The Greatest Lover Ever (18 page)

She lifted her chin at the flash of anger in his eyes, waved a careless hand. “You may go back to your bride-hunting, my lord. Don’t concern yourself with me.”

His brow lowered and his jaw set as hard as the helmet on a suit of armor. “I am to ignore you? Very well, then. That is easily arranged.”

She watched him go, her pose erect, outwardly serene. Only she knew about the ache in her heart and the burning sensation behind her eyes.

*   *   *

Beckenham rose the next morning with a savage need for punishing physical exercise. A pity Lydgate was no early riser; he could do with a bout of punching the living daylights out of someone.

Lydgate was not up to his weight, but he more than made up for that fact with science and skill. And a few dirty tricks Beckenham had learned to watch for.

But there was no doing anything with Lydgate before midday, so a bout of boxing was not an option.

With a growl in his throat, Beckenham threw on his riding clothes and strode down to the stables.

“Saddle Demon,” he ordered the stable hand. “No, stay. I’ll do it myself.”

The sleek black stallion was called Demon for a reason. Beckenham had bought him from a northern baron who had a good eye for horseflesh but no idea how to break them in. Nor did he believe in gelding horses, probably as an affront to his own manhood, Beckenham thought.

Consequently, Demon was half wild. Beckenham had thought to spend many solitary, patient hours this summer training him.

So much for that resolution. This business of finding a bride seemed to consume all his time.

This morning, he felt the need for something half wild between his legs. The irony was not lost on him, and that lent his resolve all the more steel.

Having reassured the restive beast with a few soft, rough words and saddled him, Beckenham led him out of his stall.

The stallion tossed up his head, skittered sideways, snorted displeasure with the bridle. Beckenham gave him a firm, clear, “Settle down,” and led him into the paddock.

A brilliant blue sky overhead made him wish he did not have a house full of guests. He could ride forever on a day such as this.

Assuring himself that his mount had indeed settled down, he set his foot in the stirrup and climbed into the saddle.

The stallion instantly reared, protesting at his weight. He was ready for that, however, and kept his seat. “There, you brute. Stop that now.”

Horsemanship was all in the knees, the pressure on a flank should be sufficient to guide a horse. A good rider never used a whip or a spur.

Respect for the magnificence of the beast was, in Beckenham’s opinion, as essential as a firm hand on the rein.

He let Demon dance and sidle, greeting his spirited attempts to eject him from his seat with calm commands to settle down, quiet down.

When the horse seemed marginally quiescent, he urged him to a walk.

Progress was slow and the setbacks numerous, but by the end of an hour’s work, Beckenham realized his own simmering frustrations seemed to have lifted somewhat.

He returned Demon to his stall for a rubdown, rejecting the stable hand’s offer to do it for him. He believed that part of training a horse was getting close to it. What could be closer than grooming?

The stallion nudged him insistently. He’d learned early that after he worked, he earned a treat. This time, an apple Beckenham had filched from the kitchens.

He produced it, smiling at the slightly comical frill of the horse’s lips, his toothy grimace as he munched.

Beckenham stroked the velvet nose and wiped his hands of the sticky combination of equine slobber and apple flesh.

Satisfaction warmed him. “You’ll do,” he told Demon. And for the first time since Georgie Black had arrived at Winford, he thought he might do, too.

*   *   *

George stood on the south lawn, transfixed. She was on her way to the stables, when she caught sight of a man on a horse. The man, of course, was Beckenham. He’d chosen a mount with several devils inside him, by all appearances.

The very first thing the naughty imp did was to rear up, hooves flailing like a warhorse bent on destruction. Fear made Georgie want to close her eyes but she couldn’t look away. Surely even Beckenham couldn’t keep his seat.

But he did, by God! He did!

Georgie felt a surge of triumph and pride run through her at his skill. Immediately, she was vexed with herself. How could she view that skill as if it were somehow hers?

As if
he
were hers.

