Chapter 2

Kent, England, March 1845

Garbed in the leather of a Spanish caballero, Antonio sat astride an Andalusian stallion during the misty spring dawn. A flash of color drew his sharp eyes to a distant corner of a meadow. The gray horse’s alert ears pricked forward.

“Eh, hermano. I see him, too,” Antonio murmured. Standing in his stirrups, he shaded his eyes against the brightening sunrise.

A patch of vivid blue streaked across the meadow’s emerald-colored hedges, a horse and rider galloping with great speed. Antonio’s legs tightened against the stallion’s sides, and the horse spurted forward. Antonio soon realized it was no use; the other rider had the advantage and was outdistancing him. The blue cape billowed behind the intruder, waving in the breeze like a farewell pennant. Antonio brought Maestro to a collected halt. The rider had slipped into the enveloping woods while Antonio watched.

“Next time,” Antonio vowed aloud, turning his stallion back to where they’d started. “I’ll catch you, el hombre, if you trespass here again.”

Antonio allowed his horse to recover after the aborted chase while his thoughts centered on his ongoing dilemma. The sharp sting of duty pinched at him, because he didn’t believe he belonged in England at all. Slowly, Antonio shook his head from side to side, declaring his frustration aloud as he shared his troubles with his mount.

“Ah, hermano, I know I must make the best of it. I can’t ignore my parents’ wishes, my heritage, or the responsibilities my father pounded into me before I sailed from Spain. Caramba! This is not where I wish to be for the rest of my life. Nor do I wish to marry yet. Why must I do so? I’m not yet thirty with years ahead of me to produce an heir to carry the family name.”

Hearing his master’s rumbling voice, the stallion’s ears wiggled. Maestro was one of several fine Andalusians to make the watery voyage to England from the Iberian Peninsula. Blowing out his nostrils, the horse snorted, seeming to listen and agree.

Antonio’s lips curled into a thin smile as he looked around the meadow. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad for you, brother. You and your lady companions will grow fat and lazy on Britain’s lush grass.” Antonio patted the horse’s muscular neck.

“Your ninos will grow big and strong and leap higher than ever in the classical airs.” At least the thought gave Antonio a small measure of contentment, and he pushed the horse into an easy canter.

Rain had drenched bushes, trees and the damp earth, which now exuded pungent odors from the land surrounding him as the reluctant duke took in the beauty of the green Kent countryside so different than the dry heat, sun-dried sands and hills where he had grown up. Perhaps he could be satisfied here, he thought, embracing the idea but without eagerness to stay permanently. It was better than the hustle and bustle of the metropolis for months on end. As he rode, Antonio’s white teeth slashed a wide smile across his deeply tanned countenance. He remembered again, quite vividly, that London, with its bevy of willing ladies, also had its finer points. He squeezed Maestro’s sides with legs muscled from years of riding. His stallion cantered smoothly toward Westhaven Hall.

Nevertheless, his troubling thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. Though he had inherited a prestigious title and a great deal of wealth, he wasn’t sure he would ever be happy anywhere but in his homeland.

* * * *

For the past four days the rainy spring of 1845 had confined Caroline Lockler to Crestwood Manor. She and her Thoroughbred, Demon, were accustomed to regular exercise. Caroline hadn’t expected to meet anyone in the meadow that morning—especially not the Spaniard.

Her life had been on hold for a year. Her father’s illness had demanded she return to Kent the previous spring. Her coming out, late as it was, was held in abeyance. Then the earl’s death prompted a hastily arranged marriage to Sir Richard Lockler, her father’s longtime friend. Their brief marriage had ended in tragedy after a fatal foxhunting accident in November. The two deaths within months of each other had plunged Caroline into the blue devils.

Looking out of her bedchamber window that morning, she had been gladdened by a rosy dawn. Removing her night rail, Caroline donned breeches, shirt, and high leather boots. She grasped her long, reddish brown locks and quickly tied them back with a strip of ribbon. Throwing on a royal blue, hooded cloak, she made her way cautiously down the servant’s stairs, pausing near the kitchen. She overheard Mrs. Crowley and Crestwood Manor’s staff chatting as they began their morning chores of stirring the coals and preparing to fire the ovens and cook stove. After sneaking out a rear doorway, Caroline turned toward the stables. Her brother was still abed, she knew, because she’d heard him snoring as she tiptoed past his room. She so craved a solitary morning ride on her stallion, Demon.

William Hershey was directing grooms to their duties in the stables when he caught sight of his mistress. His forehead wrinkled, but he ordered one of the young stablemen to bring out Caroline’s favorite mount.

“Expected to see ye this mornin’, Lady Caroline. The minute I saw the sky gettin’ light and the sun peekin’ up, I know’d ye’d be up and callin’ for the devil. He’s fed and ready for ye.”

“Thank you, William. Demon’s been too long without a good run, and so have I.”

