He would not avail himself of that knocker, of course. At least, not yet. It was much too early in the day for a formal call. He would come back later that afternoon to introduce himself to Sir Henry Folsome and his sister, as well as the person who might prove to be his tantalizing mystery woman.
Cord swerved around the cottage, choosing a path that took him farther away from the manor house. His gaze swept the gently rolling country that was Cambridgeshire, absorbing the scent of the fresh breeze and the sounds of birds going about their busy routine. Perhaps, he mused once again, there was something to be said for a spot of ruralizing.
At that moment, his attention was abruptly diverted by the sight of a riderless horse pounding toward him. It was a large, dappled gray, long-tailed gelding, still possessed of bridle and halter, but missing his saddle.
At the speed at which the horse was traveling. Cord realized it was impossible to catch him. Surely, however, the beast would return to its stable in its own good time. He twisted in his saddle to watch the horse vanish into the distance. For a moment he felt a twinge of envy for the unfettered exhilaration apparent in the gray’s fluid stride and the arrogant toss of its head. He had assiduously pursued this kind of liberty for himself, but despite his efforts, his freedom had left him unsatisfied. Sometimes freedom bore its own shackles, he mused sourly.
With a sigh, he swung about again, only to note a figure walking along the road toward him. The owner of the gray, he assumed. To his surprise, for the gelding was one of the largest he’d ever seen, the unseated rider was a woman—and, he observed as she neared, an altogether toothsome specimen of the gender.
She was tall, although the trim waist displayed in her modest riding habit could be spanned by his two hands. She looked far too slender to manage a mount the size of the gray. Her stride was purposeful, however, and she lifted a slim hand in greeting as she neared.
He lifted his own, and in that second he realized that the horse that had just galloped past him could easily have been the same one he had seen the night before between the legs of the unknown rider.
Was it possible . . . ? He slowed and gazed intently at the woman. My God, he thought, she was beautiful! Long, thick hair, the color of firelight on polished mahogany, was swept under a small hat trimmed with a single feather. Her eyes were wide-spaced, and, from this distance, appeared to be a light gray. The spare lines of her habit clearly delineated lush curves that made his mouth go dry. What was such a goddess doing in the backwaters of Cambridgeshire? He was forced to the obvious conclusion that, since she was riding on Wildehaven land, she must be the Folsomes’s niece.
And, possibly, the rider whom he had seen the night before on a mysterious foray.
Cord nudged Zeus to a quicker pace.
Gillian Tate watched his approach warily. She supposed it had been unwise to lift her hand in greeting to a stranger, but her predicament had reduced this civilized nicety to an absurdity.
She drew in a sharp breath. There was something vaguely familiar about the rider. Tall and muscular, he displayed a loose-limbed strength in the saddle. Good Lord, he might well be the man who had followed her last night! She knew an urge to turn on her heel and run in the opposite direction. Instead, she affixed a rueful smile to her face as the stranger pulled up before her and dismounted.
“I’m sorry,” he said with an engaging grin. “We have not been introduced, but I’m assuming you’re a damsel in distress, and certainly that particular nicety is not a requirement in such a situation. Allow me to present myself. I’m Cordray, and very much at your service, ma’am.”
Gillian laughed. “How very lowering to appear in such a light, but alas, I am, indeed, in distress. I am Gillian Tate, and I live in Rose Cottage on your estate,” she finished with lifted brows. “For, if I am not mistaken, my lord, you are our new landlord.”
She was somewhat taken aback when he swept off his hat and bowed low over her hand. His hair, dark and thick, reminded her of a sable pelt, and his eyes, for heaven’s sake, were green—the purest emerald she had ever seen. Under his curiously intent scrutiny, she felt as though she were being washed in a tropical rain.
“I believe I encountered your mount just a few moments ago. A fine, ribbed-up gray.”
Gillian sighed. “Yes, that was Falstaff. So-called because all he thinks about is his stomach. When my cinch broke a few minutes ago, the saddle fell off. I could not grasp his halter, and despite my desperate entreaties, he turned about and careened off toward his stable, where he is no doubt this very minute cajoling Simms for a bowlful of oats.”
“You have no one attending you?”
