"Enough," he said, thrusting the worst of them away. To his amazement, he was obeyed.
Then he saw why.
Every one of the smaller dogs was groveling furiously at
Florence
's feet. True, she had knelt down to
pet them, but even so, the division of attention was unprecedented. Even Freddie, whom the dogs
knew, didn't warrant such a greeting.
Florence
looked up from the tangle of wriggling bodies.
Her eyes, both laughing and sheepish, found his. The moment hung. To save his life, he could not look away. Her gaze flushed him hot and cold. He hardened, abruptly, fiercely, but his body's reaction was a distant thing. Looking at her, he felt a sense of union he could not reason away, as if the affection of the dogs had mysteriously linked them together.
This one is the same,
their favor seemed to say.
This one
is the same as the one we love.
Ridiculous, he thought.
Totally ridiculous.
"Well," Aunt Hypatia observed, "people are right to speak of your animal magnetism."
Florence
's head came up in alarm, the pink of her cheeks rivaling his mother's roses. "Oh, no," she said. "I never have this effect on dogs.
Only cats and ... and small children.
I'm sure I simply smell of dinner."
That, Edward thought, did not explain the effect she had on him. Even now, in front of his family, in front of the gamekeeper and God, he couldn't control his lust for his brother's future bride. His palms itched to hold her, to touch her in any way. Even to stroke the soft curves of her face, to kiss the tip of her nose, would have brought him satisfaction. Never had he yearned like this for a woman. Aunt
Hypatia had spoken true. He was an animal. And
Florence
, apparently, was the magnet he couldn't resist.
* * *
Florence
had survived
the day: the train ride and the silent dinner and Edward's obvious disapproval
over that stupid business with the dogs. As if she'd wanted them to make a cake of her! Now she stood by the window in her darkened sitting room, quiet but for the sound of Lizzie's snores from the room
next door. The maid was understandably tired. She'd ridden to Greystowe on the public part of the train, along with the duchess's maid, Edward's valet, and a few of the footmen who weren't needed to keep
the
London
house. Lizzie had been sorry to leave the city until she'd discovered they weren't trading it
for a drafty, antiquated heap.
"They've got running water," she'd imparted in a breathless tone.
"Hot and cold.
And baths in the servants' wing.
It's a right palace, Miss Florence. Why, the ground floor has gas!"
This last pleased her most. Lizzie had never relished the messy chore of trimming lamps. Not that she would have been asked to do it here. Thanks to Aunt Hypatia, Lizzie had climbed to the top of the servants' heap. Only the steward and the housekeeper had the right to order her about, a fact that was only beginning to sink in. "I've never been so happy," she said.
"Never."
Florence
should have been able to say the same. Freddie was a wonderful man. Her future was nearly assured. But instead of enjoying the accomplishment of her dream, she stood sleepless, restless, her forehead pressed to the glass, her mind on a single thorn. Sighing, she gazed out at the grounds. The window overlooked the moonlit lake at the front of the house, the selfsame lake in which Freddie had learned to swim. An arched stone bridge connected its bank to the island in its center. Between the tops
of the trees poked a pointed Moorish roof. She wondered what the building beneath it was used
for,
if
it were simply a folly or a place one could shelter from a storm. It seemed large, its architecture unlike anything on the grounds.
Florence
shivered and rubbed the curtain's gauzy liner against her cheek. The building was exotic, Eastern, a place for self-indulgence and assignations: a man's place.
How easily she could picture Edward there, despite his stuffy manner. He'd furnished his train car,
hadn't he? He must harbor a streak of the sybaritic. He'd smoke cigars in that
hideaway,
she mused,
and drink expensive wine. And meet women, of course.
The local widows.
The saucy laundry maids.
They'd know more than his kisses. They wouldn't be too frightened to
unwrap
the mystery that hung between his legs. They'd touch it bare and feel it harden. They wouldn't fear, not them, not with Edward to guide the way. Edward would know how to protect a woman from the consequences of indiscretion.
With a soft cry of annoyance,
Florence
banished her foolish thoughts. Indistinct as they were, her imaginings disturbed her. Her heart was beating too fast and
a heavy
velvet warmth had settled under
her belly. The reaction was pointless. What did it matter what Edward did with other women? It was nothing to her.
Nothing.
Then, just as she was about to turn away, she saw a figure on a horse, cantering smoothly around the lake. Edward.
And Samson.
They seemed a creature out of myth, one being. As she watched, Edward slowed the stallion to walk him through a patch of stones.
He cares for that horse, she thought, far more than he'll ever care for me.
Then it came to her: what she could do to win his respect.
Her hand tightened on the drapes and her body tingled with a different sort of thrill. This was the
answer. She was sure of it. I must learn to ride, she thought, as well as a lady born.
* * *
Heart pounding with
resolve,
Florence
found Freddie in the billiard room after breakfast. Appropriately enough, he was dressed to ride, though, at the moment, he was merely knocking balls around the table. When he looked up from his shot, his eyes glowed with approval. "Well," he said, "don't you look
smart!
