Fortune's Lady (23 page)

Gareth sensed that his lack of faith had touched a nerve, but even he, notable whip that he was, had discovered some time ago, to his own chagrin, that the man at Tattersall’s had understated the case when he had warned the marquess that the bays were high-spirited.
You’ll never find sweeter goers than these two, my lord, but they are touchy, sir, very touchy.
The man had been very insistent upon this point and he had been entirely correct. The bays possessed incredibly sensitive mouths and flew like the wind, but they were temperamental in the extreme.

A low whicker greeted them as they entered the stables, and Gareth, his eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom, was surprised to see two handsome heads appear eagerly over the stalls. Ordinarily they snorted and stamped their hooves at the approach of anyone, especially a crowd such as this.

“Hello, my lads.” A soft voice at his side responded to their greeting.

Gareth watched in astonishment as Althea acknowledged the bobbing heads and another low whicker before bestowing a lump a sugar and a friendly pat on each of them. Then, to his utter amazement, she opened the door to the first stall, entered, stroked Achilles’ velvety nose, and took hold of his bridle to lead him out.

He followed as meek as a lamb and stood patiently flicking his tail as his dumbfounded master surveyed him for signs of the accident.

There was the faintest hint of a cut on its outside hind leg, but other than that, the animal appeared to be in superb health and the best of spirits. In fact, Gareth could not remember when he had seen the horse looking so calm and relaxed.

“Looking right fit, ain’t he, my lord?” Gareth’s groom flashed his master a sly smile.

Damn the man! He was laughing at him. Actually, they were all laughing at him. They knew that his cattle were as contented and as well cared for as they had ever been in their lives, but they were all waiting for him to acknowledge it. And with that acknowledgment would come an important admission about himself and a certain remarkable young woman that he was not quite prepared to face at this particular moment.

Gareth de Vere, Marquess of Harwood, might be able to admit that, as an injured man, he needed to rely on another’s care; he might even concede that he had been forced to accept that care from a woman. But he was not about to admit that anyone, especially a young woman, was able to handle his team.

“Happen you don’t know what they call my lady in the village, my lord,” Althea’s own groom ventured.

“Hush, Jem.” His mistress silenced him with a frown. “That is neither here nor there.”

“No, Jem. I do not know what they call her in the village, but I feel certain that you are going to enlighten me,” the marquess responded grimly.

“Yes, my lord, I am.” Too intent on defending his mistress to be intimidated by his lordship’s icy undertone, Jem stared back at him defiantly. “They call her the Angel of the Stable, and it ain’t just because she knows how to heal ailing animals. It’s because she knows how to talk to them. I don’t mean talk to them like ‘How are you today?’ and ‘What do you think of the weather we’re having?’ But it’s like she understands what they are thinking. They know that and they trust her. Take these lads, here, for instance—as rare a pair of tearers as I ever did see—they are gentle as lambs with her because they trust her.”

Jem’s rare grin illuminated his face for an instant. “You see it, sir. I know you do. And I do not blame you for being a mite put out. After all, you must be a bruising driver yourself and a connoisseur of fine horseflesh, if your team is anything to go by. And I’ll be bound that you are a man who has not met his match. But our lady here is something altogether special. It is a magic she has, and there is no mistaking it. Ask anyone around these parts and they will agree with me.”

Jem stopped, gulped, and reddened in embarrassment as if suddenly recognizing his temerity in flaunting his mistress’s talents in front of a man who was clearly an experienced whip himself.

“I thank you for your enlightenment, Jem.” The harsh note in Gareth’s voice cause Althea to scan his face anxiously for any signs of pain, but he seemed to be resting comfortably enough, his injured leg thoroughly supported by the door they had laid across two sturdy chairs.

She could not know, however, the conflicting emotions warring in his breast. First and foremost was relief that his own stupid moment of inattention had not brought harm to a magnificent pair of animals. But this relief was closely followed by chagrin that someone else had been left to care for them and that that someone else had done a superb job of it, better than he could have.

