Untamed Rogue, Scandalous Mistress

Peyton fixed him with a friendly stare and Crispin knew what was coming next. Inquiries about the ‘exotic’ nature of the stallion were Peyton’s prelude to the bigger question. Whatever else changed about Peyton, this one thing would not: Peyton would always be his older brother.

‘So, Cris, before we rejoin the others, why don’t you tell me what you and my government have been doing for the last three years? The short version, of course.’

Crispin grinned and drew a deep breath. It was good to be able to talk with someone who appreciated the depth and importance of his work. This was something Peyton understood with extreme clarity. ‘Let me start with the Eastern Question…’ he began, his passion for his work evident in his recitation of events and astute analysis of the many evolving situations on the Continent.

At last, Crispin leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its two hind legs, and drew his report to a close. ‘And that, dear brother, is the short version. I haven’t even begun to tell you about British interests in America. There’s another powder keg just waiting to ignite.’

Peyton nodded noncommittally at the implied reference to a future posting. ‘Well, you’ve done your duty for Britain. Perhaps it’s someone else’s turn this time.’

‘Perhaps,’ Crispin replied vaguely, knowing the direction of his brother’s thoughts. Tonight was not the time to discuss his next assignment. When the posting came, Crispin was almost certain it would be an assignment to the American South, a place he was itching to explore on a personal as well as political level. Such a posting would make the sale of Woodbrook imperative. He’d be in America a very long while, more of a relocation than a temporary assignment. Crispin reached for the decanter. There’d be time to quarrel with Peyton over that later. Tonight he simply wanted to enjoy the peace of being home.

‘The long and short of it is, I am running out of time.’ Gregory Windham leaned forwards across the cherrywood desk in his estate office, pushing a small leather pouch of coins across the desk’s highly polished surface to the man on the other side. The blacksmith, Mackey, had been the one villager he’d been able to actively recruit to his side. The others remained quietly neutral with regards to Aurora Calhoun. Damn them.

His laissez-faire strategy had not worked. He’d patiently waited for Aurora Calhoun’s own unique situation to work against her. He’d originally thought the local gentry and the villagers wouldn’t tolerate such a ‘modern’ woman; a woman who ran her own business and sauntered around in men’s clothing. But Aurora had proved wily in that regard, keeping her trousers and lifestyle heavily obscured from the local populace. It had not helped matters that everyone knew she was an especial friend to Dursley’s countess and Dursley’s ward.

Aurora had lived out of sight and out of mind and the villagers had been happy enough with that. Such contentment needed to change. The villagers had to be rattled out of their complacency. He needed to force Dursley to make a stand. Dursley might quietly countenance such a friendship for his wife if no one complained about it. But the earl was also a traditionalist at heart. Windham thought it would be rather interesting to see what Dursley would do if there was a fuss over Aurora Calhoun.

It was time for a more direct approach if he meant to succeed in launching himself as a respectable horseman and sending Aurora Calhoun down the road of ruin. He tapped his long fingers on the desk.

‘The St Albans steeplechase is a month away. That race is mine to win. I won’t have her and that hunter of hers interfering.’ He possessed a stake in the wellfavoured horse, The Flyer. The stake had been an expensive purchase, but money was no object. The Flyer might not be the favourite in the race, but the horse was poised to be a contender if not a winner in the prestigious steeplechase.

‘What do you propose we do?’ The big man across the desk hefted the coin pouch in a meaty hand. ‘I could make items disappear around the stable, or plant a burr in a saddle…?’

Gregory Windham dismissed those suggestions with a wave of his long hand. ‘Those are the second-rate tactics of an amateur.’

He pointed to the bag of coins. ‘Take the money and buy drinks tomorrow night at the tavern. Tell everyone what really goes on at the riding school of hers.’ It was time to reveal his daughter Eleanor’s confession and lift the veil of obscurity Aurora kept around her lifestyle at the stables.

The big man thought for a moment. ‘I’m scheduled to go shoe her horses this week. Won’t it look odd if I’m spreading those rumours and still doing business out there?’

‘You won’t be doing business there any longer.’ Gregory Windham drew out another pouch and slid it across the desk. ‘This should more than suffice to cover your losses in that regard.’ He held the blacksmith’s hard eyes with a cold gaze of his own. ‘There’s more money for you when she leaves town and even more when the horse I’ve invested in wins St Albans.’

The blacksmith grinned. ‘I’ll be a rich man by the month’s end.’

And Aurora Calhoun will be ruined, Gregory Windham thought silently as his henchman departed. It was no less than she deserved. The woman was a threat to all he’d spent years accomplishing. He’d used his money to buy his daughter a titled match with a baron and to establish a small but prime stable a nobleman would respect.

He was hovering on the brink of acceptance into the ranks of the peerage. His future grandson would have a title. Even now, Eleanor rode at Aurora Calhoun’s academy solely because the earl’s ward rode there. Originally, it had been a good social-climbing opportunity. Now, such an association endangered his dreams. Eleanor had become obstinate over the match, spouting too many philosophies she hadn’t learned at home. Windham knew exactly where she’d learned them. They were the same philosophies Aurora Calhoun had spouted when she’d rejected his attentions the one time he’d thought to recruit her to his side. He’d offered her the position of his mistress. She had all but bodily thrown him out of her stables.

