Jack sat in one of the little-used parlors at Ferrington Hall and thought about the vapid nature of society—capital-S society, which was, as far as he could see, a system for gathering people in a room to chatter about trivialities while they smugly excluded other people, of course. No wonder they called it exclusive. They made a great production of leaving people out and then looking down on those scheming and clawing to be invited. Actually convincing them to bother to scheme and claw, somehow. He wondered how many of those who succeeded found their coveted acceptance a dead bore.
He pulled at the fashionable neckcloth, which seemed to grow tighter by the hour, threatening to choke the life out of him. It had been maddening to sit in these borrowed garments a few feet from Harriet Finch and be unable to really speak to her. He’d wanted to pull her to her feet, rush her from the stifling chamber out into the air, and talk as they used to in the Travelers’ camp. That really had been an idyll, he saw now. They would not have such freedom again. There, he would have been able to explain everything. He was certain of it. Now, he wasn’t sure what to do.
She was still angry with him. The looks she’d shot his way had shown it. She didn’t understand. Jack almost wished Lady Wilton would show up here. If Miss Finch heard how the old lady talked to him, her venom, she would understand what had driven him to hide his identity. And he’d always meant to tell her the truth. Circumstances had conspired against him. And his own foot-dragging, yes, all right. Jack frowned unseeing at a painting on the wall.
The chamber door opened, and the Duchess of Tereford looked in. “There you are,” she said. “Why are you sitting in this room?”
“Is this an incorrect place to sit?” Jack heard petulance in his tone. Too bad.
“There are several more comfortable spots.”
“But people find me in those places.”
She raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t go away. “I found you here,” she pointed out.
“We could pretend you hadn’t,” Jack answered.
“You will have to do much better than that if you expect to repel me,” was the surprising reply. “My father practices epic levels of rudeness. And James sniped at me for years when we were…younger.”
Jack gazed curiously at her. He’d supposed that no one was ever rude to this elegant noblewoman. She was the sort they all admired, so polished that opposition just slid right off her.
“Good. You’ve stopped sulking.” She entered the room and sat down opposite him. She wasn’t going away.
“No, I haven’t.” He wouldn’t give up his grievances that easily.
“I see. How much longer do you intend to continue?” She cocked her head as if asking a perfectly ordinary question.
A thread of amusement ran through Jack. “A while.”
“Very well.” She folded her hands, assumed a saintly expression, and settled down to wait.
He had to laugh, even though he saw what she was doing. But he wasn’t ready to give in. “I never wanted to be an earl, you know. Didn’t expect it in the least. Hardly anyone believed my father’s talk of noble relations. All sorts of people claim fine lineages in America, and most of them are liars.”
The duchess nodded. “And yet here you are.”
He’d expected an argument, a lecture on the advantages of his new position. Perhaps a mention of his good luck.
“You might have returned to America. But you did not.”
“Yet,” he replied, his tone clipped.
“You stayed here in the Travelers’ camp, which can’t have been entirely comfortable.”
“I don’t mind rough living. I’m no mincing dandy.”
“No, indeed. That would require a great deal of study and effort.”
Jack blinked. He’d thought of society women as silly and superficial, with prejudices that distilled into venom when they reached old age. This one was none of those things. He decided to abandon the verbal fencing. “Did you wish to speak to me about something in particular?”
“Yes.” She examined him. “I want to know what has passed between you and Harriet Finch.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’ll see.”
“What?”
“Whether you require, or deserve, my pardon. I hope you do not. But now I will have the truth. It was obvious during our call that you and Harriet are…well acquainted.”
“It was?” He stared into her luminous blue eyes and decided he’d never met anyone so relentlessly unflappable. Tereford was a brave man to partner her.
“You stared at Harriet like a thirsty man seeing water,” the duchess continued. “She glared back as if she wished looks could incinerate. It was blatant, Cousin Jack. Why do you think I shifted the conversation into inanities?”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Because you think that is the nature of a morning call?” She smiled without humor. “Not mine.”
Once, in the North Woods, Jack had glimpsed a lynx pouncing on an unwary rodent. The cat had eaten the little creature in one snapping bite. It was odd he remembered that moment now. Or perhaps it wasn’t.
“Harriet is a good friend of mine,” said the duchess. “I won’t have her trifled with.”
“I would never…” Jack’s sense of grievance came back. “It was just the opposite.”
