Rescued From Ruin

‘An interesting proposition, but I think your cure might be worse than the disease,’ she rushed, correcting the horse.

‘You would die a thousand little deaths.’

His low voice twined around her and her knee bent harder around the pommel, her pulse fluttering against the tight collar of her habit as she slowed the horse to drop behind the others, ignoring Theresa’s questioning look.

Randall slowed his stallion to keep pace, loosening his grip on the reins as the horses ambled along.

‘Shall we dismount here and wander off into the bushes?’ she suggested. ‘Or would you prefer a more clandestine meeting— your town house, perhaps—late at night? I could wear a veil and arrive by hackney, most sinful and nefarious indeed.’

His finger trilled slowly over his thigh. ‘You make it sound so sordid when it could be so beautiful.’

She ran her tongue over her lips, noting with triumph how it drew his eyes to her mouth, her power over him driving her boldness. ‘Am I really an illustrious enough candidate to bestow your favours on?’

‘Who could be more illustrious than an old friend?’

Friend. She brought the gelding to a stop, the word snapping her out of the seductive haze. They’d been more than friends once, or so she’d believed until the end. He was mistaken if he thought he could charm her into forgetting. It was time to bring his teasing to an end. ‘As an old friend you will understand when I politely decline.’

He turned his horse, walking it back to her as the others rode on. ‘And you will understand when I ask again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.’

‘No, Randall, I won’t.’ The gelding shifted and she tugged the reins to steady it, the animal’s agitation adding to her own. ‘Why do you continue to pester me when I’ve made my position clear?’

‘Because you captivate me, more than you realise.’

The revelation nearly knocked her from the saddle and she shifted her foot in the stirrup to keep her seat. Did he really care for her or was this all part of his game, his ego’s desire to capture the adoration of every woman in London, even an insignificant widow? Her horse shook its head and she turned it in a circle, eager like the animal to vent the energy building inside her.

She positioned her riding crop over the horse’s flank, mischief creeping in beneath her resentment. If he wanted the thrill of the chase, she’d give him one, along with a beating solid enough to end his interest in her. ‘Do you still race, my lord? I remember you were the best in the county.’

‘I was eighteen.’

‘Then I expect you’ve improved with age. To the statue and do not disappoint.’

She snapped the crop against the horse and it shot off down Rotten Row. Behind her, the stallion’s hooves drummed a steady beat on the packed dirt path and in a moment Randall was beside her. They raced side by side, the horses nearly in sync as they flew past geldings shying off the path or rearing up in surprise, their wide-eyed riders hanging on tightly. She turned the horse to the right to avoid a curricle, the driver’s curses lost in the pounding of the gelding’s hooves. Randall dodged around a group of riders and fell back until the path cleared and his stallion picked up speed. The statue came into view and his horse pulled ahead. She dug her heel into the side of the gelding and the horse leapt forward, passing the statue a nose length before Randall’s.

‘Now there’s the woman I remember,’ Randall congratulated, his thick voice echoing through her, infectious and alluring as they slowed their horses to a walk.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve ridden like that.’ Her heart raced in her ears and Cecelia lifted her face to catch the stiff breeze sweeping over her damp skin.

‘Shall we canter to the lake?’ He circled her with his horse, tempting her with the energy radiating between them. ‘Put that horse of yours through its paces?’

‘I think it’s you who’ll be put through his paces. You pulled back, just like you always used to do.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘You did, I saw it, and I’ll see it again at the lake.’ She raised the reins, ready to snap the horse back into action, when three old matrons crossing their path in the curricle stopped her. The tallest one glared at her from beneath a dark parasol while the other two whispered behind their hands. Only then did Cecelia notice the other riders watching them, their faces pinched and disapproving. What little she’d accomplished with all her smiles, she’d just undone in a moment of rashness.

She swallowed hard, the riders’ scrutiny too much like the morning she’d entered Bruton Parish Church to meet the cold stares of every family who believed General LaFette’s lies. It would happen again here in London if she wasn’t careful. Only this time, there was nowhere else for her and Theresa to go.

‘What’s wrong?’ Randall asked.

She wrapped the reins around one hand, eager to be away from him, the Row and everyone who’d seen them. ‘Once again I’ve forgotten myself in your presence.’

Randall scowled, bringing his horse close to hers. ‘Don’t worry what they think.’

She pulled her horse’s head to one side, forcing him away from Randall’s mount. ‘Unlike you, I must.’

‘What happened to the brave girl I remember?’