He hadn’t been hers for six years. Yet, returning to this wonderful country where she’d been born made her feel as if that horrible London evening had never been. For as long as she could remember, while living here, Beckenham had been hers. She’d had the right to take pride in his horsemanship.

As he had taken pride in hers.

The notion made the ache in her chest deepen.

Perhaps it was reckless of her, but she couldn’t find the will to walk away. She allowed herself to watch him handle that wicked mount with sincere admiration and pleasure.

When he was done, she continued her journey to the stables. It seemed petty and wrong not to tell him how much she had enjoyed that skilful display.

She arrived in time to see him talking to one of his grooms.

She’d made no sound, but he seemed to sense her as soon as she entered the stable block, for his head shot up and his eyes narrowed.

Dismissing his groom, he came toward her. “Meeting someone?” he growled.

All notion of expressing her admiration for his horsemanship flew from her head. She let one corner of her mouth curl in a sensual smile. “But of course.”

His face darkened, if that were possible. “You will confine such improprieties to somewhere other than this house.”

She opened her eyes wide. “I shall keep your strictures in mind. If I decide to obey you, I will let you know. Miracles do happen, after all.”

“Who is it?” he demanded. “What poor unfortunate has been unlucky enough to be snared in your toils?”

She laughed. A rusty, reckless sound. “Why do you speak in the singular, my lord? There is more than one unattached male under forty at this party.”

“Ma’am. I’d no notion your requirements were so particular.”

She shrugged, letting his biting sarcasm glance off her armor. “Married men are
such
a bore. And I am a great admirer of youthful vigor.”

Good God, what possessed her to say such things? Clearly, she was out of her mind. If she didn’t stop herself, she’d make a blunder. Then he’d realize she didn’t know what she was talking about.

She wanted to shout at him that
she
wasn’t the one who kept mistresses or openly attended scandalous parties.
She
didn’t have a reputation to rival Casanova’s. She wasn’t the one who took amorous encounters in her stride.

The memory of him walking out on her at the villa that night was so painful that she winced and turned her face away. “Let’s have done with this. I came down here to have my horse saddled for a ride. That is all.”

Silence. Then he said, “Where is your groom?”

“I never ride with a groom in the country, Marcus. You know that.”

“True enough,” he muttered. “How many times have I told you what a foolish and dangerous habit that is?”

“Too many,” she said. “It is not your place to scold me anymore, Beckenham. It never was.”

“As your host, I have some right to see that my guest is safe, I think. It would be my responsibility if you were brought home on a door.”

“If I am brought home on a door, you may scold me to your heart’s content,” she answered, trying to brush past him.

He caught her elbow in a firm clasp.

Fire raced through her. She gasped, stared up at him. “Let me go.”

“If you won’t take a groom, you’ll have to accept my escort.”

She tugged to free her arm, but he held her fast. “I don’t have to accept anything. Let me go.”

She read the implacable expression on his face. “Oh, very well, then,” she said, tugging her arm again.

He released her. “Good. I’ll saddle our horses.”

“I’ll take the groom,” she snapped.

And strode away from him, the skirts of her habit swishing about her legs.

Chapter Eleven

Grimly determined, Beckenham found Georgie’s sidesaddle and hefted it, ignoring the fact that several of his servants had stopped work to enjoy the show.

“If you so much as touch my Daisy, I’ll break your fingers,” Georgie hissed.

With an ironic bow, he held the saddle out to her and dropped it into her arms.

She received the heavy piece of tack with a muted “Oof!” Juggled it, staggered, then straightened. Murderous darts flew from those magnificent eyes.

“Thank you,” she said witheringly, and stalked off, and he lost a few seconds in reluctant admiration of the way she moved.

She readied her steed in record time; he was faster. They left the stable yard together, but on reaching open country, Georgie let the mare have her head.

Damn, the woman could ride. She wore a severe habit in funereal black with only the smallest concession to femininity in the soft plume of a feather that curled over its brim.

