Let Me Be The One (10 page)

Not certain if he was still referring to her diplomacy with Allen and Rutherford or her adroitness with Becket, Elizabeth made a brief nod and gave her attention to the groundskeeper and hounds. "Will you want to hang back?" she asked.

"Only if it is your wish."

"I will flank the other riders. It is safer that way. Do not think you have to accompany me or see to my welfare. There can be no sport for you in that." She lifted her chin to indicate the woods. "Do you see that break in the oaks? That is where I will allow Becket to charge. No fox has ever been run to ground there as the cover is sparse. The creature that has been bedeviling the sheep was last sighted in the thickest part of the wood. It will be a squeeze to rival Almack's during the Season."

"I believe I shall stay with you."

She nodded, smiling faintly. "They are ready to give the call." Alert to every shift in the landscape, Elizabeth straightened suddenly and extended her riding crop toward the far edge of the field. "Oh, look! There he is, my lord. He is a game one! I believe he is teasing the hounds!"

Northam caught only a glimpse of a slim snout, a burnished russet pelt, and a white-tagged tail before it disappeared into the tall green grass. The blades bent and swayed as if an invisible finger were drawing a path through the field. The fox leaped once, suddenly, avoiding an obstacle that was hidden in the grass, then disappeared again, this time into the wood.

The braying, barking hunting hounds were released. They nearly overran one another as instinct and training urged them forward on the scent of the fox. They were halfway across the field before the hunting horns blared.
Tan-ti-veee. Tan-ti-veee. Tan-ti-veee.
Shouting, the riders released their straining mounts and they broke free en masse. Great clumps of damp earth and grass were thrown up as the hooves pounded out their own rhythm. Riding whips whistled through the air as the first wave of scarlet crested a knoll and claw-hammer tails rippled in the wind.

Northam glanced over at Elizabeth. The fine features of her face were set without tension or fear. Her concentration was complete, yet she made it seem effortless. If she had known how she looked she would not have let him see. Here was a face naked save for joy, stripped of every defense and all caution. Release made her appear so vulnerable that it seemed to him a violation of her secret self to stare so openly.

"Be careful!" she shouted.

He saw the worn remains of an old stone fence the same time his horse did. Here, hidden among the tall shafts of lush green grass, was the obstacle the fox had jumped. Northam prepared himself as he would not have done if Elizabeth had not called to him. He would be forever in her debt for saving him from an ignominious fall. Before he could call out his thanks, her mount was sailing across the old fence and he had to give chase.

Elizabeth's prediction of how the riders would cluster as they neared the wood was proving true. He held his powerful black mare back just enough for Elizabeth's Becket to maintain the lead, and then he followed them as they veered toward the dark opening in the oaks. Another rider had split from the hunting party and taken that direction also. Northam recognized the powerful chest and shoulders of Battenburn's cinnamon-colored mare as she charged in front of them.

The sun seemed to wink out as they drove hard into the wood. Hounds and horses could be heard crashing through the thicket. Of necessity, the speed of the animals slowed. The baron's bright scarlet jacket gave Northam and Elizabeth a figure to follow, and the path unfolded in front of them as if a carpet were being laid.

Cunning, Northam thought, not for the first time. Lady Elizabeth Penrose was clever and cunning. Far from being put off by this observation, Northam numbered it among her most intriguing assets.

Northam became aware that there was another incremental change in the concentration of their light. Overhead the canopy of boughs was becoming less dense and shafts of sunlight speared every opening between the branches like transparent lances. Raindrops that had clung to the bright green surface of the leaves were shaken free and fell on them with surprising force. Thirty yards to their front, Battenburn had cleared the trees and was pounding into another open field bordered by a rock-strewn road. When Elizabeth and Northam also broke through the woods, Northam saw they were now ahead of the other riders. Charging in a pack, the hounds continued their enthusiastic pursuit of the harried red fox.

