Chapter Fourteen

“Where are you and Banrigh off to this afternoon?”

Looking over her shoulder, she spied the marquess coming out of Bonnie’s stall, dusting bits of hay from his coat and breeches. Breeches that highlighted his firm, athletic thighs.

Tearing her gaze away, she looked at the ground. The sky. The horses in the nearby pen. Anywhere but him—for, abruptly, she was nervous. “We’re both itching for a ride.”

“Are you well enough to ride?”

Flora hated the concern that tinted his words, even though she knew it was sincere.

Lifting her chin, she said, “I am well. Any aches and pains I sustained in the accident have long since healed.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He studied her, his gaze probing and intense. “Would you care for some company?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“May I join you?” He cocked his head. “I was about to retire to my study to handle a stack of estate business my secretary left for me, but a ride sounds much more enjoyable.”

Flora nibbled the inside of her cheek. An afternoon ride with Amstead could be fraught with danger. Since their kiss in the paddock office, their busy training regimen had allowed them no private time together. Not that it stopped them from stealing kisses and caresses in dark corners of the stables. But a private afternoon ride, with nothing on their schedule to claim their time, presented the perfect opportunity to explore the passion that had flared to life between them. Her mouth went dry.

“Of course, you want your privacy.” He tapped himself on the forehead, and she swallowed back a smile. “Why would you possibly want your superior to join you when you’re probably trying to get away from him?”

“Why indeed?” Flora flicked a hand. “You probably wouldn’t be able to keep up, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He took a step closer. She tried not to notice how wicked he looked with a smirk playing about his lips.

“How very astute you are, my lord.”

He considered her for a long moment, and Flora sensed he was giving her an opportunity to decline his request. But she had no intention of telling him no.

“Meet me at the gate leading out to the east pasture.” She led Banrigh to the mounting block, calling over her shoulder, “Try not to be late, my lord.”

Ten minutes later, they were riding side by side on a narrow path that wove around the east pasture. A bucolic scene unfurled before their mounts’ trotting hooves. Sheep dotted soft rolling hills, their distant bleats blending with the sounds of bees and grasshoppers and the avian predators who hunted them. With every bit of distance they placed between them and the barn, the scents of horses and hay and manure faded and were replaced by lavender and wisteria and jasmine. Flora breathed deeply and closed her eyes, delighting at the feel of the sun on her face and the wind in her hair.

Well, it was still pulled back under her hat, but she allowed herself to imagine it wasn’t, and that she and Banrigh were as free as they were at Loch Kilmorow.

“I knew that, if I asked, you would consent to my company,” Lord Amstead said, bringing her head around. His tone was dry, but little lines of mirth fanned out from the corner of his mouth. “Very few women object to my presence.”

“And yet, I objected so much I disguised myself as a man.”

He chuckled. “You disguised yourself because you know men are ridiculous oafs with outdated and unfair ideas of how the world works.”

“That is”—she cocked her head—“absolutely correct.”

“Of course it is.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are incapable of being modest.”

Pushing back the brim of his hat, he scowled. “That is a hurtful thing to say. I am almost as well known for my prodigious modesty as I am for putting my horses in the winner’s circle.” He turned his head to display his profile. “Or my devastating good looks.”

Mirth bubbled in her throat at his teasing words, but she knew better than to show how amusing she found him. Instead, she kept all traces of humor from her face and merely stared at him until he huffed.

“Come now, Flora. In all the time I’ve known you—the real you, that is,” he added, gesturing to her with a hand, “you have never struck me as the sort of person who was afraid to share her talents. Hide her ideas. Or successes.”

“That may be,” she said, fidgeting with the reins, “but I believe there is a difference between being arrogant and being confident. I hope I fall into the latter category.”

“A little bit of arrogance never hurt anyone.” The twinkle in his eye made heat burn low in her gut.

Trying to ignore the sensation, she snorted. “Says the man with arrogance in spades.”

Without waiting for him to respond, she pressed her boots to the mare’s flanks and encouraged her into a canter. She had to wait only seconds before Amstead and his gelding were riding next to them. “I think you like arrogance.”

“Why would you believe that?” she asked, looking at him askance.

“Because you are not a placid woman, Flora Grant.” His deep chuckle was a caress down her spine. “You need a challenge. In the time I have known you as your true self, I’ve noticed you thrive in difficult situations. You know how to handle difficult people.”

