaxing Max Ransleigh to accept her offer and put an end to her matrimonial woes.

Though she had to admit to being a little relieved he had refused. Miss Claringdon had called him ‘charming’, but he exuded more than charm. Though she’d rather liked his keen wit, some prickly sense of awareness had flooded her as she’d stood under his gaze, some connection almost as real as a touch, that made her feel nervous and jittery as a colt eyeing his first bridle. When he’d asked her if she knew what he must do to compromise her, she’d blushed like a ninny, while visions of him drawing her close, covering her mouth with his, flashed through her mind. Thank heavens her garbled reply had made him laugh, but though the fraught moment had passed, she’d still felt his eyes examining her, heating her skin even as she walked away from him.

He certainly did not inspire her with the same ease and confidence Harry did.

Perhaps that’s why she’d remained so tense and sleepless last night, tossing and turning in her bed as she ran through her mind all the gentlemen present at the house party who might be possible alternatives to Max Ransleigh.

Only Mr Alastair’s reputation was scandalous enough to guarantee that being found in his presence would be enough to ruin her. She supposed she could try her luck with him, but she doubted he could be persuaded to throw his mother’s house party into an uproar by compromising one of her guests.

She could approach him back in London next spring. But though she was fairly confident ruining herself here wouldn’t create any long-lasting problems for her family, doing so at the height of the Season probably would, as Max Ransleigh had asserted. She certainly didn’t wish to repay the kindness Lady Denby and Eugenia had always shown her by spoiling in any way the Season that her stepsister anticipated so eagerly.

Which brought her back to the guests at this house party.

Unless she could work out some way to turn one of them to account, the future stretched before her like a grimly unpleasant repetition of her curtailed London Season: evening after evening of dinners, musicales, card parties, balls and routs, crowded about by men eager to relieve her of her fortune.

Was there any way she could avoid being dragged through all that? Maybe she should write to Harry after all, proposing a long-distance engagement. But would Lady Denby consider such an informally made offer binding?

By the time they reached the end of the field bordering the paddock, she was no closer to finding an answer to her problem. Thrusting it aside in disgust, she turned her attention back to putting Sultan through his paces.

If only, she thought as she commanded him to a trot, life could be schooled to such perfection as a fine horse.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Max shouldered creel and rod and followed Alastair to the stables. His cousin, having learned from his factor in the village that the fish were running well in the river, had dragged him from his bed before first light so they might try their luck at snagging some trout.

They were tromping in companionable silence down the path leading to the river when Alastair suddenly halted. ‘By Jove, that’s the finest piece of horseflesh I’ve seen in a dog’s age, trotting there in the paddock,’ he declared, pointing in that direction. ‘Whose nag is it, do you know?’

Max peered into the distance, where a stable boy was guiding a showy bay hack in a series of high-stepping motions. His eyes widening in appreciation, he noted the horse’s deep chest, broad shoulders, glossy sheen of coat and steady, perfect rhythm. His interest piqued as well, he said, ‘I have no idea. The bay is a magnificent beast.’

‘That’s not one of our grooms, either. Horse must belong to one of Mama’s guests, who brought his own man to exercise it.’ Alastair laughed. ‘I might resent providing the food and drink these man-milliners consume while they loiter here, but an animal as magnificent as that is welcome to my largesse.’

‘Aunt Grace’s largesse, to be fair.’

‘Not that I truly begrudge Jane the expense of their party. I just wish the guests were less tedious and the timing not so inconvenient.’

At least one guest, Max thought, had not been ‘tedious’ in the least. He smiled as images of Miss Denby ran through his head: staring up at him with a grin, bug-eyed in her spectacles; the atrocious puce gown she’d employed to ‘disguise’ her loveliness; and ah, yes, the luscious breasts whose rounded tops enticed him above the low neckline of her dinner dress …

Desire rose in him, surprising in its intensity. Reminding himself that seducing Miss Denby was not a possibility, he thrust the memories of her from his mind and turned his attention back to the horse, now being put through several intricate manoeuvres.

Finally, the groom pulled up and leaned low over his mount’s head, probably murmuring well-deserved compliments in his ear. Straightening, the lad kicked him to a trot across the paddock towards the lane leading back to the stables.

‘I’d like a closer look at that horse,’ Alastair said. ‘If we cut back at the next crossing, we should reach the stable lane about the same time as the groom.’

