September 1803
She had overplayed her hand.
Deborah Stratton drummed her fingers impatiently on the letter that was resting on the top of the walnut desk. She knew exactly what it contained, but she read it for a third time, just so that it could annoy her all over again.
Her father, Lord Walton, wrote in a deceptively pleasant manner. It was the underlying message that troubled Deborah.
I am gratified to hear of your betrothal…
That sounded kind, but Deb knew that it was laced with sarcasm.
However, your suitor seems somewhat dilatory in asking my permission to pay his addresses to you…
Deborah winced. There was no denying that. Her suitor had been very remiss indeed.
The imminent occasion of your brother’s marriage seems the ideal opportunity to introduce the gentleman to your family so that he can secure my approval, albeit belatedly…
Deb frowned. She was obliged to agree that it would be the perfect occasion-except that there was one small problem. There could be no introduction, for her suitor did not exist. He was a figment of her imagination. He had been invented with the express intention of persuading her father to cease interfering in her business.
Lord Walton had been pressing his younger daughter to return home to Bath for some time. His letters had become ever more urgent. He wrote that it was inappropriate for a young widow in Deborah’s situation to live alone but for a female companion. Far better to return to the family seat where she could resume her place in Bath society and he would be spared the expense of financing a separate household for her.
It was, in fact, a request that Lord Walton could enforce easily whenever he chose by the simple expedient of withdrawing her allowance. Deb knew this and she had written back in desperation, explaining that she had recently contracted a betrothal to a Suffolk gentleman and wished to remain in Midwinter Mallow. This, her father’s reply, had arrived by return of post.
We shall look forward to seeing both of you in two months’ time for Guy’s wedding…
Deb pushed the letter aside and sat back in the walnut chair. Her ruse had backfired spectacularly, just as her companion, Mrs Aintree, had warned her that it would. She knew that it was all her own fault. She had got herself into a tangle, as she was wont to do, and now she would have to get herself out again.
Deb got to her feet and marched into the breakfast room where Clarissa Aintree was still at the table, reading the local newspaper. Mrs Aintree, a practical lady of indeterminate age who had once been Deborah’s governess, was accustomed to her former charge’s impulsive nature. Sometimes her warnings were heeded and sometimes they were not. This had been one of the latter occasions.
Mrs Aintree put the paper aside and took a sip of tea, her blue eyes regarding Deborah’s stormy face with mild amusement.
‘I assume that your father did not respond to your letter quite as you intended?’ she enquired.
‘No!’ Deborah slumped into her seat disconsolately and poured herself another cup of chocolate. Then she paused with a sigh, resting her chin on her hand.
‘I thought that Papa might be so pleased to think me safely betrothed that he would agree to my remaining in Midwinter, but instead he says that he wishes to meet my fiancé and that I must bring him to Guy’s wedding!’
Mrs Aintree murmured something that sounded like ‘I told you so’.
Deborah got up again and strode restlessly across to the window. ‘I know you told me so, Clarrie, but I thought-’ She broke off. ‘Oh, I am so cross!’
‘With yourself?’ Mrs Aintree asked shrewdly.
Deb gave her a sharp look. ‘Yes! And with Olivia! She was the one who told Papa in her letters that this is a dangerous neighbourhood in which to live.’
‘It is,’ Mrs Aintree pointed out blandly.
‘I know! But if Olivia had not written thus to him, then he would never have summoned me home to Bath.’
Mrs Aintree ate a piece of toast. She ate it thoughtfully and slowly. Then she said, ‘Your papa is not a stupid man, Deborah. I am sure that he is quite well aware of the dangers of French invasion here in Suffolk.’
Deb sighed. She knew that was true and that it was unfair to blame her sister, Olivia Marney, for telling tales. Even so, she felt aggrieved.
‘Yes, but Liv mentioned the increase in smuggling and the rumour that there are spies at work in the neighbourhood and…oh, a hundred and one other things to alarm Papa! She knew that he had been seeking an excuse to summon me home and so she presented him with one…’ Deborah paused. ‘Indeed, if I did not know her better, I might think that she had done it on purpose!’