He had slowed Loki to a walk, and without thought she slowed Banrigh to match his pace.

Compelled, she raised her gaze to lock with his.

“You would grow bored without a challenge to tackle or verbal sparring to anticipate. And I sense that, as you grow bored, you grow reckless.” A slow smile curled his sinful lips. “And I find I enjoy keeping you from recklessness.”

The truth of his claim hit her like a slap to the face, and she cursed under her breath as heat stole over her cheeks. How had he realized such a truth about her when she barely recognized it herself?

His hooded gaze landed on her mouth, and she knew she was in trouble.

Flora leaned low over Banrigh’s neck and yelled, “Get up,” relief soothing her as the mare burst away like a ball from a cannon.

She allowed Banrigh her head, not dictating her direction, as she tried to outrace Lord Amstead and his words. A boring, conventional life was not for her. Whenever her sister, or the small number of female friends she had made over her lifetime, had shared their dreams of finding a husband and having children and then settling into predictable years and milestones, she had failed to understand the appeal of such a staid existence. She craved adventure. Obstacles. Glory.

Perhaps that was why her Seasons in London had never ended in marriage. As a duke’s daughter with an impressive dowry, she’d had no trouble receiving marriage offers, and yet none of them had tempted her. She now understood that it was because everything those men had to offer was everything she found abhorrent.

Banrigh abruptly slowed, and Flora was taken aback as she realized the horse had taken them to the pond. The lovely setting where Lord Amstead had discovered her secret.

Jumping down from the mare, she dropped the reins as Banrigh walked toward the shore and lowered her head to drink. The thunder of horse hooves approached, but she ignored them. Without waiting for the marquess to dismount, she hurried up the rise in the land to a large chestnut tree with heavy, low boughs. Ducking below them, she approached the tree, planting her hands on the trunk. She dipped her head until it rested on the rough bark.

“You lost your hat.”

Flora tried not to jump at the sound of his voice. Frowning, she realized that he was correct. She had lost her hat, and she had not even noticed.

Perceiving that he was waiting for an answer, she shrugged. “I’ll get it upon my return.”

A long silence ensued and Flora willed her body not to respond to his closeness. Although he stood several feet away, his presence overwhelmed her senses. His scent, sandalwood and sweet hay, made her fists curl.

When his voice broke the silence, she reveled in the sound. “I’ve upset you. I believe the right thing to do would be to apologize, but I do not think an apology is necessary.”

Heaving a silent sigh, she turned. He was standing several feet away, his brows low and his eyes wide. Where had all that arrogance gone?

“I would not accept your apology, in any case.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “One should not apologize for the truth.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Do you know that I have never met a woman with quite your ability to self-reflect?”

“It’s not surprising,” she muttered, the memory of Lady Hightower’s expression when she’d denied the woman’s request an immature delight.

Another silence stretched between them, but this one was comfortable. Flora pressed her back into the bark and looked up, content to watch the leaves swaying in the wind.

“This is where I was, you know. When I first saw you.”

She gaped. “You were?”

His cheeks darkened and he shrugged. Surely he wasn’t embarrassed? “I had ridden here after a particularly stressful day. This used to be my refuge. I came here days on end during my childhood and adolescence. When my father died and I became Amstead, I came here for escape.” He glanced toward the pond, where Banrigh and Loki grazed side by side. “From the burdens. The unknowns. The guilt.”

Guilt? What did he have to feel guilty for? But her question remained unasked, and thankfully he continued.

“That day I just needed some time away. From the blasted house party. Some time by myself.” He barked a laugh. “I was more than a little annoyed when you arrived and woke me from my nap.”

“My apologies, my lord.”

“I’ve been waiting for your apology just so I could forgive you. It’s a part of my modest nature.” When she laughed, he narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see you were only placating me. Well, you should know that not a day has gone by since then that I have not remembered the discovery I made with a mixture of awe.”

Ignoring the flutters in her stomach, she said, “Of awe and what? It cannot be a mixture if awe is not mixed with something else.”

“Embarrassment.”

“Embarrassment?”

He took a step closer, his brandy-colored eyes hypnotic. “Embarrassed that I could be so easily fooled. Embarrassed that I did not see the woman who hid beneath a layer of face paint and oversized garments. It seems so obvious now.”