Max nodding agreement, the two cousins set off. Confirming Alastair’s prediction, after hurrying down the path, they emerged from behind a stand of trees just as the rider trotted past.

Apparently startled by their unexpected appearance, the horse neighed and reared up. With expert ease, the lad controlled him.

‘Sorry to have frightened your mount,’ Alastair told him. ‘We’ve been admiring him from the other side of the paddock.’

Max was about to add his compliments when his assessing eyes moved from the horse to the rider. With a shock, he realised the ‘groom’ was in fact no groom at all, but Miss Caroline Denby.

Alastair, no sluggard where the feminine form was concerned, simultaneously reached the same conclusion. ‘Devil’s teeth! It’s a girl!’ he muttered to Max, even as he swept his hat off and bowed. ‘Good morning, miss. Magnificent horse you have there!’

Miss Denby’s alarmed gaze leapt from Alastair to Max. As recognition dawned in her eyes, her face flamed. ‘Stepmother is going to be furious,’ she murmured with a sigh. Apparently accepting that she’d been well and truly caught, she nodded to him. ‘Good morning, Mr Ransleigh.’

Alastair’s brows lifted as he looked enquiringly from Miss Denby back to Max, then gestured to him to perform the introductions. Bowing to the inevitable, Max said, ‘Miss Denby, may I present my cousin, your host, Mr Alastair Ransleigh.’

She made a rueful grimace. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. I thought surely I’d be able to return before anyone but the grooms were stirring. Couldn’t you just pretend you hadn’t seen me?’

‘Don’t fret, Miss Denby,’ Max said. ‘We’re not supposed to let you see us, either. Shall this unexpected encounter remain our secret?’

She smiled. ‘In that case, I shall be pleased to meet you, Mr Ransleigh.’

‘And I am absolutely charmed to meet you, Miss Denby,’ Alastair replied, his rogue’s eyes avidly roving her form.

Max restrained the strong desire to smack him. Hitherto he’d thought nothing could accentuate a lady’s body like a silk gown, preferably thin and cut low in the bosom. But though he’d be delighted to see Miss Denby garbed only in the sheerest of materials, there was no escaping the fact that, in male riding attire, she looked entirely delectable.

Tight-knit breeches hugged her slender thighs and the curve of her trim derrière upon the saddle, while riding boots outlined her shapely calves. Beneath her unbuttoned tweed jacket, her shirt, open at the top since she wore no cravat, revealed a swan’s curve of neck, kissable hollows at her throat and collarbones, and a lush fullness beneath that made his mouth water. Several lengths of the glossy dark hair she’d thrust up under her cap had tumbled down during the ride and lay in damp, tangled curls upon her face and neck—looking much as they might, he thought, if she were reclining against her pillows after a night of lovemaking.

The heated gleam in Alastair’s eyes said he was envisioning exactly the same scene, damn him.

‘Bargain or not, I’d best return immediately and get into more proper clothing,’ Miss Denby said, pulling Max from his lusty imagining. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’

‘Wait, Miss Denby,’ Alastair called. ‘There wasn’t a soul stirring when we left the house but a short time ago. Tarry with us a minute, please! I’d like to ask about your mount. You were training him, weren’t you?’

She’d been looking towards the stables, obviously anxious to be away, but at Alastair’s expression of interest, she turned back, her eyes brightening. ‘Yes. Sultan is the most promising of our four-year-olds. Father bred him, Cleveland Bay with some Arabian for stamina and Irish thoroughbred for strength in the bone. Easy-going, with wonderful paces. He’ll make a superior hunter or cavalry horse … although I’ve about decided I cannot part with him.’

‘Your father … you mean Sir Martin Denby, of the Denby Stud?’ Alastair asked. When she nodded, he said, ‘No wonder your mount is so impressive. Max, you remember Mannington brought several of Sir Martin’s horses to the Peninsula. Excellent mounts, all of them.’

‘Lord Mannington?’ Miss Denby echoed. ‘Ah, yes, I remember; he purchased Alladin and Percival. Geldings who are kin to Sultan here, having the same dam, but a sire with a bit more Arabian blood. I’m so pleased to know they performed well.’

‘Mannington said their stamina and speed saved his neck on several occasions,’ Alastair said. After giving her a second, more thorough appraisal, he said, ‘You seem very knowledgeable about your father’s operation.’