‘That is unworthy of you,’ Mrs Aintree said calmly. ‘Your sister would never deal you Spanish coin, Deborah, as well you know. She has been a tower of strength to you. Not that she cannot have been tempted to get rid of you over the years, given the way that people say you flirt with her husband.’
A hint of colour came into Deborah’s cheeks. ‘I do not flirt with Ross,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘You know that is untrue, Clarrie. It is just that we are very alike and we enjoy each other’s company. Indeed, I wish that Liv and Ross could settle their differences. It is devilishly uncomfortable to spend time with them when they bicker like magpies.’
Mrs Aintree gave her a severe look that put Deborah forcibly in mind of the days when she had been a recalcitrant schoolgirl.
‘No doubt Olivia suffers from it rather more than you do,’ she said.
Deborah gave a gusty sigh. ‘Oh, I know that I am a selfish creature,’ she said, ‘but what am I to do?’ She threw herself down in her chair again, half-heartedly buttered a piece of toast and then pushed it aside. ‘I cannot produce my fiancé for my father’s approval, for he does not exist.’
Mrs Aintree shook her head sadly. ‘I have told you before, Deborah dear, that one deception leads inevitably to another. I suggest that you tell your father the truth.’
Deborah wrinkled up her nose. She could see both the logic and sense of Mrs Aintree’s advice, but matters were not that simple.
‘You know I cannot do that, Clarrie. If I confess that there is no betrothal, Papa will see me removed to Bath before you can say purse strings!’
Mrs Aintree frowned. ‘Would that be so bad? You are often saying that you miss the diversions of a town. I know that at the beginning you thought it best to live quietly, but it is not right for a young lady such as yourself to be immured in the country with nothing to entertain you. And the company in Bath can be very elegant-’ Mrs Aintree stopped, glancing at Deborah’s strained, white face. ‘No, how foolish of me. It would not serve at all.’
Deborah shook her head. ‘If that were all that there was to it, then you know that I would heed your words, Clarrie. But it is not!’ She rubbed her forehead in a gesture of despair. ‘You know that I love my family, but I would run mad within a day if I had to live with them again. Too much has happened for us to try and pretend otherwise, yet my parents behave as though nothing has changed. Mama wants to throw me in the path of any man who has fortune and address, just as she did before I was wed. As for Papa…’ She hesitated. ‘He has an unshakeable belief that he knows what is right for all of us, and he has not given up hope of promoting a match for me with cousin Harry. He wrote to me on the subject not two months since and put me in a dreadful turmoil. That was the reason that I invented my fictitious suitor in the first place!’
Mrs Aintree nodded, her face sympathetic. ‘You know that Lord Walton only wishes to secure your future, Deborah,’ she said, striving to give the balanced view. ‘Most people would consider it a dreadful shame that you would not countenance remarriage when you are young and attractive and have your entire life before you-’
Deb made a sharp movement that sent the remaining chocolate slopping into her saucer in a miniature tidal wave.
‘No! I cannot marry now. Not after Neil…’
Mrs Aintree touched her hand. ‘I know. I understand.’
Deb turned away, her face tense. She seldom spoke of her short marriage to Neil Stratton, if marriage it could be called. The memory was still acutely painful after the passage of three years and she had learned a swift and bitter lesson, one she would never forget. She had been a silly, flighty girl of nineteen when she had eloped, and she had been looking for a means of escape from the stifling restrictions of life at Walton Hall. She had thought that she loved Neil, but it had not been long before she realised that she had been deeply mistaken in him and that his feelings for her were no more than a charade. Her marriage had been a sham and it had left her with an abiding fear of making the same mistakes again.
Deb’s elopement had been yet another impulsive act in a long line that led back to her days in the schoolroom. In her childhood, her scrapes had generally been of a relatively harmless nature, such as releasing mice down the staircase at Olivia’s come-out ball or putting spiders in Guy’s socks to make him wail. The elopement had had rather more severe consequences for her life. After that, Deb had recognised that she was prone to act on impulse and had tried hard to temper her more rash actions by stopping to think first. It did not come naturally to her. Sometimes she was able to repress her impulses and sometimes she could not.