Her heart pounded as he raised a hand and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “I was chagrined to have overlooked such an exquisite woman, even as she toiled alongside me.”

Suddenly feeling lightheaded, she darted out her tongue to wet her lip. He followed the movement with a clenched jaw. “That was not well done of you.”

Flora expected him to jest in return, but she cheered when instead he said, “I should probably make it up to you.”

“That would be the gentlemanly thing to do. How do you propose to do it?”

Amstead stepped forward again, until his chest touched hers. He braced his hands on opposite sides of her head and tipped his chin down as his gaze caressed her face. “Would a kiss suffice?”

She smiled and, based on the way his pupils dilated, she suspected it was more of a taunting grin. “Why would you think a kiss enough to acquit you?”

Pulling her toward him, he ran a possessive hand up the back of her neck and cradled her head like a precious jewel. “Allow me to show you.”

…

Christian had always been susceptible to a smart mouth. And Flora’s mouth may have been the smartest he’d encountered.

His kiss was meant to silence her as much as tease her. What he had not expected was to be leveled by the soft press of her lips beneath his. Again. And he was delighted when she sank her hands into the fabric of his coat and pulled him closer, her mouth pressing urgently back against his. Her tongue brushed against the seam of his mouth and he growled in the back of his throat before he opened to her. He should have known that his Flora would give just as good as she got.

She tasted exactly as she smelled: like fresh, sweet spring grasses. Like mint and lemon and sunshine. He inhaled her essence deeply into his lungs, desperate to consume it. Desperate to consume her.

Christian was so immersed in the feel of her in his arms, the sensation of his lips on hers, that he didn’t realize she’d pulled his coat off his shoulders until the garment snagged on his elbows and broke his embrace.

“What are you doing?”

“You must be warm.” The corners of her swollen, red mouth tipped up. “I know I am.”

With those words, Flora peeled her own coat from her shoulders, tossing it onto the grass. While her steady, green gaze held his, she unbuttoned her waistcoat, each button sliding free with excruciating slowness. When the last one had finally been undone, she slipped it off and let it fall on top of her coat. When her hands rose to the string that tied her shirt closed, she arched a brow. “Have I scandalized you?”

“Goodness, no,” he exclaimed, reaching up to yank the knot free. With an impatient grunt, he snatched the tie from her hair and threw it over his shoulder before grasping the hem of her shirt and tugging it off her.

His cock instantly strained against his small clothes. Flora stood before him in a pair of oversized breeches and riding boots, her upper body encased in tightly wrapped linen strips. Her onyx-black curls lay mussed about her shoulders and the color was high in her cheeks, but her back was straight and her chin was high. A smile danced about her perfect mouth.

“You’re magnificent,” he bit out. His tone was harsh, but he found it hard to temper the rush of confusion and awe that caused sweat to dot his forehead. His body burned for her, but not just because she was lovely. He’d known lovely women, but he’d never, ever known a woman with Flora’s alluring mix of strength and femininity, cutting tongue and gentle touch.

She rotated, pressing her palms against the tree bark. Snaring his gaze over her shoulder, she gestured to the linen wraps with her head. “Would you be so kind as to help me? My lord.”

Christian wasted no time in finding the end of a strip and yanking it free. After he had peeled away a handful of linen, he realized that she’d layered the strips in such a way that he could pull the material and unwind it from her body in one clean tug. As if she understood his intention, Flora spun in a circle as he pulled, her chuckles accompanying each piece of linen that fell to the ground.

When the last strip lay free in his hand, he studied the creamy expanse of her back, his eyes tracing every firm muscle that graced her frame. Society prized dainty, feminine forms and celebrated tiny waists and classical features. But Flora’s athletic physique showed she was capable. Never had he found strength so beautiful.

As he pondered this, she faced him, her back ramrod straight. Her mesmerizing emerald eyes twinkled at him. Lord, her confidence was an aphrodisiac.

“I think you’re overdressed, my lord.”

His mouth went dry. “I suppose I am. Perhaps you can help me rectify that sad situation.”

“Sad indeed,” she scolded, her nimble hands working the buttons of his waistcoat. Within a minute, Flora was grasping the hem of his muslin shirt and pulling it over his head.

“You make quick work.” He stole a kiss, which she giggled around.

“I know what I’m about.”