‘As you said, I was a girl. A lady must mind her behaviour.’

‘No, you have the means to be free. Don’t let these people make you afraid.’

‘Don’t seek to counsel me, Lord Falconbridge,’ she snapped. ‘You know nothing of me or my life.’

She kicked her horse into a trot back up the path, her habit itchy under the rising heat of her embarrassment and anger. How dare Randall sit on his horse with all the privileges of his sex, title and wealth and instruct her on how to behave? How dare he try to tempt her into an indiscretion, then chide her for wanting to protect her reputation? He’d abandoned his so long ago, it was clear he couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to keep theirs.

The animal tried to gallop, but she kept him at a trot, despite wanting to let it run, to carry her away from all the heartless people and her own troubles. Ahead, Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore came into view, their faces hard. Madame de Badeau walked her horse out to meet Cecelia.

‘A splendid display of horsemanship.’ It was a warning, not a compliment. ‘I don’t know how ladies ride in Virginia, but here they don’t race through Rotten Row.’

‘I’m sorry. I quite forgot myself.’

‘I don’t recommend forgetting yourself again.’ She inclined her head at Lord Strathmore, his snub nose wrinkled in disapproval. ‘Not all gentlemen appreciate such spirited public displays.’

Anger burned up Cecelia’s spine and she wanted to turn and gallop back to Randall, dismiss them both and embrace the freedom he offered. Only the sight of Theresa beside the Earl kept her from snapping the horse into a run. It wasn’t freedom Randall offered, but an illusion as fleeting as those her father used to create before every failed trip to Calais, and as likely to sink her as her father’s ship had sunk him and his business.

‘Come along, then.’ Madame de Badeau escorted Cecelia back to Lord Strathmore, riding beside her like a guard.

Cecelia felt like a prisoner to her debt and to every bad choice made by her father, her mother and even Daniel. They’d all escaped the ramifications of their decisions, leaving her, always her, to deal with the consequences.

Resignation extinguished her anger and she let the horse, Lord Strathmore’s horse, continue forward. It wasn’t just her future at risk, but Theresa’s. If she lost the Earl’s good opinion, and the opinion of who knew how many others, Theresa would suffer, too, and she refused to allow it. Fingering her gold bracelet, she tried to look contrite while thinking of all the simpering words she might say to soothe the hard set of Lord Strathmore’s lips. Each turn of phrase burned her tongue like hot water, but she would say them. Life was what it was and she must make the best of it. Nothing good could come from wishing for it to be any different.

Chapter Five

Randall stood on the staircase, watching the elite men of London snigger and cough as they examined the selection of paintings arranged on easels across his wide marble hall. A fine collection of art base enough to make a bawd blush was on display. It was the last of Uncle Edmund’s collection, which used to hang in the entrance hall of Falconbridge Manor, his uncle’s defence against respectable ladies attempting to cross the threshold and land a Marquess.

‘Impressive works, Falconbridge,’ Strathmore mumbled as he walked past, looking a little red around the collar, as if this much flesh so early in the day was more than even a man of his tastes could tolerate.

The footmen carrying trays of Madeira were also having trouble maintaining a steady course in the face of so much painted flesh. For the second time in five minutes, Randall watched as the wiry-haired Duke of St Avery nearly collided with a gaped-mouth footman.

‘You’ll gain quite the reputation as a collector after this,’ Lord Bolton offered with a touch of reverence as he stopped to examine a nearby portrait.

‘I don’t think that’s the reputation I’ll gain.’ Randall smirked with more arrogance than he felt. The exhibition might titillate society, but today, the excitement of shocking their sensibilities left him flat. Instead all he could think about was Cecelia and their encounter yesterday in Rotten Row. His agitation was exacerbated by the ridiculously early hour he’d arisen. Not even Reverend had deigned to join him to watch the sun rise and tease out why Cecelia, after flying like a mad woman down the row, all lively laughter and glowing skin, had shrunk back into herself like some scared turtle at the sight of a few old matrons.

It wasn’t the Cecelia he remembered, the one who used to laugh boldly at these paintings in front of Uncle Edmund instead of averting her eyes.

What had dulled her bravery and made her more afraid of a few old crows than she’d ever been of Uncle Edmund? Perhaps the husband was to blame.

Randall tightened his hands into fists behind his back, imagining the colonial’s face twisted in disapproval. Cecelia might have stood up to such scrutiny at first, but over time it would have chipped at her, like his father’s constant reprimands ate at him.