Deb nibbled the corner of the piece of toast. So the mention of her imminent betrothal had failed to throw her father off the scent. Nevertheless, she could not afford to give in now. She would not admit that she had made it up, return meekly to Bath and to the impossible prospect of being married off to her cousin Harry. She needed a plan.
She watched Mrs Aintree out of the corner of her eye. Clarrie had always had an uncanny knack for spotting when Deb was hatching a plot, but now her companion looked quite serene, as though she thought the matter settled. Deb knew that it was not. Somehow, a temporary fiancé must be found.
If only she could produce a gentleman for her father’s approval, then the whole matter might be dealt with and forgotten quickly. It would not do simply to turn up at Walton Hall and pretend to be an engaged woman. Her father was shrewd and would smell an enormous rat if she arrived without the necessary gentleman in tow. No, she needed a real gentleman to endorse her story. The counterfeit betrothal would buy her time, and once she had returned to Midwinter she could write vaguely to her parents about her wedding plans, finally letting it be known that the engagement had ended with mutual goodwill some twelve months later. No doubt by then the threat of invasion would have receded, cousin Harry would have found another bride, and her father could be persuaded to let her stay in Midwinter Mallow.
The plan seemed sound, but even Deborah could see the huge flaw in the strategy. She did not have a fiancé and, further, she had no idea how to find a suitable gentleman to fill the role.
Deb made a quick inventory of her male acquaintance. It did not take long, for the list was small, society in the Midwinter villages having few eligible gentlemen. It was one of the reasons why she had chosen to live there; she did not wish to be troubled by masculine attention. Most of the men she knew were already married, like her brother-in-law, Ross Marney, or Lord Northcote of Burgh. There was Sir John Norton, of course. He was a bachelor. The drawback there was that she did not like him. And then there was the Duke of Kestrel, who was far too eminent to involve in such a plan, and his brother, Lord Richard Kestrel, who was far too…Deb paused. The first idea that had come into her head when she thought of Richard Kestrel was that he was far too attractive for her to ask him to be her counterfeit fiancé. The thought made her acutely uncomfortable and she shifted on the dining-chair’s embroidered cushion. Richard Kestrel was too attractive, too dangerous, too forceful and too…everything…to be in the least bit suitable. If she were looking to find a lover rather than a husband, then he would be ideal. Deb gave herself a little shake, uncertain where that idea had come from. She wanted neither lover nor husband and the inevitable trouble that would follow with both.
Her inventory over, Deb sat back with a sigh. The lack of appropriate candidates at least spared her the embarrassment of having to approach a gentleman of her acquaintance and ask him to pose as her temporary suitor. Perhaps it would be easier to make a business arrangement with a stranger instead. She could pay someone to act the part.
Various objections rose in her mind and Deb dealt with them one by one. She had no money other than her allowance, which her father could remove at any moment. That was a practical consideration, but she was sure she could find a way around it. Perhaps she could persuade Ross to fund her. It was not an insuperable problem.
Far more daunting was the thought of pretending to be engaged to a stranger. Yet if she were to hire an actor, for example, it might be quite easy. He would know how to carry off the part. And they would only be visiting Walton Hall for a week at the most.
A feeling of nervousness gnawed at Deb’s stomach. Every instinct that she possessed told her that it was a foolish, ridiculous and even downright dangerous idea to hire herself a husband. She should not even be countenancing it. Ladies simply did not behave in such a manner.
And yet, what alternative did she have? She did not wish to return to Bath and a life she had left behind three years ago. She did not want to marry cousin Harry. She did not want to marry anyone. That was impossible.
The newspaper rustled as Mrs Aintree turned the pages. She was reading the Suffolk Chronicle, which Deborah knew carried advertisements for everything from the efficacious effects of bear’s grease on the hair to Mr Elliston’s patented beaver hats. As she watched her companion skimming each page, an idea slowly began to form in Deborah’s head. Perhaps she could place an advertisement for a fiancé in the newspaper. After all, people were always advertising for servants and this was not so very different. She needed a gentleman to perform a specific task. She was prepared to pay him. The newspaper was a way in which she might find him. She would have to be careful, of course-she would need to make sure that she involved someone else in the interview process and that she took up proper references for the gentleman concerned, but the fundamental idea might just work.