‘I’ve helped him with it since I mounted my first pony,’ she responded, pride in her voice. ‘In addition to training the foals, I kept the stud books and sales records, as Papa was more concerned with charting bloodlines than plotting numbers.’

Sympathy softened Alastair’s face. ‘You must miss him very much. My condolences on your loss.’ While, her lips tightening, she nodded a quick acknowledgement, Alastair said, ‘A sad loss for the stud as well. Who is running it now?’

‘I am,’ she replied, lifting her chin. ‘Papa involved me in every aspect of the business, from breeding the mares to weaning the foals to breaking the yearlings and beginning the training of the two-year-olds.’ Her chin notched higher. ‘Denby Stud is my life. But …’ she gestured toward the fishing gear looped across their shoulders ‘… I mustn’t keep you from the trout eager to sacrifice themselves to your lures.’

She turned her mount’s head towards the stable, then paused. ‘I can count on your discretion, I trust?’

‘Absolutely,’ Alastair assured her.

Giving them a quick nod, she touched her heels to the gelding and rode off. Alastair, Max noted with disgruntlement, was following the bounce of her shapely posterior against the saddle as closely as he was, devil take him.

After she disappeared around the curve in the lane, Alastair turned to Max, grinning. ‘Well, well, well. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so silent around a female. Here I thought you’d been moping about, mourning your lost career. Instead, you’re been perfecting your credentials as a rogue, sneaking off to secret assignations with a tempting little morsel like that.’

Max struggled to keep his temper in check. ‘Let me remind you,’ he said stiffly, ‘that “morsel” is one of your mother’s guests and an innocent maid.’

‘Is she truly innocent?’ Alastair shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Lord have mercy, riding astride in breeches like that! I can’t believe I didn’t immediately realise she was female. Just shows how one doesn’t recognise what is right before one’s eyes when one’s not expecting it. Though she is an excellent rider: fine hands, great seat.’ With a chuckle, he added, ‘Wouldn’t mind having her in the saddle, those lovely long legs wrapped around me.’

A flash of fury surging through him, Max whacked his cousin with his fishing pole. ‘Stubble it! That’s a lady you’re insulting.’

‘Fancy her for yourself, do you?’ Alastair asked, unrepentant. ‘With her going about like that, her limbs and bottom outlined for any red-blooded man to ogle, it’s not my fault she evokes such thoughts. Nor are we the only ones watching.’ He pointed toward the opposite side of the field. ‘Some bloke over there is ogling her, too.’

His gaze following the direction of his cousin’s extended arm, Max squinted into the morning sunlight. ‘Who is it?’

‘How should I know? Probably another one of those damned macaroni merchants hanging about, measuring up the female flesh on display. Not a man’s man among them—petticoat-string dandies all,’ he concluded in disgust. ‘But this girl … she’s truly an innocent, you say?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘How do you know so much about her?’

Knowing he’d have to explain, but not wishing to reveal too much—certainly not her scandalous proposition—Max gave Alastair an abbreviated version of his meeting with Miss Denby in the conservatory.

‘Devil’s teeth, she’s a luscious armful in breeches. What a mistress she’d make!’ Alastair exclaimed, then waved Max to silence before he could deliver another rebuke. ‘Don’t get your cravat in a knot; I know there’s no chance of that. She is a “lady”, amazing as that seems to a man seeing her for the first time garbed like that. If marriage is her stepmother’s object, pulling it off is going to be difficult if word gets out of her offending the proprieties by riding about in boy’s dress. Though it would almost be worth wedlock, to get one’s hands on the Denby Stud.’

‘So she fears. She doesn’t want to marry, she said, and risk losing control over it.’

Alastair nodded. ‘I suppose I can understand. One wouldn’t wish to turn such a prime operation over to some hamfisted looby who couldn’t housebreak a puppy.’

‘How infuriating to see everything you’d worked on, worked for, the last ten years of your life given over to someone else. Ruined, perhaps, and you unable to do anything about it.’

Alastair gave him a searching look, as if he thought Max were speaking more about himself than Miss Denby. ‘Well, I wish her luck. She’s an odd lass, to be sure. But undeniably attractive, even without the inducement of the Denby Stud. Now, if we’re going to catch breakfast, we’d better be going.’ At that, Alastair kicked his mount into motion.

Lagging behind for a moment, Max studied the man across the field, who was now striding back toward the stables. He’d better find out who that was. And continue to keep an eye on Miss Denby.