Reading a note of appreciative interest in his tone, Gillian stiffened slightly, but returned laughingly, “No— and that will be a good lesson to me to come out without a groom. I do so enjoy a few moments of solitude before the day begins, and I invariably head out alone on my early morning forays. I feel perfectly secure, of course, when I am on Wildehaven land.”
“Most understandable.” The gentleman smiled once more, leaving Gillian to wonder why this should leave her with a profound feeling that he was somehow a threat to her well-being. And not just because she strongly suspected he was the rider she had come so close to encountering the night before. No, her uneasiness sprang from the man himself, for if ever Gillian had felt she was meeting a predator on two feet, it was now. Despite his seeming indolence, he bore an unmistakable air of command. More important, he fairly exuded that dangerous self-possession she had encountered too often. This was a man accustomed to having whatever took his fancy, whether it be a fine wine, an exquisite painting or an attractive woman.
Her mirror told her she belonged in the latter category, to say nothing of the attempts over the years on her virtue by various enterprising males of her acquaintance. She whispered inwardly.
Ah, my lad, you may smile and smile with your green-fire eyes, but you may look elsewhere for your next conquest.
“I am sure,” the gentleman said smoothly, “Zeus would deem it an honor to offer himself as replacement to Falstaff, who, if I may say so, hardly seems a fit mount for a lady. That is, he looks a bit much to handle.”
“Perhaps he might be for some,” Gillian replied tartly. “However, he is much attached to me and would not dream of treating me discourteously. At least,” she amended with a blush, “most of the time.”
“To be sure.” Lord Cordray cupped his hands and tossed Gillian lightly into the saddle. Grasping Zeus’s halter, he started back along the path to Rose Cottage. “I cannot say I am the
new
owner of Wildehaven, since the estate has been in my possession for two years and more. I am that most reviled personage, an absentee landlord. In my defense, I can only say that having examined my new demesne and found it in good order, I felt comfortable in leaving it in the hands of that most excellent agent, Silas Jilbert.”
“Oh, yes.” Gillian nodded in vigorous agreement. “Mr. Jilbert is highly regarded in the area. He is most conscientious in his duties and empathetic in his dealings with the estate staff. Uncle Henry and Aunt Louisa consider him a good friend. Sir Henry Folsome, that is, and Mrs. Ferris. I am their niece and they—”
“Yes, Jilbert told me of the arrangement made between my uncle and Sir Henry. It was my pleasure, of course, to maintain his status of honored guest in Rose Cottage.”
“That was very good of you,” said Gillian impulsively. “My uncle and aunt are getting on in years and are grateful for such a comfortable place to spend their declining years.”
Cord bent an overt glance of admiration on her. “As I said, it was my pleasure,” he returned smoothly. “I understand your uncle is affiliated with the university?”
“Yes. Uncle Henry graduated from Trinity, then became first a don and then a fellow of Magdalene College. He lives and breathes academics—even more so now that he has retired from his duties.”
Her expression grew troubled, and Cord’s brows lifted. She uttered a brittle laugh. “He has of late become absorbed in the seventeenth century, particularly the reign of Charles II. He spends every waking minute in his study amidst a welter of papers and charts and— but I am babbling. Tell me, sir, what brings you to the wilds of Cambridgeshire? I understand you reside in London.”
For an instant, gazing into eyes that he realized were not just gray, but were wide and changeable as a cloudy sky. Cord felt an urge to confide the tale of his flight from London and the reasons thereof. He stifled the impulse immediately, of course. He was not in the habit of discussing his personal affairs with good friends, let alone a lithe sylph he had met only moments before. His laugh, however, was a trifle strained. “Yes, I admit to being the complete city creature. I am merely looking for a spot of rustication.”
Miss Tate cast him a sardonic glance. “Creditors on your heels, my lord?” At his expression of affront, she laughed. “I’m sorry, but is that not why a peer usually ruralizes?”
Cord relaxed. “I suppose so, but no, no, it’s nothing like that. My finances are in order and my conscience clear.” Well, mostly, he thought with a grimace. “I simply found that the duties expected of me have become burdensome for the moment,” he concluded with the most limpid smile at his disposal.
