Page 17 of Private Arrangements
It was hard to argue with that. Even harder to remember his nobler intentions standing next to her, knowing that she wanted him with a cynic's hidden ardor, knowing exactly how she'd feel underneath him.
But he must not think only of himself. Theodora needed him. She was frightened of this world; he could not abandon her to the vagaries of fortune.
Miss Rowland checked the small watch that dangled from her wrist. “Crumbs. It's half past three already. I'd best head back home. Or my mother will be out looking for me high and low again.”
She offered him her hand to shake. “Good day, Lord Tremaine.”
He shook her hand. But somehow, he didn't let go when he was supposed to.
He didn't want her to leave. He wanted something—not the wild lovemaking of his fantasies, but something reasonable and halfway decent that would keep her with him for a bit longer.
Except his wit deserted him.
He could think of nothing. And he could not let go of her hand.
Gigi's mind was a chaos of hopes and fears in collision. One moment they were both on their best behavior, following the established choreography of decorum to the last dip and turn. The next thing she knew, he either owed her an apology or a kiss.
She received neither. He simply stepped back from her, tilted his head, and grinned ruefully. “That was gauche of me, wasn't it?”
And that was it. No fumbling words of explanation, no awkwardness, no opening for her to demand compensation without coming across as either bumpkinish or hysterical.
She gazed upon him with churlish admiration. This man knew far more of potentially compromising situations than she'd heretofore suspected. The smoothness with which he extricated himself was both impressive and disquieting. Perhaps hewasonly flirting with her after all, a dalliance to entertain him for the duration of his holiday in the backwoods.
“I suppose only you could judge that, my lord,” she said.
“You should take my horse,” he said.
An expression of horror crossed his face then, as if he'd openly and loudly declared before his mother and hers that he'd like to get under her petticoats and stay there but good.
He'd gone out of his way to be considerate of her fear, walking the stallion at a crawling speed and tethering it far away from her. Yet now he'd forgotten all about it. Her heart soared. Beneath his sleek serenity, he'd been as flustered as she, possibly more.
“I don't ride,” she reminded him.
He took a deep breath, the audible exhalation as close an admission of mortification as she was likely to get from him.
“Why don't you?” he asked, once again his cool, collected self. “I can't believe your mother would have omitted equestrian lessons.”
She shrugged. “She didn't. I choose not to ride.”
“Tell me why. You seem like you would enjoy riding, enjoy the control and freedom it affords you.”
Oh she'd enjoyed it, all right. She'd loved riding. Until she'd fallen off for the second time, breaking three ribs and her right arm in two places. “I'm afraid of horses. That's all.”
“And why are you afraid of horses? They are far milder and more reasonable creatures than dowager duchesses. You are not afraid of the latter, from what I hear.”
He certainly had ways to loosen her tongue, with his gentle, persistent, and—by all appearances—genuine interest in her. Not her money, because she'd already tried to give it to him.Her.
“I fell twice. Hurt myself badly the second time.”
Still he shook his head. “You'd have gotten back up on that horse before the doctors even let you out of bed. What really happened?”
It was none of his business. None of his concern. At least, not while he considered himself promised to another. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, only to hear herself say, “A disappointed fortune hunter. He was infuriated with my mother for keeping him at arm's length and chose to take it out on me. He took what little was left in his wallet and bribed our groom.”
And when the first fall did her no damage—having just slowed down when the saddle strap snapped, she slid off and landed on something soft—he tried it one more time. “I was lucky. The doctors said I could easily have broken my spine and been bedridden for life rather than just two months.”
Mr. Henry Hyde, Gigi's would-be maimer, had been arrested two days later on unrelated charges. Apparently he was so desperate for fresh funds that he'd attempted to poison his widowed aunt for the few hundred pounds promised to him in her will. He died while imprisoned.
Lord Tremaine listened intently. She couldn't tell by his solemn eyes whether he was disgusted or saddened. She regretted her candor already. What good did it do to burden him with all this ugly history?
