How to Tame a Lady

A MOST UNSUITABLE GROOM

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

BECKET’S LAST STAND

PROLOGUE

HORSE AND RIDER EMERGED from the trees in an explosion of unleashed energy that sent a pair of long-eared hares fighting to be the first to scoot headfirst into their burrow. Birds fled the treetops, their dark underbodies shadowed against the high, uncharacteristically bright blue sky.

Shod hooves encountered the soft, just-turned earth of the field. The mare momentarily scrambled for footing, and then gathered itself for the gallop.

The rider, head low over the mare’s neck, held the reins in both hands, elbows up and out, almost standing in the stirrups, knees tight to the horse’s flanks, rump slightly above the saddle, in the way of jockeys once seen racing at a country fair.

Horse and rider both knew the route. The hedgerow first, followed by the low gate at the end of the second field. The stone wall, wide if not that high, which fronted a good three-foot drop-off and rather boggy landing.

Another long, liberating gallop would follow, and then the five-bar gate. That was the test, the five-bar gate. The undeniable challenge. The ultimate triumph once it was behind them.

The mare was strong, and fleet of foot, but it was the rider who held the control. Control was important; it might be everything. Control of your surroundings. Control over your own mind, heart and destiny.

And the freedom that control gave you.

The minor obstacles cleared, the five-bar gate was now visible in the distance. It was not a jump for the faint-hearted or those of only mediocre talent. Skill and confidence were needed. And perhaps a measure of luck.

But the rider had always been lucky.

The mare’s head bobbed and stretched as its strides lengthened, the muscles in its neck straining, its hot breath sending puffs of white vapor into the cool morning air.

The rider melted into the mare, their movements meshing, feeling the precise snap of the mare’s knees as it dug in one last time and then launched itself into the air.

Horse and rider became one in the jump. Soaring. Flying. Free of the earth and all its cares. The world waited below them, completely silent for one long, sweet moment in time.

And then the mare’s front hooves touched the earth once more and the thunder of its hooves, the steady thud, thud, thud, matched the heartbeat of the rider who now stood up completely in the stirrups. One gloved hand went to the soft wool toque and lifted it high into the air, waving it like a victory banner.

Masses of coal-black hair, no longer confined by the toque, tumbled free and blew about in the breeze. A full-lipped, wide mouth fashioned for smiling, for flirting, for kissing, formed to deliver hopeful dreams and crushing disappointments opened, and a delighted whoop of triumph echoed across the field.

Dark-lashed eyes the color of drenched violets sparkled and danced above a pert nose and highboned cheeks dusted with freckles that enticed, hinted of an innocence the sensual mouth denied.

The same breeze that danced in those midnight tresses caressed the high, pert breasts outlined beneath a man’s white lawn shirt that was tucked into a pair of tan breeches even a hardened libertine might call licentious.

Eighteen-year-old Lady Nicole Daughtry knew many would call her beautiful. And different. She reveled in the facts that she was young and brave, heart-whole and achingly alive. Marvelously, gloriously free.

Today was for celebrating that youth, that joy, that freedom. Tomorrow was for saying goodbye to one world and hello to another as she set out on her first London Season, approaching it just as she would a five-barred fence.

Head-on, and certain of the outcome.

CHAPTER ONE

March 1816

LUCAS PAINE, MARQUESS of Basingstoke, was classically handsome, with his thick dark blond hair, clear blue eyes and leanly muscled body. He dressed impeccably, had excellent manners, cherished his widowed mother and was good to his dogs.

He tipped his hat to all when out on the strut, and he belonged to the best clubs. An accomplished horseman and premier whip, he was also no stranger to the boxing saloons, where he excelled, although he would say that he was better with the rapier than his fists. He did not take snuff, affected no airs, graciously danced with all the wallflowers, flattered the dowagers and never gambled above his considerable means.

If there was even a breath of scandal still attached to the memory of the marquess’s late sire, that scandal did not touch the son.

In fact, as his friend Fletcher Sutton, Viscount Yalding, pointed out that mid-March day as the pair sauntered along Bond Street, one eye on the low, threatening sky, if the marquess could only manage to control the weather, he would be elevated to the status of near-god.

Both Lucas and Fletcher knew the reason for this pervasive unpleasant weather, the near constant rain and cold, the lack of sunshine. Although it boggled the mind to believe that a volcanic eruption nearly a year ago and halfway around the world in some benighted spot called Tambora could cause such prolonged misery for most of England and Europe.

