Recklessly Yours (15 page)

“Lady Sabrina exaggerates. I became a trifle disoriented, but only for a moment.”

A knock at the chamber door cut their debate short. The door opened, and the Duchess of Masterfield stepped inside. “I do hope I am not disturbing you.”

“Of course not, Your Grace.” Holly and Willow slipped off the bed and dipped curtsies. Ivy started to follow suit, but the duchess held up an imperious hand as she crossed the room.

“Lady Harrow, do not dare rise from that bed.” She came to stand at the bedside. “You do look much improved. It must be the tea. Greerson, my abigail, is a veritable catalog of old remedies. I daresay there is no illness the woman has not the recipe to cure. Why, when I was expecting my eldest . . .”

Perching on the edge of the mattress, the duchess relayed her own experiences with the malaise of increasing. Her hand settled with motherly affection on Ivy's, giving it the occasional pat of reassurance.

Seated on the other side of the bed, Holly used the opportunity to study the woman who had raised such a diverse and contrary brood.

Like her daughter, she was not exactly beautiful, though her features were well formed and spoke of intelligence. The directness of her gaze declared her a woman who missed little, yet she lacked the spark that was immediately detectable in her daughter's bright manner. The duchess's eyes were not the gemlike blue of Lady Sabrina's and her eldest son's, but a faded hazel, and something in her bearing suggested a vivacity that had also faded with time.

“I hope you are all contented with your accommodations?” the woman asked.

Holly and her sisters assured her they were.

The duchess smiled kindly at Ivy. “I should leave you to your rest.” She turned to Holly and Willow. “Breakfast is laid out at half past nine. Country hours, you know. You'll find the morning room down the corridor beyond the library.” She patted Ivy's hand once more. “I'll have a tray sent up for you, Lady Harrow.”

“I assure you, Your Grace, that will be quite unnecessary.”

“Indulge me, dear.” Leaning closer, the duchess stretched out a hand to touch Ivy's cheek. Her lace-edged sleeve rode up to expose her wrist.

Holly's eyes widened at the sight of a weal a couple of inches above her hand, the faded ghost of an injury that had left a blotchy discoloring around her wrist. The woman lowered her arm and stood, her sleeve once more concealing the mottled skin. Holly darted a glance at each of her sisters to see if they, too, had noticed, but their expressions revealed no hint that they had.

She glanced down at her own wrist, and encircled it with her other hand. A faint unease gathered in the pit of her stomach, the sensation lingering long after the duchess had left them. And for some reason she couldn't quite name, she hugged her sisters tighter than usual as she bade them good night.

 

“Good morning, Lord Drayton. I hope I'm not too early.”

Dawn had barely broken over the horizon, and the stable yard lay in chilly shadow. The other guests would be hours yet in their beds, but Miss Sutherland was freshness itself as she stood before Colin, the crisp folds of her emerald riding habit elongating her figure and deepening the fiery hue of her hair.

His reaction to her made him forget the fatigue that clawed at his frame. He'd spent a restless night—thinking about her, and the fact that she lay sleeping under his roof. From countless angles he had imagined her generous curves covered only in some diaphanous chemise and a light coverlet, her rounded cheek plumped from the pillow beneath it . . . her lips softly parted . . . and he, merely down the corridor and around a corner, so close. And very much awake.

“We can postpone, my lord, if this proves inconvenient for you.”

Good God, he'd been mutely staring. He gave himself a shake. “Not inconvenient at all, Miss Sutherland. I am merely surprised to see you up and ready so early.”

“There is nothing like an early-morning ride,” she said, slightly breathless, her green eyes glinting.

“I agree. Most people don't realize what they are missing, sleeping half the morning away.”

“Just so. We were all early risers, growing up at Thorn Grove.” She grinned, and while they stood another moment without speaking, somehow the silence had become companionable, comfortable.

