Page 1 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
Chapter 1
Arabella stormed through the wood, wailing like a banshee. Her mount, Achilles, was a grey gelding with a light, athletic frame, and a love of running born in the blood. Arabella was similarly light, with a petite figure and a delicate, heart-shaped face, framed by auburn curls.
Eyes as bright as sapphires were wide as she urged the young horse to greater speed, holding herself low to his neck to avoid tree branches that intruded onto the path. She was smiling as she rose, heart racing, trilling at the excitement of the headlong dash along an unknown path.
As the madly racing pair rounded a bend in the woodland path, a fox chose that moment to burst from the undergrowth to streak across the path.
Achilles shied away, rearing up from the unfamiliar shape and veering from the hard-packed earth of the woodland trail. Arabella had time for a startled gasp before throwing herself full length to Achilles’ long, stretching neck.
Whisper-thin branches lashed her and leaves caught in her hair. The horse dodged and wove around trees and roots, across unexpected gullies and through all but the thickest bushes. All the while, Arabella held tight and urged him to stop.
Sunlight exploded around them as the trees were abruptly gone and they were running across an open expanse of grassland. In the distance was a tall, square building topped with a forest of chimneys and surrounded by a colourful patchwork of ornamental gardens.
Perhaps it was the sudden glare of June sunshine from a cloudless sky, after the sylvan shade of the woods. Or perhaps it was the sudden proximity of a man and woman riding along the wood’s perimeter, but Achilles dug in his hooves and lurched to a stop, ears twitching and nostrils flaring.
Arabella slid from the saddle without relinquishing her hold on Achilles neck. She had begun to scream when his panicked flight had taken him through the thick of the trees.
As her feet came to rest amid the soft grass, her screams had become hysterical laughter. Achilles turned his head and sniffed at her as she pressed her face against his grey, speckled skin. She rubbed his nose and then stepped away. Her knees shook and she sat down abruptly.
“I say! Are you alright?”
Arabella looked up at the gentleman speaking; he was young, roughly her age, just into her second decade. His face was creased with concern as was that of the young lady with him. She had ridden her mount side saddle, while Arabella had straddled Achilles.
She’d tailored her skirts herself, to make them capable of splitting to accommodate the horse’s body. She also wore breeches beneath her skirts, which were hidden by her cream-coloured dress.
The gentleman swiftly dismounted from his horse, the lady with him following at a more leisurely pace. He took off his hat revealing his tightly curled, fair hair.
“What the Devil were you playing at Arabella?” he demanded, his pale blue eyes glaring from his round, boyish face.
“Charlie, I was putting my father’s new horse through his paces, and he got away from me. Dratted fox spooked him. Help me up.”
Arabella held up her hands to her oldest friend and he hauled her to her feet. As she brushed leaves and grass from her skirts, the young lady cleared her throat.
“My Lord?” she asked.
Charles Cavendish, Viscount of Harlton, eldest son of the Earl of Wimpole, looked over his shoulder at his companion.
“Of course! Do forgive me! Arabella, this is Lady Elizabeth Gracely of Buckland Manor. Lady Elizabeth, my very good friend Lady Arabella Harrington of Eversden Abbey.”
Lady Elizabeth had dark hair, done in the latest fashion, and wore a dress of dark blue and white. Arabella’s own dress of dark green was practical, made to be hard wearing, though made well. Elizabeth was clad in silk.
Arabella gave the young lady a grin and stuck out her hand. Lady Elizabeth regarded the hand for a moment, before smiling politely and tentatively grasping Arabella’s fingertips for the duration of the handshake. Arabella’s smile widened.
“Were you riding astride this animal?” Elizabeth asked.
“Of course not,” Arabella said, smoothing her skirts to conceal the line of buttons that could be undone to allow the skirts to be split.
“I thought you were, before you fell.”
“Hardly likely. How could a woman in skirts ride in such a way?” Harlton said, looking significantly as Arabella.
She returned her best innocent expression. “Quite so. I do wish I could ride Achilles the way my father does. But the fashions we ladies are subjected to prevent that.”
“Subjected to? I have never heard it put so,” Lady Elizabeth said.
“Whatever are you doing all the way out here at Wimpole?” Harlton said, looking Achilles over admiringly.
“I simply got carried away. I wanted to try him on new ground. My father’s estates are so well known to me that it simply isn’t possible to get excited any longer,” Arabella said. “Isn’t he a magnificent brute?”
