She’d tensed. As he slowly straightened, she watched him intently. In the faint light that fell through the transom above the door, he could see her pulse beating—too fast, too hard—in her throat.
To his senses, she was like a cornered fawn, ready to leap away at the slightest sign of threat.
He smiled gently. “No biddy across the street tonight—that simply felt right.”
She blinked; her eyes were very blue, the pupils dark and fathomless.
Allowing his smile to deepen a fraction, he reached out, closed his hand around hers where it had frozen on the bell chain, and gave the chain a tug.
Then he lowered his hand and stepped back. His gaz
e on her, he waited until her sleepy maid opened the door, then he saluted Stacie, turned, and walked down the steps. He glanced back to see the door closing behind her.
Smiling, he thrust his hands into his pockets, turned toward Park Street, and lengthened his stride.
They’d arranged to meet at the eastern end of Rotten Row at eight o’clock the next morning.
Stacie wouldn’t have been surprised if, in the wake of that odd almost-kiss Frederick had claimed, she’d had difficulty falling asleep. Instead, the instant her head had hit the pillow, she’d lost touch with the world and had woken with the first birdcalls, refreshed and looking forward to getting out and feeling the wind in her face.
She decided that the only way to deal with that almost-kiss was to ignore it. Why he’d done it was a mystery, but given his character, which she was coming to realize was impulsive—he was an inherently adventurous spirit to whom very few people had ever said no—perhaps, as he’d said, to him it had simply fitted the moment.
Regardless, she wasn’t of a mind to allow such a minor incident to mar her enjoyment of the ride. With her groom trailing behind, she rode into the park and turned south to Rotten Row.
She saw Frederick waiting, mounted today on a raw-boned gray and watching the other riders as they thundered off down the tan.
Then he turned his head and saw her and smiled—and her silly heart flipped, flopped, and turned over.
Ignoring the sudden constriction about her lungs, she smiled back, irrationally pleased she’d chosen to wear her new peacock-blue riding habit, with its matching cap sporting a jaunty peacock feather curling up and over her head.
She drew her mare in alongside the larger gray. “Good morning, my lord.”
Still smiling, he inclined his head to her. “A very fetching outfit.” His warm gaze said he approved. “You cast us drab gentlemen into the shade.”
Her smile widened.
The gray shifted, powerful and restless.
Feeling increasingly breathless, she waved at the track. “Shall we?”
He nodded, and they walked their horses forward to take their place in the queue at the head of the track, and in short order, it was their turn to tap their heels to their horses’ flanks and fly down the tan.
It was exhilarating and satisfying, thundering down the track with Frederick holding the gray back just enough for her mare to keep pace. The wind of their passing blew Stacie’s curls from her face and tugged at the feather in her cap. Excitement sang in her veins, familiar yet with an undercurrent of heightened awareness, of additional subtle pleasure.
They reached the end of the tan and reluctantly slowed, then wheeled to the right, onto the grass, slowing to a trot as they headed back toward the starting point.
Stacie glanced at Frederick, and he met her gaze and grinned.
His eyes reflected the same unalloyed pleasure and joy that was buoying her. “Shall we do that again?” he asked.
She laughed. “Yes—let’s.” In that moment, she felt more carefree and lighter of heart than she had in a very long time.
They both looked ahead and urged their horses into a faster trot, eager to experience the thrill of galloping—galloping together—again.
As they wheeled to rejoin the queue, the word “liberated” sprang to her mind. She hadn’t realized that being an engaged lady, even a faux-engaged lady, would make her feel this unfettered—this free.
That evening saw them attending Lady Kilpatrick’s ball. Her ladyship was one of the major hostesses, and an invitation from her equated to a command.
Unfortunately, because of that, her ladyship’s events were always unmitigated crushes, a condition neither Frederick nor Stacie appreciated. By mutual accord, they sought refuge on the dance floor.