Elizabeth maneuvered Becket toward the hounds on a diagonal. Confronted by the shallow stream that bisected the pasture, the dogs hesitated only a moment before splashing through and picking up the scent on the other side. Battenburn, Elizabeth, and Northam followed, while the pounding of the animals gaining on them from behind thundered in their ears.

The bucolic landscape was made lively with the successive passage of fox, hounds, horses, and riders. Cows scattered across the gentle hillside. Calves lowed piteously in a frantic search for their mothers. A family of ducks contentedly cleaning themselves at the stream were startled into flight. In a distant field, sheep herded themselves into the beginnings of a wool blanket and starlings and wrens and larks flew out of the treetops and underbrush.

A haywagon stood abandoned at the side of the road. Scattered sheaves littered the ground like gold dust. The wagon's broken axle and missing wheel caused the flat bed to rise at a steep angle, making for an irresistible jump for the most daring riders. Battenburn, Northam, and Elizabeth wisely avoided it and gained more ground on their quarry.

At Battenburn, the guests who had not taken part gathered on the crenelated roof. Here, high above even the treetops, they had a largely unrestricted view of the hunt. From their vantage point the spread of scarlet across pasture and orchard, over footbridges and fences, was not without a certain orchestrated beauty. They applauded the appearance of the lead riders and wagered on the identity of those at the fore. The baroness produced a spyglass that delighted them all, and they took turns describing the progress of the hunt in exceptionally fine narration.

It had to end, of course, and badly, if one's sympathies lay with the fox. The wily predator could neither escape the hounds nor the hooves and was finally run to ground near the edge of the Battenburn estate. The hounds circled the large oak whose roots had been exposed by the fox's earth. They clawed the trunk and climbed over each other in an attempt to bring him out of his hollow.

Elizabeth turned her mount around before the hounds were given their due. Without looking behind she knew Northam was following. Becket's silver-gray coat shone with the proof of his heroic exertions. She patted his neck and praised him but did not let him slow for long. Northam kept pace with her as they left the others and took a circuitous route back to Battenburn.

"Look!" Elizabeth pointed to the parapets, where glimpses of lavender, cherry, and daffodil gowns could be seen in the low intervals between the stone merlons. Feathers and ribbons adorning hats were lifted gaily in the breeze. She raised her arm and made a graceful arc with it, hailing the observers. "They're watching from there. Wave to them."

Northam tipped his hat instead, a small gesture that could not have been seen properly, or at least he hoped that was so.

Elizabeth laughed. In contrast to Northam's slightly affronted expression, there was high color in her cheeks and her wide smile was radiant. Vitality clung to her like the scent of the sweet lavender salts she bathed in. "I collect it is not so easy for you to make a spectacle of yourself when your friends are absent."

"I said as much yesterday, if you will but recall."

Whether it was high spirits in the aftermath of the hunt or a more elemental desire to drop this unsettling man a peg or two, some gremlin of mischief urged the Lady Elizabeth to raise her riding crop. Before Northam could guess her intention, she caught the brim of his top hat with the tip and sent it toppling over the back of his head. It bounced on the rump of his mare before he could catch it and fell to the ground.

She took no time to enjoy his startled expression and applied her crop to Becket's rump instead. Northam followed, but not before he climbed down from his horse to retrieve his hat, brush it off, straighten the brim, and settle it back—at the proper roguish angle—on his head. It was not out of a slavish adherence to fashion that he did so; indeed, he had already demonstrated to Elizabeth by removing his jacket at the picnic that he was no devotee of Brummell. It was rather that he wanted to give her time and distance, allow her to wonder if he intended retribution, perhaps lower her guard for a moment, then conclude finally, and correctly, that he would accept nothing less than a full accounting for her actions.