“The…?” She stared at him. “Do you say Harriet trifled with you?”
“She was pleased to be a friend when she thought I was a rootless wanderer. As soon as she discovered I was an earl, she froze me out.” He sounded resentful. Well, he was. The fact that the tangle was his own fault merely made things worse.
“Why do I think there is more to it than that?”
The duchess’s beauty was a snare and a deception, Jack decided. It kept a man from noticing the steel underneath until it was too late.
“Ah.” Her elegant eyebrows came up.
Jack didn’t like the sound of that syllable.
“Did Harriet ‘discover’ your real identity when I told her? I thought she looked oddly shocked.”
“You might have kept it to yourself,” Jack muttered. And immediately wished he hadn’t.
“You might have been honest with Harriet from the beginning.”
“Why would I be?” Jack exclaimed. “I’d had my fill and more of society ladies and their opinions. My great-grandmother told me I was a barbarian. I wasn’t going to hear any more of that.”
The duchess sighed. “One could wish Lady Wilton was less…intemperate.”
A harsh laugh escaped Jack. He would have used a ruder word.
“But Harriet is not Lady Wilton, of course. And you must have realized that quite soon.”
He had to admit it. “Yes.”
“And so?”
“I didn’t want to spoil a pleasant…friendship.” He made a slashing gesture. “And I know saying nothing spoiled it just the same.”
“More so,” replied the duchess.
“Yes, all right!” His desperation came back. “I meant to tell her the truth. I tried, more than once. We kept being interrupted. I should have done more. I need her to understand.”
“Why is that important?” she asked.
“What?”
“Why do you care so much what Harriet may think?”
“I…” Jack was not quite ready to tell her everything. There could be no mention of kisses, for example. Who knew what this rather ruthless lady might do with the knowledge? “I wish to regain her good opinion,” he replied, knowing it sounded stiff and rather priggish. It was the best he could manage in this moment.
“To what end?” asked his interrogator.
“To…restore our friendship and, er, perhaps more. I hope.”
She examined him. Jack tried not to feel like an insect under a magnifying glass. It occurred to him that the Duchess of Tereford might be as terrifying as Lady Wilton in a few decades. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to share the old lady’s biases. “Harriet’s grandfather obviously intends…” She stopped abruptly and went silent.
Jack waited a moment to see if she would continue, then said, “What?”
The duchess frowned. Thoughts were clearly passing through her mind. Jack had no idea what they were.
“All right,” she said finally. “I will help you find an opportunity to explain.”
“You…will?” He was surprised.
Her answering look was admonitory. “Because I am concerned about my friend,” she said. “She seemed…” She paused, then went on, “Whatever comes next, if anything does, will be up to Harriet.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I won’t argue your case. That is up to you.”
“Naturally.” He wouldn’t have wanted her to. The lord knew what she would say. “Why are you helping me?”
“I am helping Harriet, I believe. And that is what society is for—to ease relations between people.”
“It is?”
She smiled at his incredulity. “Among other things. So we require an occasion where you can speak to Harriet privately. Perhaps a ride in the countryside. You do ride?”
How did she think he got about? “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Will Miss Finch be allowed to come?”
“Oh, there will be no problem with that.”
Because she would be along, Jack supposed. Harriet’s family would not dare refuse a duchess’s invitation. But that didn’t matter. He’d be with Harriet again and have the chance to redeem himself. Perhaps they could even settle their future together, and he could hold her in his arms in reality rather than dreams.
“We need mounts for that,” the duchess continued. “Our carriage horses won’t do.”
“Leave that to me,” said Jack.
***
Two days later, a party of three riders approached Winstead Hall, reining in by the front door, where Harriet’s mount awaited her. Harriet had been ordered to accept this invitation, even though she’d pointed out to her grandfather that she wasn’t adept on horseback. She hadn’t been able to resist reminding him that the circumstances of her youth had offered few opportunities to learn to ride, since his vengeful spite had created that situation. He’d brushed this aside, of course, as he did any argument that went against his wishes. So all her protest had accomplished was to worry her mother.
Life at Winstead House was becoming insupportable. Her grandfather talked of nothing but marrying her to the earl. Her mother cried a great deal. In truth, Harriet was glad to get away, even though the occasion was certain to be awkward. Tugging at the jacket of the riding habit she’d rarely worn, she wondered why Cecelia had issued this invitation. Had it been her notion? Or Jack the Earl’s? What was behind it? She wished she knew. But she trusted Cecelia. Cecelia would stay with her and support her.