" Uncustomarily nervous, at least for an interview with Freddie, she smoothed the front of her teal-colored habit.
With a smile, Freddie set down his stick. "What would you like to do today? We could go into town
and meet the shopkeepers, who—believe me—will be delighted to hear there's a lady in residence. Or
we could visit the canal. We're not too far from the lock, and the boats hereabouts are the sort of works of art a Philistine like me can appreciate. The owners paint them, stem to stern, like gypsy wagons. They're very pretty. Plus, I'm sure the Quack and Waddle would be happy to have us for lunch."
His enthusiasm was catching, but
Florence
resisted it. "Sometime I'd like to do that.
Especially the
Quack and Waddle.
For today, though, if you wouldn't mind, I'd simply like to ride. I never got much chance at home. We couldn't afford a lady's horse. I've been thinking I
ought
learn to do it better."
Freddie cocked his head at her. "You don't ride badly."
"Not riding badly isn't the same as riding well. You and I are ... are going to be married. I don't want
you to be ashamed of me."
"I couldn't be ashamed of you if you rode like a sack of potatoes."
Florence
looked down at her hands, folded now across her waist. She was uncomfortably aware that she wasn't being honest with him; that it wasn't Freddie's judgment she hoped to improve. Still, his brother's opinion mattered to him as well. If
Florence
won Edward over, Freddie would be happier, too.
"I'd like to ride better," she said, and forced herself to meet his eye. "You don't have to teach me yourself. One of the grooms could if you'd rather. Anyone who knows more than me would be a help. Please, Freddie. I'd really like to learn."
"I see that," he said. He seemed perplexed by her persistence. The lift of his golden brows wrinkled the skin of his forehead.
"Very well.
I'd be happy to teach you what I can."
"Are you sure you don't mind?"
"Not at all."
He rolled a green ball into the corner of the table,
then
grinned. "It will be fun. You have
a nice enough seat already. You'll be a nonpareil in no time."
"Oh, Freddie.
I don't—"
"I know." He laughed. "You don't want to attract attention. We'll turn you into a quiet nonpareil, a perfectly unobjectionable equestrienne."
Florence
was so grateful she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "That," she said, blushing for her boldness, "would be marvelous."
CHAPTER 7
The day was
perfect for a ride: warm with a light, rose-scented breeze and a flood of sparkling sunshine. She and Freddie crossed the back grounds to reach the stable, a longer walk than she'd expected. Greystowe's servant wing took up fully half of the sprawling house, and the stable was no smaller in scale. Like the main structure, it was built of stone. Blue slate protected its barrel roof and tall arching windows opened onto each horse's stall. The horses were cleaner and better fed than many of the people she'd seen in
London
. Even the cats looked sleek and fat.
They, thank heavens, took a few twists around her ankles and let her be.
With the efficiency that characterized all of Greystowe's workings, Freddie was mounted on a dappled gray and
Florence
on a nervous brown mare with the unpromising name of Nitwit.
"She'll settle," the groom assured her when the horse shifted from side to side. "It's the stable she
don't
like. Once you're in the open, she goes as pretty as you please."
Since they were already in the yard,
Florence
wasn't certain she believed this. Nitwit had her swaying
like a tipsy sailor. Happily, the mare did calm as they left the home paddock behind.
"Watch your footing," the groom called after them. "We've had badgers."
Freddie smiled and waved and clicked his horse to a brisker pace.
"We'll take you across the downs," he said, "and get a look at your form."
The downs were an expanse of low, grassy hills, dotted with sheep and crossed by a narrow stream.
After a short ride, Freddie pulled up at a flat, clover-strewn stretch of grass. "Here's a likely spot
.
'Course, you probably shouldn't gallop a horse you've never ridden. Would you mind if Sooty and
I shake the bugs out while you wait? I can tell he wants to run."
The dappled horse blew noisily in agreement.
Florence
laughed. "By all means, shake out all the bugs
you please. Nitwit and I will enjoy the view."
In truth, Nitwit enjoyed the clover more than the view, but
Florence
was admiring enough for them both. Freddie rode as well as his brother, though his style was different: more full out, as if the horse's spirit drove that rolling gallop, rather than Freddie's driving the horse. He crouched low over Sooty's neck, his seat rising out of the saddle, his golden hair streaking like a second mane. He was tall for a jockey, but
Florence
had never seen one with more dash.
He was free out there. She'd never thought of him as less than free, not like his brother, but seeing him today she knew that he, too, had constraints he needed to leave behind.
Horse and rider slowed to a canter, quartering back the way they'd come. Sooty's gait was smooth as butter, a joy to watch. As if to share the pleasure, Freddie hooted and waved his arm.
Until Sooty found the hole.
It caught his right foreleg. She heard the horse scream and saw him fall. Freddie went down with him.
He let out a yell, and then she heard nothing. Sensing her alarm, Nitwit began to sidle but
Florence
dug
in her heels and forced her across the field.