Deborah considered the plan whilst buttering another piece of toast with renewed enthusiasm. It was not an orthodox manner in which to find a fiancé, but there was no doubt that such a businesslike approach had its merits. The more she thought about it, the more she could see that it was akin to interviewing a butler or some other employee. There was also another big advantage. If she made a business arrangement, there would be no unfortunate misunderstandings about love.
During the three years that she had lived in Midwinter, Deb had been subjected to the attentions of various suitors, several of whom had professed an ardent regard for her. She had found the experience uncomfortable, given that she had a distaste for marriage and no wish to mislead a gentleman into thinking she would make another match. When she had gently tried to dissuade her admirers they had all, without exception, taken offence, as though it was impossible to accept that any one of their suits could not be irresistible to her. The whole experience had left Deb even more set against a love match and with the reputation for being as cold as ice. Under the circumstances, a business transaction had to be the best option.
Her appetite restored and her decision made, Deborah wolfed down the rest of the piece of toast and another one besides, which she larded with strawberry jam, before excusing herself and returning to the small study where she had left her father’s letter. It was a sunny day in late summer and she was itching to get outside. A ride would be most pleasant before the heat of the day grew too extreme. And that afternoon she had planned to walk over to Midwinter Marney Hall to see Olivia. But first she had a task to accomplish.
Drawing pen and paper towards her, Deb started to draft out her advertisement: Lady seeks temporary fiancé…
She paused. That sounded a little abrupt. People might think that she was mad. She needed to be rather more subtle in her first communication. Still, she felt it should not prove too difficult to sketch out a suitable notice, for Mrs Aintree had told her that, of all the Walton family, she was the one most accomplished at her letters. She bent to the task again.
A half-hour later, she had come up with something with which she was almost satisfied.
A lady requires the assistance of a gentleman. If any gentleman of honour, discretion and chivalry will venture to answer this notice and despatch a reply to Lady Incognita at the Bell and Steelyard Inn, Woodbridge, Suffolk, then he shall have no reason to repent his generosity.
Deb bit the end of her pen as she considered the wording, then she blotted the page and sealed the note decisively. There was no time for hesitation. They were to depart for the wedding in Somerset in less than two months’ time, and, if she was to advertise and interview a suitable candidate, she needed to start at once.
She crept back in to the breakfast room, the letter tucked under her arm. Mrs Aintree had gone, but the newspaper fortunately remained and it was the work of only a moment to discover the address for advertisements and the price for a modest three lines of text. Deb rang the bell for the maid and placed the letter in her hand, with instructions for the gardener’s boy to take the gig into Woodbridge and deliver the letter at once. Then, feeling slightly breathless at her own audacity, she made her way upstairs to change into riding dress. She squashed an unworthy desire to run after the maid and snatch the letter back. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And, after all, if she disliked the tone of any of the replies, she need not answer them. No one would ever know.
Within another half-hour she was out in the stable yard and was waiting for Beauty to be saddled. The fresh morning air restored her spirits. She decided to ride without a groom and whilst she was out, to consider the attributes that she required in a transient fiancé.
She trotted down the drive and out on to the lane. Her fiancé would have to be a gentleman, of course, or at least someone who could consistently act the part. She could not foist some upstart upon her family and expect them to accept him. On the other hand, he had to be biddable. She was the one in charge of this situation and required her betrothed to recognise that fact. He could not challenge her authority. He would do as she told him. Smiling slightly, she set Beauty at the fence and galloped off into the fields.
Lord Richard Kestrel had been cantering full tilt along the lane that passed Mallow House when he saw Mrs Stratton’s gig approaching, driven at a cracking pace by the gardener’s boy. The gig passed within two inches of him and one of its rickety wheels almost came clear of the road. The boy righted it without the least appearance of concern and continued on his way whistling. But a letter that had been on the seat beside him slid from the cart and came to rest on top of a tall spike of thistles at the side of the road. Richard bent down, plucked it from its perch and looked at it with interest. It was written in Deborah Stratton’s strong hand, which he had previously read on one memorable occasion, and it was addressed to the editor of the Suffolk Chronicle. Richard dusted the missive down, caught up with the gig and passed it over to the gardener’s boy, who stowed it away gratefully.