Gareth watched silently as Althea returned Achilles to his stall and brought out Ajax who, slightly less temperamental than his partner, was actually affectionate with her, rubbing his head against her arm and nuzzling her ear.

There was no doubt about it: noted whip and rider that he was, Gareth had never in the year that he had owned the team established the bond with these animals that Althea had in little over a week’s time. Added to that deflating fact was the speedy recovery both animals had made, not only from the wounds, superficial though they were, but also the trauma of the accident. He was forced to admit that Jem was right. It was nothing short of a miracle.

But a cynic of the Marquess of Harwood’s stature did not believe in miracles, and when they returned to his room, he questioned his caretaker closely. “And just how did you happen to come by this appellation that your groom alluded to, the ‘Angel of the Stable’?”

“Oh, that. It is nothing. You know how credulous country folk can be.”

“I do,” he responded doggedly. “And I also know that it takes a very long time for country folk to accept a stranger in the neighborhood, especially someone who has arrived straight from the metropolis. And it takes even longer for that stranger to establish a credibility, especially where country matters are concerned.”

“As I said, it is nothing. I have merely helped out a few people who are too poor to afford the services of a veterinarian.”

“Is there not a farrier in the village?”

“Yes, of course there is.”

“I see.” Clearly she had done more than the “nothing” she claimed to have done. And clearly she was unwilling to admit to any of it. The more she dismissed this private and unusual side of her character, the more he wanted to know about it, which was a rare departure for someone like Gareth, who lived aloof and independent from his fellow man, who protected his own privacy at all costs, and who ordinarily respected others who wished to do so. He found himself feeling utterly frustrated by her obvious wish to avoid any and all confidences.

Refusing to look into those penetrating eyes that were fixed so intently on her, Althea turned to leave the room, but before she could, he caught her hand and pulled her down onto the chair next to the sofa where they had laid him after his visit to the stables. “Please do not turn away. I wish to understand this. Why do you not want to admit to having used your hidden talents and special powers to help these animals and their owners?”

Gareth continued to stare at her, willing her to look at him, but she remained silent, still avoiding his gaze. Did she not trust him enough to share this important part of her life with him? Usually he avoided the intimacy of shared hopes and dreams, for it required the listener to reveal something on his own part to the speaker and he avoided such revelations at all costs. But in this instance he wished to share. “I only ask because I admire anyone who can communicate well enough with an animal to earn its trust.”

Althea stopped trying to free her wrist from his grasp and he pressed his advantage. “When I was a lad, my horses and my dogs were the only friends I had. They lavished more attention and affection on me than my parents ever did, and they were certainly far more trustworthy. They meant everything to me. When I later joined the cavalry I met some excellent fellows, comrades who would do anything, risk anything for one another, but it was still my horse I relied upon in battle, my horse whom I trusted with my life. And it was the suffering of the horses in these battles that made me grow to detest the military life. Agonies of wounded men were nothing to me compared to those of the noble beasts who carried them. And I could do nothing to help them.”

Tears stung his eyelids as he recalled these painful memories and he paused, swallowing hard. “After all, it is man who makes war and these poor animals who bear the burden of man’s idiocy. I was just beginning to think I could bear it no longer when my father died a ruined man and I was forced to return home. But I kept thinking about these poor beasts long after I left the battlefields of the Peninsula. Then one day I overheard a friend talking about attending an auction of wounded troop horses where he happened to stand next to the renowned surgeon Sir Astley Cooper, who astounded the entire crowd by buying twelve of them. My friend later heard that Cooper had taken the horses home to his estate, removed all the bullets and grapeshot from the animals, and given them all the solicitous care these old warriors deserved. The minute I heard that I resolved to do the very same thing. I wrote to Sir Astley to learn more about it, and now I have a dozen or so on my own estate who have been rehabilitated by the great man himself. It is one of my greatest joys to see them occasionally form together in a line and charge across the pasture.”

“You? I would not have thought—” Suddenly aware of what she had been about to say, Althea broke off in some confusion.

“You would not have thought what?”