“You’re quiet,” Fletcher said as they paused to unfurl their large black umbrellas, for the mizzle had moved on to a drizzle that was sure to become a steady downpour in a few minutes. “Still chafing at what Lord Harper said yesterday at White’s? That wasn’t nice of him, Lucas, saying he’d heard cheerier speeches at funerals, and then he and his friends all but turning their backs on you. Although I will admit he had a point.”

Viscount Yalding was referring to the incident that had taken place at one of London’s premier clubs. Lord Harper, a buffoon even in the best of times, had made a comment about the “ruffians and other low creatures accosting him for coins each time he stepped outside.”

Lucas—surprising even himself—had launched into an impassioned defense of the cold and hungry and frightened populace, and had even warned the gentlemen within earshot that if no steps were taken to assist their fellow countrymen the consequences could be serious.

It had been a very good argument, perhaps even bordering on the inspired. Not that anyone had listened.

Lucas looked at his friend, one eloquent eyebrow raised. “The day I am cast in the glooms by that buffoon’s opinions I shall have to race home and slit my throat.”

Fletcher acknowledged this with a tip of his head. “All right, what is it, then? The weather? No sense repining on that, according to you, as it’s not going to change any time soon. Your new boots pinch? But they’re Hoby’s, correct? So that can’t be it. Yet you look like you’ve just watched your very last friend walk away from you, which you haven’t, because I’m still here. In fact, please feel free to make a cake of yourself again any time you wish, and I’ll stand up on my chair and cry hear, hear as I lend you my support.”

“Is that so? How gratifying, Fletcher, truly. Except I’m now left to wonder if you are pledging your support or hoping to goad me into making a cake of myself again, as you so tactfully put it.”

Viscount Yalding, a handsome young man of five and twenty, a man with a sparkle in his light brown eyes and a pair of impish dimples in his cheeks, threw back his head and laughed aloud. “And that’s the real beauty of the thing, because you’ll never know which, now will you?”

“You know what it is, don’t you, Fletcher? We don’t learn. It wasn’t that long ago that our dear Prince Regent was hatching escape plans, sure his loyal subjects were going to rise up the way the French did against their king. Now, thanks to that damnable volcano, we face high prices and farmers losing their positions, our brave soldiers suffering, our children falling sick because there are no fresh vegetables for them to eat. We’re not preparing for that eventuality, or its inevitable result. Civil unrest.”

“Yes, yes, I remember what you said, but please stop now. Not the cheeriest thing I’ve ever heard, to quote Lord Harper. And you’re not completely correct, Lucas. Our government is taking steps, although probably not in a direction you’d approve—Watch out!”

Lucas looked down the flagway to see a young woman running toward him, looking back over her shoulder at another young woman who had stopped beneath a canvas awning to wait for a female servant to raise an umbrella.

“Oh, don’t be so missish, Lydia. The coach is just down here—you won’t melt. It’s only a little—Oof”

Lucas caught the female by the upper arms and held her in front of him, saying, “Steady there, young lady. And far be it from me to stand in the role of teacher, but it is usually deemed equally important to see where you are going as where you have been.”

The female, who stood only as high as his chest, lifted her head so that her face was visible beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, and looked him square in the eyes.

When had he seen eyes like these? Had there ever been eyes like these, so darkly blue as to be closer to sun-washed violet, so alive, so fearless and amused, daring him to—to what? The heart-shaped face in its frame of wonderfully dark hair, the perfectly centered nose, the slightly bee-stung lower lip, the single dimple that came and went in her right cheek. The skin that spoke of fresh peaches doused in cream, and sprinkled with a dusting of freckles that invited him to touch, to trace them with his fingertips, the tip of his tongue…

“Yes,” she said, biting that bottom lip between her fine, small white teeth for a moment as she ran her gaze over his features, “I believe I can see the wisdom in that statement. Although, as I already know where I’ve been, I’m always much more interested in what lies ahead. You may let me go now.”

Lucas, a man who could not remember the last time he’d been flustered, and knowing the answer was never if the other person involved was a female, was finding it difficult to think of anything to say.

“Lucas?” Fletcher gave his friend a gentle jab with his elbow. “She says you can let her go now.”

He brought himself under control, but not without conscious effort. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, young lady. I merely wanted to be certain you hadn’t been injured by our…collision.”

“I believe I shall survive, sir, thank you. Ah, and here is my sister, frowning, and with a good scolding eager to escape her lips as she points out, for at least the tenth time, that we are not at Ashurst Hall anymore, and I cannot just behave as if London is our familiar village. Although I don’t see why not, do you? It’s not as if a person is likely to encounter anyone too dastardly right here on Bond Street.”