She greeted the newcomers as she walked over to the groom holding her horse. “It is very gentle?” Harriet asked him. She’d made this request several times, but Grandfather’s servants answered only to him.
“Yes, miss. She’s a regular sweetheart.”
Was his tone dismissive? Harriet couldn’t tell. He helped her mount at the block. She settled in the saddle and took the reins, hoping for the best. In her limited experience, horses were massive, stubborn creatures who stopped at every clump of grass to eat whenever she was astride them. She’d been told she must exert her authority to quell this behavior, that the way she sat and pulled at the traces would master the animal. She had not found this to be true. Or, more likely, she had not learned how to do it. The last time she’d ridden, the horse had spit on her when she dismounted. The laundress had had a terrible time removing the grassy-green stain from her habit.
Why had she agreed to this outing? Would her grandfather have tied her in the saddle if she’d rebelled? Surely not.
They started slowly down the drive. Naturally the duke and duchess rode superbly. They did everything superbly, Harriet concluded with a touch of bitterness. The rogue earl seemed equally at home in the saddle. Harriet tried to line up beside Cecelia and away from the gentlemen, but her mount paid no heed to her wishes. The Terefords moved ahead side by side while Ferrington lingered next to Harriet. When they reached the lane that ran by the house, he pointed left and said, “The Rileys tell me there’s a fine prospect down this way.”
“Who?” asked Harriet.
“The old couple looking after Ferrington Hall.”
“Oh, yes.” They’d spied on them together, Harriet remembered, back when everything had been different. She was horrified to find tears threatening. She blinked them away. “Where did you get your horse?”
“I bought all three of them from Meric.” He gestured at the Terefords’ mounts.
Meric was one of the men at the Travelers camp, and how dared he remind her of them?
“I found a wad of cash in a strongbox locked in a desk, and I was happy to pass some of it along to Meric,” he added. “He drove a hard bargain, of course.” His smile was admiring.
She wasn’t going to chat about Meric, or the camp, or the dancing and kisses that had occurred there. Perhaps she wouldn’t talk at all! Harriet’s horse shook its head from side to side and snorted as if it sensed her mood.
“I’ve been trying out a bunch of keys the Rileys gave me,” he went on. “It’s like a treasure hunt.”
He seemed to think this would amuse her. Did he imagine she intended to chat?
“So far, I’ve found the liquor cabinet and a collection of jeweled snuffboxes.”
Harriet kept on saying nothing.
“I never understood the attraction of snuff,” Ferrington continued. “Rather unpleasant habit, all the sniffing and brown handkerchiefs.”
Did he sound uneasy? She hoped so. Harriet lifted her chin and gazed at the passing countryside. As did her horse, it seemed. She’d spied a juicy tussock at the edge of the lane, and now she ambled over to sample it. Harriet tugged at the reins. The animal kept its head down, chewing and ignoring her.
“What are you doing?” asked the rogue earl.
Harriet turned to glare at him. “I am not doing anything.” Couldn’t he see that? “My horse obviously prefers eating to wandering aimlessly about the neighborhood.” Where was Cecelia?
***
Unaware of any delay, the duke and duchess had ridden a little distance ahead. “This mount isn’t half bad,” the duke said to his wife. “Ferrington is a good judge of horseflesh, it seems.”
“Spirited but well trained,” Cecelia agreed. “The Travelers know their business.”
“A truism confirmed.” He watched the side of her face appreciatively. “So shouldn’t we be moving on?” he asked. “We have found the earl. Our mission here is accomplished.”
“I think we should stay at Ferrington Hall a bit longer.”
“Ah. How much is a bit?”
Cecelia made an airy gesture. “An indeterminate period. Not too long.”
“I see. Why is that? We do have a great deal of other work. I thought you were eager to get the estate in order.”
“Friendship comes first,” she replied.
“I would scarcely call Ferrington a friend. As yet. He seems a fine enough fellow, but…”
“Not him. Harriet.”
The duke raised dark brows, but before he could reply, there was something like a verbal explosion behind them—an exclamation or a shout. The Terefords turned to find Harriet’s mount hurtling toward them as if the hounds of hell were at its back. Harriet flailed in the saddle, clearly on the verge of falling off. Ferrington was staring after her, aghast.