“Well, I ...” Uncomfortably, she twisted and untwisted the ribbon of her jonquil morning dress between her fingers. ‘‘You do not seem to be, er, a, well ... You do not seem to be a sentimental sort of person.”

“Because I prefer to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself instead of forcing them on anyone who will listen? How can you be surprised at that? After all,
I
am not the one who is called the Ice Princess; you are. And yet you are here doing just what I would wish to do, helping suffering horses.”

“That is different. You are cynical and scornful of society. My demeanor, which won me the name of Ice Princess, was not adopted out of a scorn for society.”

“Then why were you the Ice Princess?” Gently he pulled her over to the sofa next to him so he could look deep into her eyes.

“Because I ...” Althea bit her lip as painful memories of greedy eyes and covetous smiles came rushing back to her “Because I did not like being the object of attention and desire on the part of people who knew little or nothing about me beyond my family and my fortune. People who knew little and cared less, but intruded into my life, forcing me ...” She shuddered and fell silent. “I did not want those people to know anything about me. I did not want to satisfy their need to know, just for the sake of knowing, any of the details of my life.”

“Did it not occur to you that some of them might have been genuinely interested in you?”

“Believe me, they were not,” she replied acidly, a bitter smile twisting her lips.

“But you told me you disliked being treated as an object. If you allow no one to know you, then that is how they are forced to treat you.”

“Better that than the other.”

“But the more I came to know you, the more I discovered that you were not a vain and haughty beauty who enjoys reducing men to abject, slavish admirers, but an intelligent, courageous, and thoughtful woman who possesses talents far beyond those of the ordinary person.” Gareth tilted her chin to look deep into her eyes. “A woman who is worthy of admiration, not for her family or her fortune, but for her character. Is that not what you want, to be understood and appreciated for who you really are?”

His face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath against her lips and she could barely hear the words he said over the pounding of her own heart. She had always avoided looking into men’s eyes before, for fear of what she would see there, but now she could not look away. In the gray depths of this man’s eyes she could see reflected back at her the person she wanted to be—a person, not a thing, someone admired for her work, not for her possessions.

Althea felt herself being drawn deeper and deeper into a whirlpool of intimacy and closeness. She did not resist, but leaned closer as his arm pulled her to him and their lips touched.

She felt as though all the breath had suddenly left her body, and with it had gone her will. She was helpless to do anything but revel in the warmth of his lips on hers. In the oddest way, it was the culmination of what had begun that long-ago evening in Lady St. John’s ballroom. In spite of her annoyance at him, she had been drawn to him because he was different, because he did not join the throng clamoring around her. After that, every time she saw him, everything she had discovered about him had drawn her inexorably closer to him until she was in his arms. Had she always secretly longed to be there? Althea could not say, but for the moment she only wanted to experience the powerful connection between them, the indescribable current that flowed back and forth between their minds, their hearts, and their bodies.

At the same time, she was deathly afraid of the irresistible pull he exerted on her. She had run away from London and risked incurring the wrath of her parents precisely because she had not wanted anyone to have any power over her and now she was relinquishing herself to a force that dominated her more completely than her parents ever had. True, the power her parents exerted had come from without while the power the Marquess of Harwood held over her came from within herself, but that made it all the more compelling and all the more threatening. Either way, she was in danger of losing herself.

Summoning all her strength and all her willpower, Althea pulled away. Unable to utter a word, she raised a shaking hand to her lips. What was she to do now? What she wanted, shockingly enough, was more. She longed to twine her hands in his hair, to pull his body close to hers, to feel the power of it against hers, to share everything with him, her body as well as her mind.

Gareth caught his breath as he looked at her. She had never been more beautiful. Her parted lips were slightly swollen and red; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He had only meant the kiss to be a confirmation of his belief in her, but it had become so much more—a proof of how much he wanted her, how he had longed to be near her, to touch her, to hold her, since the very moment he had lain eyes on her. In all his previous liaisons with women he had never experienced such a thing, this irresistible attraction. In the ballrooms with people around, or in his lodgings with her maid watching, he had had control of himself, but now he was helpless in the face of his desire.