“After the time you spent as William, I’m not surprised.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she murmured. She went to grab for the falls of her breeches, but he blocked her.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. “Nothing.”

Christian tugged on her breeches, popping the buttons free with a sharp tug. Indignation made his jaw tight. “If not for disguising yourself as a man to work here, how else would you know your way around men’s clothes?”

Flora planted a hand on her hip. “Why does it matter?”

He opened his mouth before snapping it shut. “It just does.”

“Oh, I understand.” She pursed her lips. “It’s fine and well for you to sow your wild, lordling oats all over England, but if a woman has enjoyed a man’s attention on occasion, she’s a whore.”

“I would never call you a whore!”

“Perhaps not”—Flora wrapped her arms around her chest—“but I would be greatly surprised if you didn’t think it.”

He pushed his hair from his brow with an angry swipe. “I was just surprised.”

“That a woman might seek out a lover?”

Inconveniently, he thought of Regina. She had sought him out for a liaison. “Of course not.”

She refused to meet his eyes. “Then, that I’ve enjoyed lovers?”

Christian winced. Still, he snagged her hand. “I was disappointed that you had enjoyed someone else’s touch before mine.”

“What is it with men and being a woman’s first?” she grumbled. Clutching his hand to her chest—her delightfully bared chest—she held his stare. “I was not thinking of anyone else when you pressed your lips to mine. When you unwrapped me like a toy on Christmas morn.” Flora ran a hand down the side of his face. “I was thinking only of you. Only of this moment. Only of bringing you pleasure. Of sharing pleasures with you.”

He nodded, relief lightening his spirits. It occurred to him that a woman intrepid enough to disguise herself as a man to pursue her goals would have explored sensual delights, as well.

She studied him for a long moment before she patted his cheek. “Now, can you take these dashed breeches off?”

Choking on a chuckle, he slid the trousers over his hips and down his legs. “As you wish.”

Flora admonished him with a shake of her head before she abruptly dropped to her knees. He experienced a sense of dizziness as he glanced down at her, taking in the enticing curve of her mouth. “Flora?”

Without hesitation, she grasped his cock in her callused hand.

He had observed her nimble fingers work a brush through Asad’s tail. Watched them grip the reins before she was carried down the track on the back of a galloping stallion.

But seeing her beautiful fingers, her talented hands, work his cock with the same focused intensity she did everything else, nearly undid him.

When her pink tongue darted out to flick his sensitive tip, he groaned as he surrendered to her siren call.

Christian allowed himself to be carried away. By the feel of her. The touch of her flesh on his. As she surrounded him, he attempted to retain a part of himself. A part of his lucidity. And when he wondered if such a feat was possible, she reassured him it was.

“Come now, my lord. Surely you have enjoyed a woman’s mouth on you,” she whispered, her breath ghosting across his responsive flesh.

Gripping her hair, he waited until she dragged her eyes to meet his. “But I have not had your mouth on me.”

A wicked grin slowly curled the corners of her lips. “No, you have not,” she said before she returned to her ministrations.

He attempted to corral his release for as long as he could, but as the reins of his self-control finally began to slip, she pulled away. “I cannot wait any longer.”

With swift movements, she divested herself of her boots and breeches. With a hand planted firmly in the middle of his chest, she pressed until he lowered himself to the ground. Drawing his gaze and holding it, she climbed over his prone body and grasped his desperately hard cock in her hand. Rising up, she fitted it to her opening and rubbed his blunt head against it, moaning as she did so.

“I have daydreamed about this since I first saw you,” she breathed, her eyes closing and her back arching. “I had never seen such a bonny man.”

Gripping her hips, Christian fought not to thrust up into her warmth. “No one has ever called me bonny.”

“Good thing I came along to do so, then,” she said, on a laugh. But her face abruptly softened and pink flooded her cheeks as she slid down his length. They groaned in unison.

And words were no longer possible. Her eyes sparkling with arousal, Flora planted her hands once more on his chest and moved her hips. In truth, she did not just move them. She ground them. She swiveled them. She squeezed her thighs tight against his sides as if he were a champion jumper and they were approaching the first hurdle.

Christian grasped her hands and she gripped them like a vise as she moved over him. Above him. Around him.

In that moment, only she existed. His world had been condensed to her. Flora. His Flora.