No, not comfortable.
Hardly
comfortable. He felt exhilarated, bedazzled, aroused. Dizzy. She made him dizzy with wanting her. Her spicy scent, her riot of curls, her lovely, lightly freckled skin . . . Just once he'd like to pull her into his arms and take in all of her, absorb her, drink in his fill.

Ah, God, did he truly think
just once
would satisfy such a craving?

“Where are my manners?” he asked, turning his thoughts to a safer subject. “How is your sister? I trust she is recovered?”

“She insists she suffered from nothing more serious than light-headedness. But we are grateful for the duchess's hospitality. And yours, my lord.”

“No thanks are necessary, Miss Sutherland. Especially as it worked out so conveniently, since I did promise you a tour this morning.” Once again he let his gaze drift over her riding habit, from the green feather in her cap to the train looped over one arm. “And a ride, of course.”

“I apologize again for last night. I realize I shouldn't have—”

“My guests are welcome to explore any part of this estate, at any time.”

“Are we?” She seemed inordinately pleased about that.

He nodded. “But I thought perhaps we would begin with the horses that are actually for sale.”

She blushed, but with a grin that sparked his pulse. A little flame grew inside him, a much more pleasant sensation than he cared to admit.

Side by side they strolled up and down the aisles. He told her the names of the horses, their ages, their prospects. She listened carefully. Her comments impressed him and convinced him she had spent many hours not only riding but also being among horses and grooms. Her knowledge seemed a combination of natural instinct and firsthand experience, and his admiration for her increased by the moment, a circumstance that unsettled him.

He sought refuge in the one subject he could share with Miss Sutherland without fear of treading too close. “Have you seen an animal yet that strikes your fancy?”

“I've seen many such. The horse you raced yesterday—” She looked about her. “I don't see him here. What was his name?”

“Cordelier, and no, you won't find him among our investment horses.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because he is mine, Miss Sutherland. I raced him only to demonstrate what an Ashworth Thoroughbred is capable of. He is not for sale and never shall be. “

Her brow furrowed. “Not even for the right price?”

“No price could induce me to part with Cordelier. To me, he is vastly more than just a horse.”

Damn, but he'd said too much. There were too many memories and too many emotions coiled around his rare triumph over his father.

Her eyes narrowed and a smile hovered on her lips. “What is he, then?”

He allowed his own mouth to curve. “Perhaps nothing more than a young man's folly, Miss Sutherland. But I've always thought of him as my challenge to myself.” Yes, this he could share without exposing too much of himself, without ripping open the old wounds. “You are aware of my scientific interests?”

“Oh, yes. My brother-in-law has spoken of the experimentations you and your colleagues engage in at Cambridge.”

They resumed walking. She moved close at his side, her swaying skirts brushing his thigh. The rhythm of each
swish, swish, swish
invaded his mind and made it difficult to focus on what he was telling her. He trusted his mouth to form the correct words while the rest of him swam in a heated haze that blurred their surroundings yet sharpened every luscious detail about her.

They crossed the arched entryway and entered the private side of the stables. “Cordelier is the first horse I ever bred entirely on my own. I combed our breeding stock for just the right qualities. His father is Harvest Moon, his mother Pilgrim's Delight. Both champions.”

“Oh, my, even I have heard of them. With such a bloodline, one would think you'd be eager to race him.”

“Only privately. I couldn't bear to part with him, not even long enough for him to be properly trained for the turf. But he sired several of the horses you just saw.”

“A stud without a track record?”

“His breeding speaks for itself. Cordelier's progeny are extremely sought after in the racing world. Ah, here we are.” They stopped at Cordelier's gate, and the horse circled the stall to offer his ears to be scratched. “Halloo, old boy.”

Seeming eager to please, Miss Sutherland pulled off one kid glove and worked her fingers at just the place Cordelier most preferred. Colin couldn't help grinning at the happy glaze that entered the animal's eyes. “I believe you've won him over, Miss Sutherland.”

She ran her hand beneath the horse's forelock. “Do all Cordelier's offspring bear the star?”