As Richard turned his horse, he wondered idly why the Honourable Mrs Stratton would be writing to the newspapers. Perhaps she was inviting more ladies to join the Midwinter reading group. Or more likely she was writing to the editor to complain about the preponderance of rakes in the Midwinter villages that summer. Richard knew that Mrs Stratton had no very good opinion of rakes in general and of himself in particular.
Richard took the green lane that passed to the east of Deb Stratton’s property and slowed his highly bred black hunter to a decorous trot. The horse flickered its ears with disappointment, but Richard had no wish to meet his maker on that particular morning and it seemed that almost everyone abroad had let the fresh summer air go to their heads. Tempting as it was to kick the horse to a gallop, Richard had an instinctive feeling that caution should be the order of the day.
The thought had scarcely left his mind when there was the tremor of hooves on the dry earth, and Deborah Stratton herself rode out on to the lane on a big brown mare that was almost a match for Richard’s hunter. The horse saw them before Deb did and it took fright, rearing up and pirouetting around. Deb brought the mare ruthlessly under control in a flurry of flying hooves and sat panting slightly, her hat askew, her cheeks stung pink with cool morning air and indignation.
‘Good morning, Mrs Stratton,’ Richard said. ‘Are you practising to join the Spanish Riding School in Vienna?’
He saw Deb Stratton’s pansy-blue eyes narrow on him with intense dislike. She always looked rather comical when she was angry, like a child having a tantrum. Her face was too pretty and too amiable to express annoyance convincingly, and for all that she was two and twenty, she looked much younger. From the thick, fair curling hair that rioted beneath her hat, to the pert nose, full mouth and resolute chin, she looked like a schoolroom chit who had been thwarted and was in a sulk.
‘Good morning, Lord Richard,’ she said. She was having difficulty keeping her tone even slightly polite. ‘I would rather join a school renowned for its discipline than be a circus rider like you.’
Richard grinned. One of the many things that he liked about Mrs Stratton was that her nature was so open that she found it well nigh impossible to adopt the prevarications required by polite society. With him, she did not even try.
They had met two years previously and almost from the start Deborah had made it perfectly clear that she found him to be nothing but a rake and a scoundrel, and she would be the happiest woman on earth if she were never to see him again. Richard’s reputation, which had drawn so many women to him like moths to a dangerous flame, had done him no favours at all in her eyes. He had quickly realised that Deb was that most fascinating combination of qualities, a passionate woman who appeared to have the morals of a puritan. Her antagonism had only piqued his interest. And, being a rake, he had known at once that he had to have her.
Their acquaintance had developed in the most fascinating way. Richard had begun to suspect that, for all her protestations, Deb was not indifferent to him. He was too experienced with women not to recognise that her dislike was turning to reluctant attraction. The very fact that she deliberately avoided his company spoke of her struggle with her own feelings. The knowledge had prompted him to make a serious miscalculation. He had asked her to be his mistress.
It was unlike him to be so inept in matters of the heart, but he had assumed that he could overcome any scruples Deb might possess and persuade her into an affaire. A slapped cheek had demonstrated just how passionate her nature was-and how far he had misjudged the situation. Then, lest he had not quite understood her message, she had sent him a very sharp letter, telling him to keep out of her way in future. Ordering him, in fact.
Richard had had no intention of doing so and he was assisted in the matter by the fact that society in the Midwinter villages was small and they were forever being thrown into each other’s company. Deb had tried to ignore him and Richard had delighted in teasing her by straying close to the line that she had drawn. She had reacted disdainfully, yet underneath he had sensed that her reluctant attraction to him was still there and that it troubled her deeply. It also stirred in him a desire greater than he had ever known.
But then two things had happened to change the balance of the situation. Firstly, Richard had renewed his friendship with Ross Marney, under whom he had served at sea. Ross was his senior by several years and there had always been a mutual respect between the two of them. Now that they were living in the same neighbourhood, this quickly grew into a warmer friendship. Which made Deb, as Ross’s sister-in-law, firmly out of bounds to Richard. She became that most tempting but untouchable of creatures, the woman that he wanted but simply could not have.
