The Perfect Waltz (8 page)

And yet she hadn’t felt ignored or slighted. Instead, she’d felt . . . almost cherished. Which was silly, really—it was just a dance, after all. And not a very good one, either.

It was a shame he wasn’t her dream man. Because he did interest her. But the waltz they’d shared had been as far from perfect as possible.

She sighed again and snuggled the bedclothes around her. She really ought to get some sleep.

A chuckle escaped her as she recalled Mrs. Jenner’s description of him as a silver-tongued charmer. Sebastian Reyne was so prickly and standoffish, he could give lessons to a thistle! And she’d had to pry words out of him like a clam.

In the hall below, the clock chimed three.

He’d shown interest only in Hope and Lady Elinore. The contrast in them was so great, it was a puzzle. Why Lady Elinore?

The unwelcome thought lingered. Lady Elinore was a bit of an ape-leader, a rich, dowdy spinster who had no family to protect her from the wiles of a fortune hunter.

She turned over in bed and hugged the bedclothes tighter around her. He wasn’t what Mrs. Jenner said he was. He wasn’t.

He wanted Hope; she knew it, could feel it. In two seasons the Merridew diamonds had learned to distinguish between a boy’s crush and the desire of a man. She and Faith knew to take steps to let the boy or man down gently, before it got too serious. But this was out of her experience. His compelling hunger and raw, brutally reined-in desire was something she’d never felt before. It created an echoing resonance deep within her.

A sensual shudder ran through her at the thought.

None of the boys or men she’d known had touched off any chord inside her. But just one long, intense look from Sebastian Reyne . . .

She wished he wasn’t so big and brawny. He was even taller and more powerful than Grandpapa. Which meant he could hurt her more . . .

He was everything she thought she didn’t want, but she’d never responded to a man so quickly, so strongly.

Would Mr. Reyne hurt her? That was the question. She’d felt the hard power of his muscles and had trembled. But she also recalled the ease with which he’d defended her from the drunken Lord Streatfield. He’d protected her so beautifully. Leashed power.

“You can tell by looking at him he has a violent history,” Mrs. Jenner had said.

Hope had a violent history, too.

She turned over and thumped her pillows into a more comfortable shape. It was all too much to think about. Was he this? Was he that? Her brain was whirling. Things never made sense in the middle of the night, she told herself crossly. Tomorrow was a new dawn.

JANE AUSTEN

 
 
 
 
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS. NOT QUITE DAWN. A FEW hardy London birds starting the predawn chatter. Hope was wide awake, feeling as though she was about to burst out of her skin. Tense. Wound up like a spring.

She glanced across at her sleeping twin in the next bed. When Faith felt like this, she found her release in music. It never worked for Hope. She needed something more active.

She slipped from her bed and peered out of the window. Cool and dry. Perfect. From her wardrobe she quietly pulled her old brown riding habit, boots, hat, and crop and tiptoed into the next room to dress.

Carrying her boots in her hands, she padded out into the corridor and ran up the stairs to the servant’s quarters, under the attic. She knocked softly on one of the doors. At her second knock, a low groan came from inside. “All right Miss Hope. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Grinning, Hope ran lightly down the stairs and sat on the bottom one to put on her boots. Their footman James would grumble, but he always enjoyed their illicit morning outings, and the guinea she gave him each time she deprived him of sleep was a useful addition to his savings. It was no secret in the Merridew household that James was saving to go to America.

In the kitchen, she cut two thick, ragged slices of bread and slathered them with butter and apricot jam. She devoured one in a moment and handed the other to James as he came in the door.

He eyed the slice, then gave her a baleful look. “Trying to turn me up sweet with that great, crooked doorstop, Miss Hope?”

Hope grinned. She never had been able to cut a straight slice of bread, but at least she wasn’t stingy. “But of course, dear, grouchy James. I cut them like this because you’re always so hungry. Now do hurry up. I want to get there as soon as possible.”

Grumbling good-naturedly, he followed her out into the dim gray streets, munching on his bread. Having known all the Merridew girls since childhood, he was used to her ways.

