Page 18 of Private Arrangements
“Please wait here,” he said. “I'll be only a minute.”
He returned, leading his horse behind him. For such a tall man, he moved with an easy grace, his leisurely seeming gait eating up the distance swiftly. His long riding boots reached halfway up his thighs. She had to exercise considerable restraint to not follow the lines of his fawn trousers and stare where she shouldn't.
“Will you walk a little with me?” he asked, with great solicitude that told her nothing.
“Certainly.” She didn't understand what he wanted, but it mattered not. She would do almost anything with him, up to and including forfeiting her virginity, if he but asked, with or without a nuptial contract.
Since meeting him, every morning she woke up with a sweet, wrenching pain in her heart—the joy and overwhelming terror of being in love—not knowing how she would get through the day without him, not knowing how she would ever survive another encounter with him.
The land rose and flattened into a meadow, gray and yellow in winter, densely wooded to either side. They walked until they came to a weathered hitching post that hadn't been used in years. There Lord Tremaine stopped, tied the horse, and removed its saddlery, setting everything carefully down on the ground.
“What are you doing?” she asked, beginning to be suspicious. “Is anyone going to ride bareback?”
“Come closer,” he requested. “I want you to watch me.”
As if she could do anything else while he was near.
He looked into the stallion's eyes and ears, ran his hands down the horse's legs, and raised and inspected each hoof in turn. “We really should sell him,” he said. “Carrington had a good eye for horseflesh, too good for his finances.”
He picked up the saddle pad, smoothed it, and settled it on the horse's back. Then he placed the stirrup irons over the back of the saddle and folded the girth strap up so that neither would hit the horse while the saddle was being mounted. Only then did he lift the saddle high and set it down on the horse, as softly as he would place an infant in its bassinet, sitting the cantle just slightly high on the withers, so that as the rider swung into the saddle it would slide down into position while keeping the horse's coat in the correct orientation.
She was amazed. She'd never seen gentlemen do anything more physically demanding than lifting a shooting rifle. Yet here he was, performing a groom's work as if he'd done it hundreds of times before. There was a neatness to his motions, an efficiency, every task completed quickly, attentively, and well. She was beginning to understand his poise—it was more than inborn confidence, it was also knowledge and experience.
“Come feel the girth,” he commanded her.
She complied. The strap was strong and in good repair. He made her test the billet straps too and verify with her own eyes that everything had been properly fastened to the saddle. Only then did he buckle and tighten the girth, making sure that he didn't cinch the horse too tight, that he could slip his fingers between the girth and the horse's belly. She stared at his hands, so capable, skillful, dexterous—and impossibly erotic in those supple, close-fitting black leather gloves.
He stood by the stallion's head and had it raise each of its forelegs, to settle the saddle and smooth out wrinkles in the pad. When he was at last satisfied that the horse was properly saddled, he rebridled it too, so that she could see every precaution had been taken, every procedure impeccably observed.
“You know what I want you to do, don't you?” he said with a small smile. “You are not afraid of horses. You are afraid of people wishing you harm.”
She shrugged. “What's the difference?”
He held out his hand. “I like to see you fearless.”
Memories of the fall came unbidden. She felt that unending instant of terror and panic, the flailing, the scream tearing her chest; she felt the desire to never leave her bed again, to coast on and on in her laudanum daze.
It was this incident, more than anything else, that had at last convinced her to marry as high as the sky. She would not be a victim of her fortune. She would hunt, rather than be hunted. Three months later the purchase of Briarmeadow was complete. Scant weeks afterward she'd fired the first salvo in the direction of Twelve Pillars.
She placed her hand in Lord Tremaine's. He gave her a quick squeeze, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ready?”
“It's not a sidesaddle,” she said.
“Something tells me you know how to ride astride,” he replied, entirely confident in his intuition. “Come. Just fifty yards. A sedate little walk. I'll hold on to the reins.”
She knew what he wanted. He wanted her to overcome her fear, and he wanted to be the one to help her reach that laudable goal. Had it been anyone else who'd led her to this point, she'd have risen to the challenge simply because she refused to show that much weakness.
But with him it was different. She wasn't afraid that he'd see her as less than invincible. Before him it seemed permissible, somehow, to be frank, frustrated, and, at times, even apprehensive.
She would mount that horse because she wanted to please him, to make him think that he'd made a material improvement to her life. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could make it fifty yards if she held on tight, clenched her teeth, and prayed to whichever deities had a little compassion for forlorn, uppish females.
“I promise not to ogle your trim ankles,” he said lightly. “If that's what you are concerned about.”
“You shouldn't mention my ankles. And they are hardly trim.” And the balmorals she wore were hardly those lace-frilled, eyelet-spangled fancy boots designed to make a man weak in the knees should he happen to catch a glimpse of them peeking out from underneath the hem of her dress.
“I'll be the judge of that. Now, should we?”
“Fine, then, fifty yards.”