Harriet pounded past them, clods of earth flying. In the next instant, Ferrington kicked his mount into action and raced after her.
“What the deuce?” said James as the other man galloped by. “I thought you said Miss Finch wouldn’t wish to ride hard.”
“She didn’t look as if she wished to be galloping,” replied Cecelia. The other two riders disappeared around a curve ahead. Cecelia put her heels to her horse and went after them. James followed suit.
***
Bent over his horse’s neck, pounding along the lane terrified for Miss Finch’s safety, Jack tried to work out what the hell had just happened. He’d gone over to her recalcitrant mount. He’d advised Miss Finch to yank the reins with some authority, which had earned him a scorching look. He’d then administered a slap on the rump to admonish and encourage the beast. It had been a perfectly normal slap—really, no more than a tap—a mere touch that any rational horse would have understood as familiar marching orders. But this animal had taken offense, jumped off its hocks like a rabbit, and shot off down the lane as if a race had been declared.
Jack had lost a moment to sheer disbelief. This behavior made no sense. But then he’d noted Miss Finch’s imbalance in the saddle. She wasn’t a good enough rider to control this kind of bolting. Heart in his mouth, he went after her. He didn’t even notice the Terefords as he galloped past.
“Pull her back,” he shouted when he drew nearer. He didn’t think Miss Finch heard. She looked frightened and was fully occupied with clinging on.
They came to a low place in the high hedges that lined the lane; Miss Finch jerked at one of her reins for no reason Jack could see. Her horse tossed its head, half reared, twisted, and jumped over the line of bushes. The pair disappeared in a way that made Jack fear the ground was much lower on the other side. Picturing Miss Finch and her mount lying in a broken heap in the ditch, he urged his mount a bit farther along, then put him at the hedge. The Traveler horse accepted the challenge and jumped.
The tips of branches brushed the horse’s hooves and stomach. But they cleared the obstacle and landed in a meadow that slanted swiftly downward toward a line of trees that probably ran along a stream. Jack looked left and right. There was no sign of Miss Finch in the flower-strewn meadow grass. He headed for the trees.
They concealed a small, placid river. And Miss Finch sat right in the middle of it, a few yards downstream. Her horse had stopped a little farther along, cropping grass on the bank as if it had never misbehaved in the whole of its equine life.
Miss Finch looked dazed. The water came up to her shoulders. As Jack moved closer, she flailed at it and managed to stand, but the heavy skirts of her riding habit dragged her down. The current caught the mass of soaked fabric, threatened to topple her off her feet, and pulled her along. She lurched and stumbled, hands grasping but finding no hold in the water.
Jack jumped from the saddle and lunged into the water, half diving to reach her. He caught her around the waist and steadied her.
“I am not crying!” she declared.
“It’s just river water splashed on your face,” he replied.
“I…” Her breath caught on a sob. “Yes.”
Holding her tight against his side, Jack turned toward the shore and found he couldn’t move. His riding boots had sunk into a layer of sucking mud. He heaved at his right foot, finally got it free, took a step, and sank in again. The stuff was pernicious. He pulled up his left foot, managed another step. It took much of his strength. At the next try, he nearly lost a boot to the muck and almost dumped Miss Finch into the increasingly murky water.
Between the resistance of the mud and the tugging weight of her skirts, the trek to the bank was strenuous. But at last Jack stepped up onto the mossy bank, pulling Miss Finch along with him. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hands over her arms and ribs. Nothing seemed broken. She was standing without effort.
Miss Finch pushed at his chest. “You hit my horse!”
“I just tapped her rump, the sort of thing anyone does to urge a mount along.”
“Urge? She lost what little mind she possesses. It was like being carried off by a whirlwind.”
This seemed an exaggeration, but Jack made allowances. “There’s something off about that animal.” He eyed the still-browsing mount.
“Everything at my grandfather’s house hates me,” Miss Finch declared, clenching folds of his coat in sudden fists.
She was all right. She hadn’t broken a leg or suffered a knock on the head. Her spirits were clearly not broken. “Thank God,” said Jack.
“What?” The word crackled with indignation.
“That you are all right. Not that your grandfather’s… I was frightened out of my wits.”
“You were?”
“Of course I was. If you’d been hurt…” He ran his hands up her arms again to reassure himself she had not.