On another lady, the costume would have been somber. On Georgie, it was stunning. The black only served to contrast with that bright hair, her flawless white skin, so delicate as to appear more translucent than the filmy gauze cravat she wore at her throat. And the cut of that garment … The figure-hugging masculine tailoring only emphasized the womanliness of her lush curves.

He wondered, briefly, whether it took the strength of two maids to assist her into that cunningly constructed little jacket. No member of the dandy set had ever worn a coat so exactly molded to his form.

He did not attempt to overtake her; he knew where she headed. He was well acquainted with the volatility of her temper and knew she’d be calmer for the exercise if he let her go now. He’d deserved a dose of her wrath for his base accusations.

Those accusations had not been the work of a gentleman. They’d been absurd. He didn’t know what had come over him.

Yes, he did, though. Jealousy, pure and simple. He’d hated watching her flirt with Lydgate last night, even though he knew there was nothing serious in it.

She did not so much as glance around to see if he followed. She galloped that chestnut mare of hers across fields and paddocks, scrambled up a rise lined with poplar trees, and reined in.

He urged his mount on with a click of his tongue but kept his distance when he reached the ridge alongside her.

The vista beyond that ridge was one that had been in his family since Edmund Westruther, the first Baron Beckenham, had accepted his title and the gift of this land from a grateful king.

Cloverleigh Manor.

For more than a generation, this part of the estate had been out of Westruther hands, frittered away by Beckenham’s grandsire.

Now Beckenham had the chance to reclaim it.

That chance might come only once in his lifetime. He was fully alive to the possibility that if Violet Black married another man, as of course she would if
he
didn’t wed her, that man would wish to hold on to such a valuable piece of property. It was handsome enough and lucrative enough to become a gentleman’s principal seat.

Once the land was entailed on the next male heir, it would be well nigh impossible to retrieve it.

The old anger flared. Against Georgie, for ruining everyone’s plans to see his estate restored. Against himself, for allowing matters to spiral out of his control. By jilting him, she’d thrown away what he suspected was just as valuable to her as it was to him.

Reclaiming this land was his duty. But it had never been his home as it was hers.

He gazed down at the neat, redbrick Elizabethan manor, with its well-kept lawns and surrounding farms and fields. There was a simplicity to its beauty, as if it were a woman with marvelous bone structure and flawless skin who needed no adornment.

No fancy, man-made lake or follies or naturalistic landscaping here. Just an honest, solid, handsome house set like a gem in the midst of glorious Gloucestershire country.

He allowed his mount to sidle next to her Daisy.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” she said softly. As he’d predicted, the temper seemed to have seeped out of her during that hell-for-leather ride.

She turned to him, cheeks flushed, sea green eyes sparkling, wisps of red hair corkscrewing around her face.

“Magnificent,” he agreed.

He tore his attention away from her. Stupid to feel his pulse pick up, his breath catch. Georgie Black was magnificent. There’d never been any denying that fact.

She was also headstrong, careless, impulsive, and quick to anger.

And not the wife for him.

She rejected you twice, you fool!
How many times did he need to tell himself that?

But that night at the Brighton villa, she hadn’t rejected him. And she’d known who he was, even if she didn’t know he’d recognized her.

She’d called him Marcus. She’d begged him to stay.

Difficult to believe this strong goddess of a woman had actually spoken those words to him. Georgie Black had never pleaded for anything, except his forfeiture of that ill-fated duel.

Abruptly, he said, “I never fought Pearce, you know. He didn’t show up.”

He watched her closely, but the only sign she gave in response was a certain tautness about her neck and jaw.

Finally, she turned her head to face him. “I know that.”

“How did you know?” He’d broken the first promise of his life by not sending her word of the outcome.

“Do you think I could rest until I knew?”

She had not answered his question, he noticed. Ah, well, the duel had been kept very hush-hush on his side, but who knew how many people Pearce had told?

Not that any man would boast of failing to come up to scratch for an affair of honor.

He frowned, but before he could question her further, she said abruptly, “You ought to marry Violet. She inherits Cloverleigh, you know.”