By the time the sun was starting to gild the spires of the churches, they were trotting in at Grosvenor Gate. Hyde Park was deserted. Hope’s bay gelding sidled and danced mischievously, shying skittishly at stray leaves and imaginary shadows. He was full of oats, chafing at the bit, longing for a good gallop. Hope knew exactly how he felt.

“Come on, sluggard, I’ll race you,” she called to James, and without waiting, she urged her mount to a gallop.

The gelding moved smoothly under her, its hooves pounding the turf; she would tip the stableboy extra again. He always gave her the best horse, and once she made her preference known, this one was almost always magically available. Over the past few weeks, horse and rider had grown accustomed to each other’s ways, and Hope could now do almost anything she wanted with him. This morning he seemed to relish the speed as much as she did.

It was glorious, thundering through crisp morning air free and wild, without care or thought. Exhilarating. Almost as good as being in the country—better in some ways, for there was an illicit edge to galloping here.

Cool morning air whipped at her skin, filled her lungs, blasting her free of all the rules and restrictions she had to live by. Here she was filled with air and light and excitement. The wind streamed through her as if she were flying. How she relished these secret early morning excursions. Dawn was the only time she could ride as fast and as wildly as she liked.

Later that day she would probably ride in the park with Great Uncle Oswald and Faith and Grace. A decorous walk, or perhaps a trot, stopping every few moments to greet someone and exchange idle chitchat.

She allowed the horse to run himself out of his fidgets, taking him in a great circle so as to remain in sight of James. She glanced back and smiled. James had snapped at the stableboy and as a result had been given the slowest of the hacks, a veritable slug. He huffed along in the distance.

The park was still deserted. She could practice her moves. Gathering the horse, she began to put him through a series of actions. He jibbed a bit at first, but soon he was responding perfectly.

“Oi, miss, stop that!” called James.

She laughed. “Try to stop me, if you can on that slug! This is such fun. This horse is wonderful.”

 
Sebastian woke early the next morning, as usual. He’d woken before dawn most of his life. Machines never stopped, and people had to fit their sleep around them.

He stretched, wishing he could go back to sleep, but once awoken, he never could sleep again. In any case, he didn’t need much sleep. It had served him well in the factories, and now it served him well, enabling him to combine society hours with the needs of business.

He had a great deal of work to get through this morning, but the events of that blasted ball had unsettled him. He hadn’t slept properly. He always slept properly. Though sometimes he did awake demon-ridden. He knew the solution to that. It was one reason why he’d hired a house with stables at the back. His only solution to demons was to ride them into oblivion before they rode him.

But last night it had taken him half the night even to get to sleep. And it was not his usual demons keeping him wakeful but thoughts of Hope Merridew. Holding her wrapped in his arms as close as he wanted, her body clinging to his, moving in slow, languorous twirls.

And in the morning he’d woken, aroused like a uncontrolled adolescent!

He needed to clear his head. And exhaust his body. A good, hard ride would do the trick!

He dressed and walked around the mews. The stable lad woke as he arrived, but Sebastian sent him back to bed, preferring to saddle his own horse.

The city was barely beginning to stir as he entered the main gate of Hyde Park. For nearly ten years of his life he hadn’t so much as touched a horse. He’d been taught to ride as a child, but it was only after he’d married Thea that he’d had the opportunity to mount a horse again. He’d been worried about making a fool of himself, of falling off in front of his new in-laws and their friends. But the moment he was in the saddle it all came back to him in a rush, as if riding had always been a part of him.

It was more than part of him. It was his escape.

He started with a slow, controlled canter, then allowed the horse to go faster and faster, losing himself in the power and the speed and the rhythm.