Miss Finch gazed up at him. She was breathing hard from the trek through the mud. Water dripped from their sodden clothing. Her green eyes were wide and still a bit wild. Jack found himself getting lost in them, and their surroundings seemed to drop away until nothing but the two of them existed. He bent his head. She raised her chin. Their lips met in a kiss of unutterable sweetness.
***
Harriet was ambushed by a sense of rightness. This felt like…home—his arms around her, his mouth tempting hers. Despite her sodden clothes, heat shot through her. Her hands slid up to his shoulders and gripped. Her body melted into his. She was aware of nothing but her dear, dizzying rogue.
***
Neither noticed when the duke and duchess rode through the fringe of trees a little way upstream. The Terefords sat on their mounts, observing their soaked, passionate companions.
“Ah,” said the duke. “So that’s the way the land lies.”
“Apparently,” replied his wife. “I hadn’t expected such…abandon.”
He glanced at her. “But you had expected something? What?”
“A frank exchange of views?” she answered with a half smile.
“Cecelia! How dreary. I don’t believe you can mean that.”
“Well, the situation is not as simple as it might look,” she replied.
The duke eyed the embracing couple. “I wouldn’t call that simple. More suggestive.” He raised one teasing eyebrow.
She laughed. “I suppose we had better stop them.”
“That seems rather mean.”
“We are the chaperones. It is our duty.”
“What a lowering reflection.”
The duchess sighed. “It is, a little. But Harriet will catch a cold if we don’t get her home and into dry clothing.” She raised a hand. “Hello?” she called.
***
Harriet stiffened at the sound and at once became aware of her scandalous position. What had she been thinking? Or rather not thinking? What had come over her? She pulled away. The rogue earl resisted briefly, then let her go. She was glad, of course. Not the least bit sorry.
She turned and watched the duke and duchess ride closer. “My horse tossed me in the river,” she said when they stopped a few feet away.
The Terefords looked down from the height of their saddles. It was like being observed by slightly amused gods.
“F-Ferrington helped me to the bank,” Harriet added.
“The mud is knee-deep on that river bottom,” he said. He exhibited a boot caked with mud, which clearly had oozed over the tops onto his feet, as if he had to verify his statement. Did he imagine it excused the way they’d been discovered? Did he dare to look smug?
Harriet was wet and cold. Her riding habit clung to her like the gowns of wantons who dampened their petticoats. No, worse than that. She could tell by the way the duke was carefully not looking at her.
“We must get you home at once,” said Cecelia.
“Right.” The rogue earl squelched over to catch the reins of her wretched horse, still nose-deep in the rich grass of the riverbank.
“I will not get back on that beast,” Harriet declared. She scowled at the creature. The mare looked back with bland innocence. A tuft of grass dangled from her jaws.
“I will lead her,” said Ferrington. “She won’t run away with you again.”
Harriet wondered if one could explode with rage. And why her sodden garments weren’t steaming from the heat of her anger. “She wouldn’t have done so this time if you hadn’t struck her!”
“I didn’t…” Ferrington looked up at the Terefords. “It was the merest tap. Just to get her moving.”
“You certainly managed that,” replied the duke.
“You could ride behind one of us, I suppose,” said Cecelia. She looked dubious.
Harriet considered her dripping skirts. The cloth was streaked with odoriferous mud. She couldn’t plaster Cecelia with that. And she refused to ride behind either of the others. “Oh, very well,” she said. “But if she spits on me, I shall strike her.”
“Spits?” Ferrington said. “Why would your horse…”
“Someone will have to help me up,” Harriet interrupted. She stomped over to the earl. It would have to be him, of course. She couldn’t ask the immaculate Tereford. Resolutely, she paid no attention when Ferrington put his hands on her waist and boosted her into the saddle.
They made their way back up to the meadow, Harriet’s mount being led by the earl. Finding a sparse place in the hedge, they pushed through, to Harriet’s vast relief. She could not have faced another jump.
There was little conversation on the short ride back to Winstead Hall. Harriet was in no mood for chatter, and the others seemed to realize this. Once home, she sent them on their way and rode straight to the stables. She hoped to evade her mother and grandfather in her bedraggled state, though some servant would probably report it.
She managed this, reaching her room without seeing them. She was stripping off her muddy riding habit when Slade entered. “I’ve ordered a bath,” the abigail said.
Harriet could only be grateful, though this meant word of her soaking had spread through the household. Well, she would face the questions when she was clean and dressed.
And the rogue earl could just keep his…delicious, delirious kisses to himself.