As if this were not bad enough, Richard had crowned his folly with a final piece of madness. He had fallen in love with Deb and his ambitions had changed. Now he wanted to marry her.
He was not entirely sure how or why it had happened. True, they were forever in company together and shared an interest in riding and the pleasures of the outdoors. Even so, it seemed inexplicable to him. He was not a man who had ever looked to marry, for his elder brother had the responsibility of providing an heir to the dukedom of Kestrel. More to the point, he had never met a woman that he wanted to wed. Until now. And now, of course, his choice had fixed upon someone who would barely give him the time of day, let alone her hand in marriage.
Richard had told himself many times that his ardour was the natural result of being denied something that he wanted. He told himself that he would soon overcome this temporary difficulty and be cured.
He knew that he deceived himself.
It was also clear that he had not a hope in hell of achieving his ambition of marriage to Deborah, for whilst he had been languishing like a lovestruck boy rather than a man of experience, Deb’s feelings for him had undergone no such radical change. She still despised his reputation and, as a result, would not let him close. It was barely surprising, given that he had marked his card when he had asked her to be his mistress.
Richard knew that he could not undo the past. For years he had revelled in his status as one of the most dangerous rakes in London. He had exploited it, enjoyed it to the full. Now it could deny him the one thing that he wanted above all else. It was an irony that he could appreciate.
And in addition there was another obstacle. Richard had heard from Ross Marney amongst others that Deb’s first marriage had been very unhappy and that she did not look to wed again. Taken all in all, the barriers seemed formidable. And yet Richard knew that he was going to try. His courtship would not be in the least conventional, but it was his most ardent intention to oblige Deb to admit her feelings and to persuade her that, despite her misgivings, they were meant to be together.
He brought his horse alongside hers and was amused when she twitched her reins to draw a little way away from him.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was attempting to compliment your riding skills. You controlled your horse magnificently back there. But perhaps you do not care for compliments from a circus rider?’
Deb turned her face away so that all he could see was her charming profile beneath the brim of her saucy hat.
‘I certainly do not seek compliments from you, Lord Richard,’ she said. ‘They are as worthless as withered weeds.’
‘How poetic,’ Richard said. ‘Do you study the romantic poets at the Midwinter ladies’ reading group this summer, Mrs Stratton?’
Deborah’s voluptuous mouth pursed tightly, as though someone had pulled a drawstring. It made Richard want to kiss her. He repressed the jolt of desire that ran through him and soothed Merlin to a stately walk. The hunter tossed its head in disgust.
‘We are studying the works of Andrew Marvell,’ Deborah said, ‘though I do not expect that you will have heard of him, Lord Richard. I have yet to learn that intellectual pursuits are your strong point.’
Richard, who had taken a double First at Oxford, merely smiled. ‘You have yet to learn anything about my strong points, as I recall, Mrs Stratton. When I offered to demonstrate them to you, you declined.’
Deborah blushed slightly, but did not look at him. ‘Of course I did! I am no lightskirt prepared to help you enliven your time in the country. By the by, when do you return to London, Lord Richard? Surely it must be soon? Time seems to pass so slowly these days.’
Richard laughed. ‘I am desolate to disappoint you, ma’am, but I fear that the time for my departure has not yet come. However, you need not repine. You have done an excellent job of avoiding me this summer thus far. Look at the way you cut me dead at Lady Sally Saltire’s most recent ball! It was masterly. It is merely our bad luck that we bumped into each other today. I am sure that it will not happen again.’
Deb looked down her nose at him. ‘I hope not. Midwinter used to be such a peaceful place, but these days it is bursting with all manner of undesirable characters.’
Richard laughed. ‘You may classify me with the riff-raff, Mrs Stratton, but I am not convinced that you see me as undesirable…’
He watched in amusement as Deborah bit her lip, clearly torn between giving him another huge set down and a natural courtesy that told her she was behaving very rudely towards him. She was quite the most transparent person that he had ever met but, in a society that dealt so much in the counterfeit, it was refreshing.