She threw her head back, her creamy expanse of throat beckoning him. With a grunt, he rose up, desperate to kiss her exposed skin. With a sigh, he pressed his mouth to her throat. Her collarbone. The sensitive spot behind her ear. The rise of her perfect breasts. And while he teased her with his kisses, his hands gripped her hips and guided her movements. His hips arched into her thrusts.

In what felt like seconds or perhaps weeks, she gasped, “I’m close. I need you to come with me.”

“You had better wait for me, you impertinent wench.”

She chortled, her cheek pressed against his as she held him about the neck. “If you came before I did, I would thrash you.”

“I know it,” he said, groaning into her neck as she sank onto him with a desperate stroke.

Recognizing her struggle, he slipped a hand to where they were joined to aid her, but she intercepted him. Reaching between their straining bodies, he felt her press her fingers between her legs. She moaned deep in her throat, and knowing that she pleasured herself while he stroked inside her made his cock swell even more. Her core responded by quivering around him. Biting off a curse, he allowed himself to let go, clamping his jaws to keep from shouting his release to the heavens.

Flora was not as circumspect, her shriek echoing about the small valley. With a heavy sigh, she collapsed on top of him, her cheek coming to rest directly over his racing heart.

Neither of them spoke as they lay spent, their heavy breathing joining the sound of birds chirping and the breeze rushing through the boughs overhead. He stroked her bare back, enjoying the feel of her naked flesh under his fingers. After several moments, he noticed a raised bit of skin near the back of her waist. He explored it with his fingertips, his eyes widening when he understood it to be a scar.

“How did you get this?”

“A riding accident several years ago. I was thrown off and hit a jagged bit of fencing.”

“That must have hurt like the devil,” he said, rubbing his fingers against it as if he could soothe the memory of the pain.

“It did, but no more than this one.” She raised a leg and pointed to a long scar on her knee. Catching his questioning brow, she said, “I was dragged over some rocks and brambles.”

“I have a similar mark, but on my shin, not my knee.” Christian gestured to it with his head. “I was dragged, as well. I was around thirteen, I believe.”

“And this one?” she asked, caressing a scar on the front of his shoulder.

“A spooked two-year-old barreled through a copse of trees, and a branch impaled me.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, but she continued to stroke him.

His gaze snagged on a thin white line running up the side of her finger. He grasped her hand, bringing the finger up to his mouth for a kiss. “Surely this was not from a training accident.”

“It was from a knife.”

His grip on her hand tightened. “Please explain.”

“I gave it to myself. My knife slipped while I was whittling.”

“What is whittling?” Before she could reply, he knew. “That’s what you were doing the first moment I saw you in Asad’s stall, yes?”

“It was.” She folded her arms across his chest and propped her chin on top of them. “I have been doing it for a good many years, but this scar came not long after I picked it up.”

“It doesn’t seem like a skill most young women would have, but I could be wrong. Where did you learn it?”

“An older gentleman in my village carved charming little animal figurines for all the children for Hogmanay each year, and one day I happened to encounter him after a particularly punishing training session.” Flora’s scarred finger proceeded to twirl about the hair that dotted his chest. “He shared that whittling helped him to relax. Gave him something to focus on other than his troubles. Through creating his art, he found that he could control something when elements of his life were outside his command. I decided to give it a try for similar reasons, and I continue to whittle today.”

An odd sort of wistfulness filled her voice. What stresses and anxieties oppressed her, and why? What sort of circumstances drove a genteel young lady to toil in a stranger’s stables? Knowing her as he now did, he was certain she would not provide such answers. “And what do you do with your creations when you have completed them?”

She shifted. “I send them to my nephews. Or to a foundling home.”

“How many nephews do you have?”

“Two.” Flora sighed, a happy sound. “Four and two. They are wonderful lads. And I may have a third nephew on the way.”

“Whose children are they?”

“My sister’s.”

Christian noticed that her voice had dropped in tone. Odd, that.

“Is she your only sibling?”

“She’s the only sibling who matters,” Flora grumbled, so quietly he had to strain to hear her.

He wanted to ask her what she meant, but her demeanor proclaimed the subject off-limits. And after the exhilarating time they had spent together, he did not want to ruin the moment. Inhaling deeply, he put the topic to rest. But he would make sure to record it for the next letter he sent his investigator.

Snatching her hand from where it danced in an agitated pattern across his chest, Christian studied it for a moment before pressing a kiss to her fingers. “You must spend a good deal of time with a quill in your hand.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Why do you say that?”

