“Lady Georgiana!” Kirk said in a pained voice.
George hid a grin. She’d forgotten; ladies didn’t have thighs, or if they did they weren’t to be mentioned.
“So if I want a really good ride, it has to be astride,” she finished. There was nothing better than to ride at a fast gallop, bent low over her horse’s neck, the wind in her face, and the feeling of being at one with the powerful animal beneath her. Bareback was even better—it was how she’d first learned to ride—but she wasn’t even going to try for that. Not in London. But one day, when she was free . . .
It wasn’t as if she disliked her current life. Not really. She didn’t much like London, with hundreds—thousands—of people living almost on top of her—or so it felt. And she didn’t like the dirt and smells. Why was it that London dirt seemed so much worse than country dirt?
And London noise never stopped. Even at night there were rumbling wheels, shouts, bangs and arguments, and though the country was also full of noise at night—the scream of a vixen, the hooting of an owl, the far-off barking of a dog—they were peaceful noises.
But there were things she liked about this life. Cal had initially dragged her into the family, kicking and fighting—she’d never had a family and was sure she didn’t need one—but to her amazement, she liked it, liked the feeling of belonging, liked the companionship of her aunts Lily and Rose, who were more like sisters. And her aunt by marriage, Emm, who was sister, friend and mother all rolled into one—Emm was a blessing. She’d even come to like Cal, bossy-boots that he was.
The great-aunts—well, Aunt Dottie was a darling, but she could do without Aunt Agatha. How dare she offer her up to that cold, snooty duke?
The farther they got away from London, the more George’s mood lifted. The traffic thinned; the noise and dirt and chaos of the city fell behind them. Browns and grays gave way to a thousand shades of green, and the air felt cleaner and fresher. She took great deep breaths of it and felt lighter and more energized.
Sultan too felt the difference and started to dance a little with anticipation. She felt the leashed power rippling through him and gathered her reins.
“Careful now, Lady George,” Kirk murmured. “He’s verra fresh still.” Lady George, not Lady Georgiana—she was forgiven her breeches, then.
Kirk, the silly old dear, was certain Sultan was too strong, too spirited, too male for a lady, and had said so repeatedly. She’d lost count of other men who’d told her the same thing, in various ways.
But she’d bred Sultan, had been there when he was born, had raised him from a colt and trained him. They understood each other.
Besides, George, titled or not, was barely a lady.
An ill-trained, boyish, impertinent hoyden . . . She pushed the thought aside. She didn’t care what the duke said about her.
The heath stretched before them. There was not a soul in sight. She tugged down her cap. “Come on, Kirk, race you to that big old oak on the edge of the forest.” And without waiting, she took off. Her dog, Finn, streaked after her.
* * *
* * *
“Now, isn’t this better than spending the afternoon at Jackson’s?” Hart gestured to the scene in front of them, an endless sward of green, fringed by a tangled, shadowy forest.
“I thought you meant Hyde Park, not out in the dashed wilderness.”
Hart snorted. “Hyde Park? At the fashionable hour?” He couldn’t imagine anything worse.
“I don’t mind doing the pretty, catching up on gossip with all the lovely ladies.” Sinc pulled his collar up. “Better than being in the middle of nowhere getting blown to bits in a freezing gale.”
Hart laughed. “Stop complaining. It’s a brisk breeze, nothing more. Besides, it’ll blow the cobwebs away.”
“Cobwebs? On me? Don’t be ridiculous. My valet would have a fit. What am I saying? I would have a fit!”
“Come on, let’s ride to the top of the hill. You’ll feel better when you can see for miles.” He headed off at a leisurely canter.
Sinc followed, grumbling. He’d planned to spend his afternoon drinking blue ruin with his cronies at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon; Sinc was more interested in the convivial side of the sport than the energetic aspects. But it hadn’t been hard to entice him out for a ride instead. Of course he’d insisted on going home to change into more appropriate attire—Sinc was never less than nattily dressed—but now Hart realized his friend had gone to an extra degree of trouble because he’d expected to be flirting in Hyde Park, not cantering across the heath high above the city.
Hart reined his horse in at the crest of the hill, and stood gazing out at the silhouette of London in the distance. He could just make out the dome of St. Paul’s. He was trying to pick out other buildings when the sound of galloping hooves caused him to turn his head.
About fifty yards away, a gleaming black stallion thundered across the turf, a magnificent creature moving like the wind, all speed and power and grace. A thoroughbred, with clear Arab ancestry.
A boy—a youth—clung to his back, crouched low over the stallion’s neck, like a jockey in a race. He rode as if he were born on the back of a horse. No gentleman he, not with that cloth cap, slightly too big for his head, and those worn breeches and boots. An apprentice, perhaps. Or a young groom. Who was the fool who paid a youth to exercise a glorious animal like that?
Behind the lad loped a lanky gray dog. At some distance behind, came a thickset man—another groom, perhaps? It wasn’t clear whether he was with the black stallion or not.
As he watched the movement of stallion and rider, something pinged in Hart’s mind, a flash of memory, a fleeting impression, as if he’d seen this horse, this rider some other time . . .
But then Sinc arrived. “Brrr. It’s even colder up here. Can’t we go home yet?” And the thought was lost.
Hart couldn’t take his eyes off the stallion. “What a magnificent beast.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Very nice,” Sinc said as stallion and rider flashed past. He hadn’t much interest in horseflesh.
“Dammit, I’m going to buy that horse.” Without further explanation, Hart urged his horse forward and was riding in pursuit. Sinc shouted something, but his words were taken by the breeze, and in any case, Hart was entirely focused on catching up with the stallion.
He slowly gained on the rider and his mount. The boy glanced back over his shoulder, a flash of light eyes and a black scowl.
“Hey, there, I want to ask you something,” Hart called.
The boy ignored him. The stallion picked up speed.
Hart urged his horse faster. “Wait! I want to buy your horse,” he yelled as he drew nearer. “Who is the owner?”