She pulled her horse a little ahead of his on the grassy track and glanced back over her shoulder.
‘One of the pleasures of riding for me is that I may do it alone,’ she said pointedly. ‘I bid you good day, Lord Richard.’
Richard put his gloved hand on her reins to slow her down. She looked sharply at his hand and her face froze with disapproval.
‘My lord?’ Her tone was arctic.
‘A moment, Mrs Stratton,’ Richard said, as their horses drew level. ‘Since it is so rare that I have the pleasure of riding with a companion who is my equal in skill, how do you feel about a wager? If you can outrun me, then you have won the right to your solitude.’
Deborah’s eyes snapped. Before Richard could even draw breathe, she had whipped the reins out of his hand, turned the horse and dug her heels into its flank. She passed so close to him that he was forced to pull the hunter to one side for fear of being ridden down.
Richard paused for only a second before swinging Merlin around and following. He had intended to be chivalrous and to offer Deb a head start, but now he saw that no quarter was expected. She had set her mare at a gate that led into a wide field running downhill towards the river and was already at least a furlong ahead of him.
Smiling grimly, Richard gave chase. Deb was crouched low in the saddle and cut a flying figure in her red riding dress as she lay almost flat against the horse’s neck. She had the advantage of knowing the ground better than he; she did not hesitate as the mare thundered over the grassy turf towards the water. The wind snatched her riding hat from her head so that her hair tumbled about her shoulders and streamed behind her like a Valkyrie’s.
Richard was gaining on her now and, no matter how she wheeled and turned, closed the gap between them, forcing her towards a small copse of trees at the edge of the river. Finally, when she could see that there was no way to escape him, she drew rein and led the horse at a docile walk under the canopy of leaves.
Richard watched her closely. He would not put it past her to try and trick him now and slip past him out of the woods. She looked frustrated and defiant, her breast heaving with exertion under the constraint of the tight red jacket.
‘What a streak of wildness you have in you, Mrs Stratton,’ Richard said slowly. ‘I have always surmised that you possess the desire to kick aside the rules of society and be free.’ He turned his horse so that they were facing one another, bringing the hunter alongside until his knee brushed hers. She did not move away, but rather sat frozen in the saddle, her blue eyes wide and fixed on him.
‘You did not ask what the penalty would be if you lost the wager,’ Richard added gently.
He took one gloved hand from the reins and slid it behind her head, into the tangle of her windswept hair, drawing her closer to him. The horses pressed together, crushing his leg between their heated bodies. It was a damnably uncomfortable way to kiss a lady, but it was worth every moment to him, for he had been wanting to kiss Deb Stratton for a very long time indeed. Her lips were soft and cool, and she tasted of fresh air and faintly of honey, and there was some other less definable taste that was Deborah herself, and it went straight to his head-and to other parts of him that responded instantaneously. He first closed his teeth about her voluptuous bottom lip, then released it and slid his tongue into her mouth, courting a response until she kissed him back, hesitantly at first and then with growing passion. The touch and the taste of her fused in his mind with the bright sunlight and the chill of the breeze, and desire flooded through him until he was within an inch of pulling her from the horse and making love to her there on the bed of leaves beneath the trees.
He gathered her more closely against him, sliding his hands gently down her back, alive to every curve and line of her body beneath the enticingly trim riding habit. He had never ached so much for a woman before, nor lost touch with all reality other than that which he held in his arms. But Deb was soft and vibrant, and when she leaned closer to him and with a little sigh matched the stroke of his tongue with her own, he was powerless to resist.
The horses shifted and pulled them apart, and Richard reluctantly let Deborah go. He moved back, his eyes on her face. She looked completely bemused for a second, dazed and dazzled, and he felt a violent satisfaction to have so thoroughly undermined her defences. Then her expression warmed into anger.
‘I knew you were a rake!’ she said furiously.
‘I am so pleased to have been able to prove you correct,’ Richard replied.
Deborah made a noise of disgust. ‘I could have outrun you had I been riding astride.’
‘Now that,’ Richard said with appreciation, ‘I should have liked to see.’