Gregory Windham shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Just recalling how that hellcat had railed at him, spitting furiously at his offer, brought his arousal to life. His cheek had borne a bruise from the flat of her hand for days. She’d been magnificent in her anger, her eyes like emerald flames, her dark hair loose about her, an exquisite flowing curtain.

It would bring him great pleasure to subdue the wildness she exuded. Wild things were meant to be tamed. Aurora Calhoun, that tease of a siren, was going to pay. Women had a place in this world. He would make sure Aurora Calhoun knew hers.

Chapter Three

Crispin blew in his cupped hands and rubbed them together vigorously as he entered the relatively warmer interior of the Calhoun stables. Mornings were colder in England than he remembered and certainly colder than the ones he’d most recently experienced in the south of Europe. Crispin strode towards Sheikh’s stall, anxious to see how his horse had fared during his first night in his new home.

Horses whickered as he passed and a few poked their long faces out into the aisle. Even though it was early, the horses were alert and had already been fed. One stall was empty. He recognised it as the stall belonging to Aurora’s horse. Perhaps she was out on a morning ride, although Crispin thought it was too foggy yet for that to be a safe option. He’d been glad he’d walked across the valley this morning instead of riding. It would have been too easy to overlook a rabbit hole or a soft piece of land; too easy for a horse to take a misstep and be rendered lame or worse. Well, if Aurora was out that was her business. At least her absence meant he wouldn’t have to encounter her.

Crispin slipped a halter over Sheikh’s head and led him into the wide aisle of the stable for grooming. Crispin picked up a curry brush and began the morning ritual. He liked grooming Sheikh as much as Sheikh liked being brushed. Not usually a patient horse, Sheikh stood exceedingly still for brushing. Crispin found the ritual soothing. He could lose himself in thought, letting his mind wander freely. The stables were a place of peace for him, any stable. The smell of horses and leather tack were familiar no matter where.

He finished grooming Sheikh and quickly saddled him. Through the stable windows, he could see the fog starting to lift. He was eager to get back to Dursley Park and the hot breakfast that waited. Beside him, Sheikh shook his mane. Now that grooming was done, he was ready to be off too. Crispin fished in the wide pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a few slices of apple. Sheikh snapped them up as Crispin led him out into the morning.

The fog had definitely lifted, Crispin confirmed. He could actually see the indoor arena across the stable yard now. The faint sound of a horse’s nicker drew him that direction. He knew what he’d find inside before he and Sheikh arrived at the door. Aurora had not opted for a dangerous, foggy ride. She’d brought her horse to the arena for a morning workout.

Crispin manoeuvred himself and Sheikh into the shadows of the wide doorway to watch her practise. The arena was set up for jumping and she was executing the fences expertly. She finished the last jump in a corner and made a clean cross through the centre of the arena to the opposite corner and started again.

Magnificent, Crispin thought, his gaze focused on her hands and thighs, appreciating the subtle pressures each of those parts used to communicate with the horse. Her movements were so completely synchronised with the flow and bunching of the horse’s body that it seemed she barely moved at all. Crispin had no idea how long he’d stood there, but at last Sheikh gave him an impatient nudge and Crispin withdrew from the scene. He didn’t worry about being heard. From the look on her face when she’d drawn close to the entrance where he stood, Crispin knew she was in another place altogether. Her thoughts were entirely with her horse; when to move, when to ask for the leap in order to get the most height for the jump.

Where had she learned to ride like that? Surely such skill was not acquired haphazardly.

The question plagued him all the way home across the valley and at the breakfast table until he finally blurted it out to Peyton and Tessa. It was a complete non sequitur. They’d been discussing a bill in Parliament and he’d set down his coffee cup and said suddenly, ‘Where did Aurora Calhoun study riding?’

Tessa looked at him rather startled. ‘I think she said somewhere in Ireland,’ she replied vaguely; too vaguely for Crispin’s tastes. After making a career out of reading people, Crispin knew without effort that Tessa was withholding details. If Peyton knew the specifics he did nothing to fill in the gaps and the conversation quickly reverted back to the bill under earlier discussion.

But Crispin wasn’t willing to give up his inquiries. Once he and Peyton set out on their short jaunt to Woodbrook, he tried again. ‘I happened to catch part of Aurora’s workout this morning when I was saddling Sheikh. I’d be interested to know where she was trained.’

‘Then you should ask her,’ Peyton said levelly in a tone that suggested that topic of conversation was closed. Peyton was more eager to discuss the merits of Woodbrook, which he promptly began to do the moment the first property marker came into view. He continued to elucidate the fine points of the property right up until they dismounted in the stable yard and Crispin could see for himself what an excellent inheritance he’d acquired.