Becket wove through the trees with all the confidence and grace of the woman on his back. When she urged him to increase his pace, he obliged. When she sent him toward the fence, he cleared it. He would have burst his great heart for her if she had asked it, but Elizabeth Penrose did not. When she saw that Northam was gaining ground and nothing short of riding astride or testing Becket's limits would save her, Elizabeth eased up and allowed herself to be overtaken.

It was perhaps good that he came upon her out of sight of the parapet for the designs he had on her person did not invite an audience. Still flushed of face and smiling, Elizabeth held out one hand to ward off Northam's final advance. She had no defense against the decidedly wicked gleam in his eye.

"Never say you mean to do me harm," she said a shade breathlessly.

"You misread me, Lady Elizabeth, and do me a grave injustice." At Northam's direction his mare pranced closer to Becket. The animals snorted and tossed their heads, eyeing each other first, then preening.

Elizabeth glanced at Becket, sensing betrayal in his attention to the mare. It was in that moment's distraction that she finally lost her seat.

Northam lifted Elizabeth from her saddle with very little effort and brought her to sit down in front him. There was a tiny rush of air escaping her lips that could have been protest or simply an indication of her discomfort, perched as she was half on and half off his saddle.

"You are not struggling." Her face was close to his. There was a fine pink hue rising like cream to the surface of her skin. "You are either very well mannered or unafraid."

"I am both."

Though no challenge had been issued, that statement, cool in its delivery and confident of its truth, raised a rogue's patient smile. He had only intended to take her hat, perhaps make her beg prettily to have it returned without a crease or a bruise. He might have kept the sheer black scarf as a souvenir no matter how she pleaded for it, just to remind her that he had had the upper hand in the end.

But her mouth was parted. The full lips were flushed a deep rose. There was a hint of pink tongue as she pressed it briefly against the ridge of her front teeth. Her skin glowed and her mouth—that mouth again—was faintly damp and trembling.

Northam raised his gloved hands and tugged on the transparent scarf secured against her cheek and chin. The bow was easily undone and the hat dropped behind her head and into his hands. He fixed it behind his back with one hand while the other twisted so that the scarf was wrapped around his wrist. The deed was done so quickly that from Elizabeth's perspective it seemed to have been accomplished by sleight of hand.

Northam watched her brush impatiently at the fine curling tendrils clinging to her temples. A few drier strands fluttered against her forehead. The arrangement of her hair, pulled back from her face in a French braid, enhanced the faintly exotic shape of her eyes. She was regarding him without censure, waiting, it seemed, for him to be done with his game and return her hat, unharmed, to her head.

Northam knew that no matter what his intentions had been they were of little account now.

He bent his head and laid his lips over hers. Her mouth—her splendid mouth—was soft and yielding. That dark space between her parted lips opened and invited him in. Warm. Moist. She sucked in her breath and drew in his lower lip. Her teeth touched the sensitive underside and she bit gently, so very gently; then those small perfect teeth moved sideways in a sawing motion, tugging and suckling. Delicate. Precise.

And all the blood in Northam's head surged to his groin.

The last time Elizabeth Penrose had engaged in a kiss, she had been deeply, irrevocably in love. Even in retrospect she could not see it differently. To rename that experience of her heart as an infatuation was to make it so much less than it had been and she would not trivialize it. Certainly there had been moments of exhilaration. That wildly intense and ultimately exhausting joy had made her heart pound and blood roar in her ears. She had known lightheadedness on hearing her name said in a particular way, had felt a delicious sort of apprehension when she recognized a distinct step approaching. Those sensations were real and abiding. Time had not diminished them. She had embraced them then and remained unashamed of them now, but she had never once mistaken them for love.

She had experienced love as something more than those feelings. Love made room for conflict. It allowed for the expression of more than one view and invited the paradox that disagreement was vital to harmony. Love required accepting and meant changing oneself rather than demanding change of others. Love was tender and thorny. Cruel and kind. It nurtured trust but forgave betrayal. It was not an accident of attraction; it demanded sentient beings, attention and consciousness.