His blood was singing, and he felt young and strong, demon-free and ready to conquer the world when he saw it: a bay horse, galloping full pelt, with what at first glance looked like a bundle of cloth attached to one side. Then he saw a hat bouncing inches from the hooves of the horse and a glimpse of gold curls. To his horror, Sebastian realized it was no bundle, but a woman. She clung to the back of the saddle with one hand. Her right knee was hooked around the pommel of her sidesaddle, but the rest of her hung down over the left side of the horse. Her left hand stretched down beside the powerful forelegs of the animal, snatching helplessly at the ground, as if in some bizarre attempt to slow the panicked horse. He couldn’t see her face. She wasn’t screaming. Probably half swooning with fear.

Praying that she would retain enough consciousness to maintain her tenuous balance for a few more seconds, Sebastian urged his horse into a gallop, arrowing it straight at the runaway.

A rider in the distance, a man, waved and shouted. Her husband or groom. Sebastian waved back. He would save her.

He thundered after her. Her horse was good, but his was stronger and faster. He gained rapidly on her. As he neared, he tried to work out exactly how she was attached. Should he try to snatch her from her saddle or grab the horse’s reins and slow it that way? Either way was risky. If she was tangled in the saddle, he wouldn’t be able to lift her cleanly to safety. But she was seconds away from falling under those flashing hooves.

He decided on the snatch. If her habit was tangled in the stirrups, he would still be able to hold her and force her mount to stop. His horse edged up behind hers. He took his reins into his left hand and reached out his right arm to gather her up when she suddenly straightened, and with a joyous peal of laughter, brandished a twig in his face.

“I did it!”

It was Miss Hope Merridew, flushed, exhilarated, and triumphant.

And in no danger whatsoever.

“Oh! Mr. Reyne, good morning. Did you see? I did it!” She held the twig out.

He could see at a glance she was a consummate horsewoman. She hadn’t been falling from an out-of-control horse, her head dangling inches from the horse’s hooves; she’d been deliberately galloping at an outrageous speed, dangling her head inches from the horse’s hooves
in order to pick up a twig from the ground
!

Suddenly Sebastian was furious.

“Are you mad?” he thundered at her, his horse keeping pace with hers. “Risking your neck in such a foolhardy endeavor!”

She grinned at him and slowed her horse to a canter. “It’s the first time I’ve done it!” Her tone was self-congratulatory, not the slightest bit apologetic or mollifying.

“What the devil possessed you to attempt such an insane thing this morning, then?”

“Oh, I’ve
attempted
it dozens of times,” she corrected him. “I’ve been practicing for ages. This is the first morning I’ve actually
succeeded
in picking up a twig.” She waved it merrily.

Her blithe insouciance infuriated him. He was lost for words. The thought of her risking that beautiful neck morning after morning drove all the breath from his lungs. How could she?

Eventually he mastered himself enough to speak. “Well for God’s sake don’t do it again,” he growled, his heart still thudding from the fright he’d received. “Why in Hades does your groom allow it?”

“Allow it? James?” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “He doesn’t have any choice. He couldn’t stop me if he tried.”

Spoiled. A pampered, protected daughter of the aristocracy, indulged all her life, no doubt. Couldn’t imagine anything bad happening to her. Whereas Sebastian could only too clearly conjure up a vision of her broken or battered body . . . The thought was too horrific for words. He wanted to snatch her off her horse and wrap her up safe. He ground out, “Sounds like a poor excuse for a groom.”

“Strictly speaking, he’s our footman, not a groom, but even so, he does a wonderful job. James has known us all our lives. He doesn’t like me doing these tricks, but he knows I’d do them anyway, so he comes along to keep an eye on me.”

Sebastian glanced around and said caustically. “Some eye. He’s a good half mile away.”

She laughed again, “Oh, that’s my fault. I always encourage the stableboy to give James the slower horse. Today he has the worst slug you have ever seen.”

She needed a much firmer hand on the reins, he thought. If she were his to protect, she wouldn’t be up at dawn riding alone and unprotected, taking insane risks to pick up a twig! The thought occurred to him that if she was his, neither of them would be out at dawn. A vision came to him of her in his bed. He swallowed and forced it out of his mind. To cover up his moment of weakness, he said harshly, “A groom’s job is to ensure your safety, not watch you risk your neck morning after morning.”