“These ink marks,” he said, running a fingertip over the stains in question.

“Oh,” Flora whispered, studying her hand intently, as if she had never noticed the stains before.

“Are you a proficient letter writer? Or do you keep a diary?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just a proficient—”

Her words stopped so abruptly it took Christian a long moment to realize she was not going to say more. “Proficient what?”

“You are going to laugh at me.”

With her chin turned away, it would have been easy to miss the pink coloring her cheeks. Luckily, he had not missed it.

“When have you ever cared what others thought?”

She made an odd sort of sound in the back of her throat. Almost like a growl. “There are several people whose good opinion I covet.”

Understanding made his lips turn up. “Am I one of these people, Flora?”

She smacked him on the shoulder. “If I covet anything of yours, it’s the powerful stallion in your paddock. And he prefers me to you, so you may as well cut your losses.”

“I would never dream of giving up that easily,” he said, pinching her bottom and laughing when she jumped in exasperation.

“You are lucky I don’t have my crop on me, because I know how to use it as a weapon.” Her expression was adorably fierce. “Growing up as the only woman in the stables taught me how important it was to learn to defend myself.”

“I am sure.” Christian ran his hands up the back of her thighs and stroked her hips, willing his cock not to interrupt their conversation, because he was enjoying it. Almost as much as the sex. “Do not think I’ve forgotten my question. What is it you consider yourself proficient at?”

She pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze to his chin. He was charmed she would not look at him. “I…make lists.”

“Lists?”

“Lists. Of feeding schedules and amounts. Weights. Race times. Weather conditions during those race times. The horse’s demeanor. Stuff of that nature.”

She apparently thought it was some sort of embarrassing confession, but an odd flame flared in his chest at her words. “I keep lists, too.”

Flora finally lifted her gaze to his. “You do?”

“Of course. I think any trainer worth their salt does.” He smirked. “Without keeping a record of conditions and the beast’s health, without tracking the data that matters, how can you know when to change things? How can you help your horse have the best chance of winning if you’re not giving him every chance to succeed off the track?”

Nodding vigorously, her eyes sparkled. “Exactly! Keeping records of such information helped me detect patterns, good or bad, in Banrigh’s performances. I started doing the same for Asad after I arrived at Amstead Gardens.”

Christian pushed a black lock from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “And what have you learned about our temperamental fellow?”

She pursed her lips. “He does not like to run on a wet track. His times are always slower the morning after a rain.”

“He’s not fond of mud, that is true. What else?”

“Lucerne from the Meyers’ farm upsets his stomach.”

Christian cocked his head. “I’ve never noticed him having a problem with the Meyers’ lucerne.”

“Have you been in the stables at night after dinner?” She tapped him on his chest. “The whole building smells of his discomfort.”

“Have you told Mr. Mubarak, so he can change up his feed?” he asked, tugging on her ear lobe.

She huffed. “Of course I have. I value the comfort of all the beasts in the barn.”

He dragged her down for a scorching kiss. “I should have known not to doubt you.”

“Yes, you should have,” she said impertinently, laughing when he slapped her bottom again. After a pause, her head tilted. “What have you recorded in your notes?”

Deep in thought, Christian pulled his hands from her hips and crossed them under his head. She regarded him, her lovely face patient, but her eyes keen.

Suddenly he knew. “Asad runs faster when David rides him than when you do.”

Pushing herself up, she nibbled her lip as she considered this. “I had never thought to break out his race times based on his rider, but it makes complete sense. I cannot believe I never thought of that.” Focusing on him again, her mouth stretched into a smile, her fetching dimples capturing his attention. “Brilliant idea, my lord.”

Her words of praise made him hard. Such comments from her were not false flattery. Flora had proven herself, over and over, to be an accomplished, competent, clever horsewoman. If she was impressed by his idea, it was a compliment indeed.

Unable to contain his arousal any longer, he gripped her about the waist and rolled over, pinning her lithe form beneath him. He stroked his fingertips up her sides until he planted his elbows on either side of her head. His lips were a mere breath away from hers. “Allow me to show you what else I’m brilliant at.”

Looping her arms around his neck, her dimples proclaimed her approval. “Oh, good. A true average of your brilliance requires many points of reference.”

And then, Christian set out to boost his average.