Deborah made another squawk like an infuriated hen and set the horse to walk along the path out of the wood. It was a narrow track and Richard let her go first. Last autumn’s bracken mingled with the pine needles underfoot and the horses’ hooves made a crunching sound on the undergrowth. Deborah was holding herself upright, ramrod straight. There was indignation in every line of her figure. It made Richard want to laugh. He was willing to bet that half her annoyance stemmed from the fact that she had not been able to help responding to him. And what a response. It scorched him to remember it.
‘You did kiss me back,’ he pointed out mildly.
That gained him a stormy look from those deep blue eyes. ‘I have no recollection of it.’
‘You have a short memory, then. Come here and allow me to remind you.’
Deb quickened her horse’s pace to a trot and burst out of the shade and into the open field again. ‘Is my penalty for losing the wager also to find that I cannot lose your company, Lord Richard?’ she demanded.
Richard smiled. ‘I feel that I should escort you home, Mrs Stratton. One may come across all kinds of rogues if one has the folly to ride out without a groom in attendance.’
Deborah raised her whip and tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of her hand. ‘Perhaps I could deal with them.’
‘I thought that I had already demonstrated that you could not?’
Richard watched in amusement as Deborah’s fist clenched more tightly about the handle of the whip. The leather of her gloves strained across her knuckles. Her intentions were all too clear.
‘I find my need for solitude to be quite overwhelming now, Lord Richard,’ she said coldly. ‘Sufficient to defend it with violence, even.’
Richard laughed. ‘You have no need to go so far, Mrs Stratton. I can take a hint as well as the next man.’
He thought that she almost smiled then, despite herself. ‘All evidence to the contrary, Lord Richard,’ she said. ‘I have always thought you remarkably slow to understand.’
Richard quietened Merlin, who had picked up the tension in the air and was sidestepping nervously.
‘Perhaps you are underestimating me?’ he said softly.
‘I doubt it,’ Deb snapped. ‘My estimation of you has always been that you are a thorough-going rake, and I have seen nothing to contradict that.’
‘I cannot fault your assessment of me,’ Richard said. ‘All that I question is your own response. You are not as indifferent to me as you pretend.’
He saw the colour come into Deborah’s cheeks then and thought it a mixture of indignation and guilt. She did not wish to admit her attraction to him, but because she was of so honest a disposition she was having difficulty with lies and half-truths.
‘You are mistaken,’ she said.
‘I do not think so.’
‘You are conceited.’
‘Possibly. That still does not prove that you dislike me.’
‘I dislike you intensely.’
‘And that does not prove that you are not attracted to me.’ Richard threw up a hand. ‘Come, Mrs Stratton-Deborah-admit the truth.’
‘I did not give you the right to address me by name, my lord,’ Deborah snapped.
‘No, you just gave me a passionate kiss in the woods. I concede that one does not need to be on first-name terms to do such a thing. Indeed, you could make love to me and never need to call me by my name-’
He saw the flash of fury in her eyes, but he did not flinch as the whip came down. It hit the mare’s flank rather than his face, and the creature took off across the fields as though it had the fires of hell snapping at its heels.
This time Richard let Deborah go, watching with admiration as she leaned from the saddle to retrieve her hat from the grass without even slowing the horse’s stride. With a whimsical smile on his face, he turned Merlin in the opposite direction and cantered back towards Kestrel Court along the track that ran beside the edge of the river, the Winter Race. The path was soft and sandy beneath Merlin’s hooves and the horse settled to a tidy pace leaving Richard at liberty to think about Deborah Stratton. He had forced himself to self-control when dealing with her, but she had brought out every primitive and masculine instinct within him. It was damnably difficult to behave like a gentleman when all he wanted to do was carry her off.
Richard sighed, deliberately allowing the tension to drain from his body. It had been an interesting morning. First there had been the mysterious letter addressed to the editor of the Suffolk Chronicle. He wanted to know what that had been about. Then there had been his encounter with Deborah herself, as madcap and passionate and yet as determinedly strait-laced as ever. Their meeting had only strengthened Richard’s determination to pursue his unconventional wooing. And since he could never pretend to be a sober man, and since she thought him a rake, a rake’s courtship was what she would get.