Page 17 of Too Wylde To Tame
Charity frowned. No. He hadn’t. There had been a moment when she thought he would, when they’d been studying a particularly well executed effigy of a knight who had died in battle. She’d turned to point something out to him and found him staring at her. Or more particularly, staring directly at her mouth. Then he’d leaned closer and, heaven help her, she’d leaned into him, as well—waiting with bated breath for the first touch of his lips.
And then Lady Agnes Milford’s shrill voice had penetrated the haze around them, only seconds before she’d turned the corner and come upon the very same crypt they were examining. And she’d gifted them both with a very knowing smirk. Guiltily, Charity had backed away from him then. But he seemed to suffer no embarrassment at all… only disappointment that they’d been interrupted.
“No, he did not kiss me,” Charity said.
Cordelia lips twisted into a pout. “Well that is terribly disappointing. I wanted you to tell me what it felt like since it seems I’ll never find out myself! I can assume with no kissing there was no proposing?”
“We’ve really only just begun to get know one another!” Charity protested. And while she would not say so to her cousin, she could admit to herself that if he were to ask, she’d say yes without hesitation. Foolish and impulsive as it seemed, that simply felt right to her.
Cordelia’s skeptical expression was telling. “You know enough. Don’t even try to lie. We’ve known one another practically since birth!”
It was true. She loved her sister. Felicity was her twin, after all, and they were undeniably close. But Cordelia had been more than just a cousin. She’d been a friend and confidante. “Marguerite should be here anytime,” Charity said, changing the subject.
“Oh, yes. I’m sure she will and I’ll gleefully inform her of Lord Jameson Dartwell’s scandalous behavior. Good heavens, Charity! I cannot believe she permitted that man to call on you. Your father would have apoplexy.”
Charity didn’t even want to think about what he would say, or just how furious he would be. Not with Marguerite but with her. She didn’t like to talk about it, not even with Cordelia. But he’d always been much harder on her than on Charity. Her mother was not one to show favorites. She was critical of everyone. But her father had always made his preference painfully clear. “Must we tell her? Because she will tell father, and I can’t bear another lecture, Cordelia. Really.”
Her cousin rose from the bed where she’d seated herself and wrapped Charity in a warm and comforting embrace. “I won’t say anything to Marguerite, and should she find out from another source, I will plead with her not to let your father know. At least not until you’ve become the Viscountess Welbey.”
Charity didn’t immediately naysay her. How could she when that was precisely what she hoped the outcome would be?
* * *
Frederick walkedwith the other gentleman to the stables. They had done some shooting first, in a field not far from there, and now the plan was to ride through Randford’s estate to the river and then back. It offered a chance for the men to be able to indulge in ribald humor and conversation that was unsuitable for ladies’ ears. And also, he thought, because some of those gentlemen just wanted to escape their wives for a bit. Lord Milford came to mind. Lady Agnes had a voice that could curdle milk.
Of course, that wasn’t his only reason for participating in the event. After the indignity of Jameson’s appearance that morning, if he were to stay behind, it would be assumed that he was doing so out of shame. He’d long since given up feeling ashamed of his brother’s behavior. If he hadn’t, he would never have had opportunity to feel anything else.
Mounting his horse, he felt it shift a bit beneath his weight. Thinking it had more to do with an error on his part, likely due to his degree of distraction, he settled himself more firmly in the saddle.
Randford nodded to him. “That’s a fine horse.”
Frederick patted Hannibal’s neck. The gray gelding snorted in pleasure and tossed his head a bit. “He’s a vain one.”
Randford laughed. “He has reason to be. Is he a jumper?”
“He’s been known to be,” Frederick said with some excitement. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a staid ride, after all. There might actually be a challenge to it.
“Good. There’s a section on the other side of the woods… hills, fences and a few hazards. Nothing really dangerous, of course. Just enough to make it a bit of a challenge. Are you game?”
“I’m more than game, Randford.”
Randford nodded. “By the way, I should tell you that Lady Marguerite will be here this afternoon. Likely by four. I’m assuming you’ll be wanting to have a conversation with her.”
“Indeed,” Frederick nodded. “Indeed, I will.”
When the last of the riders had mounted up, they took off. Some were better than others, but all were adequate horsemen. Frederick didn’t feel the need to push his mount in the beginning. He was content to stay with the pack and save the animal’s energy until they reached the course Randford had mentioned.
The first jump was a low stone fence. Just a bit more than knee high, it should have been easy. It should have been something he could do in his sleep. But the moment his horse flexed beneath him, preparing to take that leap, he knew something was wrong. It was too late to change course, too late redirect. They went over and he heard the snap of leather as the saddle slipped beneath him. But this time it wasn’t simply a slip. The entire thing came away, taking him with it. He hit the ground with a heavy thud. At the very last second, he managed to twist slightly to avoid a large stone. It grazed his forehead as he fell, but did no serious damage beyond drawing a bit of blood. But the fall did knock the wind out of him, leaving him a bit dazed.
He lay there for a moment, taking stock. When he was fairly certain he was not seriously injured, he sat up. The other riders had circled back, Randford coming up first. Seeing that he was relatively unharmed, his host went to see to his horse first. As much as he cherished the animal, there was something else that he needed to see to first.
Hoisting himself up off the ground, he winced at what would surely be a few nasty bruises. Despite his discomfort, he went immediately to where his saddle lay on the ground. Squatting down, he picked up the loose end of the cinch and examined it. There were too distinct patterns to the separation of the girth. On one side, it was a normal tear, jagged and rough. On the other, it was clean smooth. As thought a knife had been taken to it.
The leather hadn’t simply worn through. And even if it had, the tackmaster would have replaced it. Everything had been checked over and readied for them. Between the time they’d gone to do their shooting and returned for their ride, the girth had been cut. Sliced almost through—sabotaged to break under his weight.
“This was no accident,” he said.
Randford had reached him then, leading both of their horses. “Deliberate?”