Peyton had not exaggerated. The manor house was a modest, twelve-room affair, hardly more than a cottage compared to the grandeur of Dursley Park. But to Crispin the stone manor was plenty.

‘What would I do with twelve rooms?’ Crispin remarked halfway up the stairs to see the other six, all presumably bedrooms.

‘You could marry and fill the house with children,’ Peyton laughingly suggested. ‘Within three years, you’d be enlarging the place, declaring how you’d outgrown it.’

Crispin knew Peyton meant well, but all the same, the thought of being somewhere for three years, let alone a decade or a lifetime, sent a quiet shudder up his spine. Children couldn’t be dragged around the world every year or so to satisfy his whim for adventure. Children needed the stability of a permanent home, of permanent parents. His own childhood was a testament to that. With two absent parents, Peyton had been the closest thing he and Paine had had to a father growing up. In his darker hours, Crispin often thought it was his worries of turning out like his parents that kept him from pursuing a family of his own, although his brothers had certainly proved such worries to be groundless. Both of them had become model family men.

Crispin made a quick tour of the upstairs rooms and returned downstairs. ‘Perhaps Paine and Julia could make use of the manor.’

Peyton shook his head. ‘There’s plenty of room at Dursley Park for them when they visit. Tessa has a whole wing set aside for them these days. Besides, they spend most of their year in London. Paine’s too busy with his banking investments to make use of a country house on a more regular basis.’

They walked out to the barns, which were just as impressive as the house. There was no outdoor work area for horses yet beyond a paddock, but the room for establishing a training arena was readily available in the wide, open spaces around the barns. Crispin could easily imagine setting up an equestrian centre here. The old dreams came to him as he walked the wide aisle of the barn, counting stalls. He had Sheikh to stand to stud for a pricey fee and to race. He could build a legacy from Sheikh.

Peyton stayed close, continuing his verbal tour of the facility. ‘There’s stalls for fifteen horses. The windows provide good light.’ Peyton pointed overhead. ‘There’s plenty of hay storage in the lofts above. The tack room can easily support all the riding gear you’d need for that many horses. The roof is fairly new. There aren’t any serious repairs you’d have to make. All of your attention could be on improvements and additions.’

Peyton had been a dangerously compelling diplomat in his day, knowing exactly when to push, when his opponents were most open to persuasion. To be honest, that was precisely where Crispin was now; wondering, in spite of his earlier inclination to sell the property, if this place was what he needed to conquer his wanderlust or even if he wanted to conquer the wandering spirit that drove him.

Crispin let a hand drift idly across the half-door of a stall. Commitment begot commitment. It wouldn’t stop at committing to the stables. There would be grooms to employ who would count on him for pay and for work. There would be social obligations. The community would expect him in church and at their gatherings. Women would expect him to marry, if not someone from London because of his family, then certainly a lady from their part of England. Peyton was right. Manor houses were expected to be filled.

He was too much of a realist to believe he could stop at just one commitment. One commitment was merely a gateway to other commitments he felt less compelled to make. The commitments would not happen overnight. They would form a slippery slope that would erode slowly over the span of several years. It would occur gradually so that it didn’t appear to be a lifechanging overhaul, but single small steps taken in isolation from one another until, one morning, he’d wake up and realise it was too late to go back.

Crispin tamped down hard on the old dream of his own stables. It was a startling discovery to find the dream was far more potent than he’d realised. He’d come home, thinking to sell the property. He would stay with his original plan. He had his work. It was only a matter of time before a summons arrived from London. He would not give in, he would not change his course, no matter how much Peyton talked.

They emerged out into the daylight, Peyton’s wellrehearsed tour complete. To his credit, Peyton pressed for nothing. He merely gestured down the road where a rider had turned into the drive. ‘I’ve invited the steward to go over the books,’ he said simply.

Crispin fought back a chuckle. Of course Peyton had invited the land steward. His brother had this visit orchestrated perfectly for maximum effect. All the same, Peyton would be disappointed. He wasn’t going to stay. He couldn’t. It just wasn’t in him.

Several hours later, Crispin knew one thing. He needed a drink and he needed a drink alone. He’d been surrounded by a horde of well-meaning people since his return home. For a man who was used to operating solo and keeping his own counsel, such attention was unnerving. Well, he had to rephrase that. He’d been surrounded by Peyton. In all fairness, Tessa, Cousin Beth, Petra, Annie, the twins and the new baby had all kept at a respectful distance. They’d done nothing more than make him feel welcome.

But Peyton knew what he wanted from Crispin and he was wasting no time in trying to extract it. Crispin could see his brother’s vision clearly. His brother wanted him to embrace the stables, settle down, take a wife and raise a family. For Peyton that had been the clear road to happiness once he’d found the path. Crispin understood it was only natural for Peyton to want that same happiness for him. However, Crispin doubted that path would work well for him. Crispin understood too that Peyton was trying not to be oppressive, certainly a harder task for him than for others. Peyton was well used to being obeyed. But Peyton could not make him into a man he could not be.