“I see.” Miss Tate cast him a noncommittal glance. “Do you—?”
She paused abruptly, as a man, apparently a groom, approached on horseback along the path to Rose Cottage. He was leading the big gray, newly saddled.
“Miss Gillian!” he called. “Are you all right? Falstaff came into the stable yard just a few minutes ago and we—”
“Yes, Simms, I’m fine, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to retrieve my saddle. The cinch broke, and it came off just abreast of the bridge. Despite all my entreaties, the wretched beast hared off as fast as four feet would take him for home and a handout.”
Simms expressed dismay. “Cinch broke?” he exclaimed. “Well, I never! I know a certain lad who’s goin’ to wish he’d been more careful with his tack chores. I’ll retrieve the saddle right now, miss.”
Touching a respectful finger to his forelock, he proceeded along the path.
Gillian swung back to the earl, and the two resumed their journey.
“Do you reside in London all year, then, my lord?” asked Gillian, dimly aware that she was, perhaps, being a bit presumptuous. It was none of her concern, after all, where the earl whiled away his life.
“Yes.” The warmth of his gaze told her he had taken no offense. “I’ve made my residence in Town since I sold out, and—”
“Sold out?” Gillian’s voice lifted.
“Yes,” the earl said again. “I was in the army for several years after I came down from Oxford.” He lifted his brows, and now there was a certain stiffness in his tone. “You seem surprised.”
Gillian laughed self-consciously. “Oh, no! That is ... you don’t have the look of a military man.”
At this, a definite flash leapt into his lordship’s eyes. “Really?” he asked coolly. “Not enough swagger, do you think? Or, perhaps I should sport a set of mustachios.”
Gillian put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I am sorry! My wretched tongue. I only meant that...” She trailed off in embarrassment.
Lord Cordray laughed. “Never mind. Even during the thick of the fracas with the Corsican Monster, I never considered myself a military man, so I suppose it’s not surprising that I don’t look like one.”
Gillian returned his smile tentatively and changed the conversation to a lighter subject. They rode companionably, and it was not long before the outlines of Rose Cottage could be seen. They turned toward the stable yard, where a young man ran out to greet them. Cord was somewhat surprised. Did the Folsome family coffers extend to more than one groom? Sir Henry was obviously not the impoverished academic he had envisioned. Once Gillian had been assisted to the ground, Cord prepared to remount.
“I am pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miss Tate. I hope—”
“But are you not coming in?” Gillian bit her lip. Why in the world had she said that? She had the feeling that the less she had to do with this man the better for her well-being. In addition, though he had come to her rescue, she certainly did not want him to think she wished to push the acquaintance to something more.
Indeed, Cord felt some surprise at the invitation, but answered immediately. “It is certainly my intention to pay a call on your aunt and uncle—and you, of course— but it’s very early, and I thought ... If it would not be an inconvenience, however,” he continued hastily, observing her obvious discomfiture, “I am most anxious to meet Sir Henry and his sister. Will they mind receiving a visitor at this hour?”
“Oh, no. Both are early risers, and they will no doubt have been apprised of the ominous circumstances of Falstaff’s riderless return. They fret so over me, you see, and are no doubt watching for my safe return.”
As though in answer to her words, a window in an upper story at the back of the house was thrown open. From it a head protruded, covered with thinning gray hair. A pair of spectacles clung to the tip of the man’s rather bulbous nose, and his plump jowls were quivering under a strong emotion.
“Gillian! Gillian, what the devil do you mean by it? It’s gone, by God, and I well know who is responsible! You will come to my study immediately!”
Chapter Three
Miss Tate swung about to face Cord. He noted with interest that she blushed very becomingly. He also observed that she was breathing very rapidly, an activity that did interesting things to her upper body.
“On the other hand,” she said after a moment, “I do not wish to importune you. I’m sure you have much to do right now. Perhaps, as you said, later in the day would be more convenient. I’m sure . . .”
A spurt of unholy amusement surged through Cord. If he had an ounce of conscience—or social sense—he reflected briefly, he would exit this intriguing scene. On the other hand, if he were possessed of either, how many times would he be forced to leave his admittedly overactive curiosity unassuaged?