“No, not all, though most do. Actually, I find myself fascinated by how and when the star makes its appearance. It began several generations ago, in a horse called Shooting Star.”

“Yes, I believe I've heard of him . . . or read about him. Isn't he listed in the Ascot racing annals? Wasn't he owned by the king himself?”

“Two kings, Miss Sutherland. Mad King George owned him first, and then his son, George IV.”

“Then Cordelier is a descendant of Shooting Star?” When Colin nodded, she pushed a low whistle through her lips. “I am standing before a legacy of racing history.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and his heartbeat accelerated. “Cordelier is more than that, Miss Sutherland. He has played a significant role in my theories of heredity, of how some traits prevail and are passed visibly from generation to generation, while others rest dormant in a bloodline until they surprise one with their sudden appearance.”

Her hand strayed to the braid coiled at her nape. “Like my red hair. None of my sisters are so burdened. A bequest from my maternal great-grandmother, or so my uncle Edward told me.”

“The man who raised you,” Colin mused more than commented. Ivy had confided some of her family history to him, how their parents perished in a house fire, and the four sisters were raised at their uncle's modest Surrey estate. A sad look came over Miss Sutherland, and he found himself searching for words to banish it.

She rallied with a brisk laugh. “My extraordinary luck, this hair of mine.”

“It may be. You see, Miss Sutherland, it is sometimes those dormant traits that endow one with unexpected strength. That is what I have been working to achieve among our stock. To determine the most beneficial characteristics, not only of stamina and speed, but also of resilience and the ability to withstand disease and injury.”

“It sounds as if you have set yourself against nature.” Cordelier nudged her arm, and she resumed petting him.

“Not against nature so much as an attempt to use nature to its best advantage. Traits are not good or bad. Each has its purpose, and in learning what those purposes are, we can breed the ones that will best serve a particular species. Racehorses, unfortunately, are susceptible to a wide range of maladies that too often make it necessary to destroy the animal. If I could only find—”

He stopped, realizing how impassioned he'd become. He stood with hands fisted, shoulders bunched, legs braced as if he'd just entered the boxing ring, as he sometimes thought of his laboratory.

Her hand stilled on Cordelier's mane. “Such an application might benefit more than mere horses, Lord Drayton.” One reddish gold eyebrow arched astutely. “Might one suppose your ambitions extend to human beings?”

That she had made the jump and questioned him so calmly, so entirely without any look of judgment, sent a thrill through him. “Inasmuch as hereditary illnesses might someday be better understood, and even eradicated, yes.” Some impish impulse sent his forefinger reaching out to trace a burnished tendril curling about her ear. “But as for the traits that make each of us who we are, Miss Sutherland, I would not desire to interfere with those.”

Her bosom rose and her lips parted on a delicate little sigh that melted directly over his loins. Aching to draw her into his arms, he instead clamped his teeth against his desires and turned back toward Cordelier.

Holly Sutherland would wither among a family like his. He might not believe in curses, not in the mystical sense, but his was a family defined by bitterness and greed. These weeks of his father's absence had been like a gift, a heady relief. But Thaddeus Ashworth would return home soon enough, bringing scorn and animosity with him.

Colin, Bryce, Sabrina, Geoffrey . . . all of them bore the scars of their childhood, some physically, others buried deep inside. Their mother, too. The Duke of Masterfield loved no one and nothing as much as his brandy, and his brandy made him mean, unremorsefully so.

“We tarry overlong, Miss Sutherland. You did not come here to talk, or to hear my ridiculous theories.”

“Didn't I?” Her voice emerged as a wisp of its usual timbre.

He couldn't take much more of standing beside her, of inhaling her scent and imagining the warmth of her skin beneath all those layers of linen and wool. He forced his gaze from the double row of buttons that marched up her jacket, emphasizing the swell of her breasts. “Certainly not, Miss Sutherland. Or do you not long for a brisk ride across the pastures?”

“Oh, I do. I most certainly do.”