“I don’t expect, m’lady, that ye’d take one of the lads wi’ ye? The way ye race that horse o’ yourn, ye could have a bad spill. We’d be none the wiser ‘til ye didn’t come in fer breakfast. After what happened to Sir Richard…”

Caroline stopped him with a raised palm. “You’ve taught me well, and I trust Demon, William. Ease your mind, old friend. I’m not going far—only through the woods. I want a gallop in that meadow abutting our property and Westhaven’s. I promise I’ll not take any risks.”

“As ye say, m’lady.”

Martin, one of the grooms, brought out the feisty, black stallion. William cupped his hands and gave his mistress a leg up onto the flat saddle. Caroline slipped her boots into the irons, tapped Demon’s sides and rode out the lane, horse and rider eager to be on their way. Watching her, William slowly shook his head and gestured to the stable help to stop dawdling.

* * * *

Nearing the safety of the trees, Caroline had chanced a hasty glance over her shoulder as she and Demon galloped across the large, open meadow in a rush to lose the Spaniard. She saw the rider on the gray horse had pulled up and was no longer in pursuit. Her heart banged raggedly against her ribs as she sucked in mouthfuls of misty air. Slowing Demon to a trot, she turned her horse into the greenery hiding a narrow footpath as the pair slipped behind a shield of thick, leafy bushes. She’d escaped the Spaniard, thanks to Demon’s blazing speed. Exhaling in relief, she slumped in the saddle. She would need to be more careful now he had returned to Kent, or she’d run into him again during one of her morning jaunts.

She reined her horse to a walk. They meandered through the dew drenched woods while she mused.

You may have eased your restlessness with exercise, but what if he had recognized you, even if you weren’t dressed that way and riding astride, chasing across the meadow like a hoyden? Luckily, you donned your hood. With your long hair blowing in the wind, you’d certainly be identified. You were almost caught, you know, behaving like an uncivilized chit instead of a docile widow. At your age, your father would have seriously scolded you if he had known you hadn’t yet grown into a proper lady.

Caroline silently promised to do better and behave herself.

Her encounter with Antonio Thorndyke had been totally unexpected. Who would have guessed he’d be out so early? And doubtless he’d be shocked if he found her out of mourning.

She should have been mortified, but she wasn’t. If her brother learned of her recklessness, Hal would fly up into the boughs, since he was anxious to renew his acquaintance with the Spaniard. She knew she should behave like a lady, but she desperately needed her solo rides.

Wending her way slowly through the woods, Caroline’s mind actively engaged memories of the new duke and their first meeting in 1837. The image of Antonio as a youth popped into her mind. How well she recalled his masculine good looks, remembered him being very tall and lean with broad shoulders and chest, muscular thighs and long legs. His skin color was a golden bronze with eyebrows and hair straight and black as midnight. Her heart pumped a little faster as she rode, still hoping he’d never recognized her budding attraction.

His blatant arrogance wasn’t easy to forget either. Though polite, he wasn’t interested in cultivating her. She certainly wasn’t enamored of him at that age; that would be foolish. But there was something about him, even then, that stirred her romantic fantasies.

And now, he was here again in England.

Demon snorted noisily and blew spray out of his nostrils. Caroline had walked the stallion for a quarter hour. Slender branches sprouted new leaves and partially obscured the width of the path through the woods. She pushed them aside as she further contemplated this morning’s near miss with the duke.

“I’m absolutely sure, Demon, that the Spaniard didn’t realize that you—and me, a mere female—led him a merry chase across the meadow. I’d like to tell Hal about our little adventure, but he’d be more than annoyed, wouldn’t he?” Caroline giggled, the sound rebounding to her own ears for the first time in a long time. “Your speed made hash of his mount. I’m sure he believed I was an out-of-the-area intruder, or possibly a local who blundered onto Westhaven property.”

Demon’s ears flicked rapidly backward and forward, tuned into his mistress’ voice, which was tinged with muted laughter. Caroline chuckled again and leaned forward to stroke him while the horse bobbed his head and rattled the bit between his teeth. “We were wise to run off, weren’t we?” She patted him again. “I knew he couldn’t catch you.”

Caroline’s smile remained on her lips as she and Demon continued through the area that lay between Westhaven and Crestwood. Nearing home, additional uneasy thoughts niggled at her until her smile was replaced with a slightly concerned frown.

What if Hal should marry? He became earl last summer with their father’s death. He would probably wed soon and set up his nursery. Every peer needed an heir to maintain the line. When that happened, she would leave. It was only proper that Hal’s wife should be mistress of Crestwood Manor, not his sister, even if she didn’t move to London until she must. She would hate living in Town. She’d be unable to take Demon for a solitary gallop—or any gallop for that matter. Ladies rode tame mares or geldings in London, not fiery stallions. And they sat in sidesaddles for the rest of their proper lives. Thinking about what must soon happen, she buried such upsetting events deep within the crevices of her brain until such time as she needed to face them.

Arriving back at Crestwood, Caroline hurried to rid herself of her riding clothes before Hal came down to breakfast. He had expected her to shake off the blue devils by now. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to counteract the depression that left her floundering without guidance or direction. So far nothing of significance, no responsive chord brought her peace of mind or ignited a spark to give new impetus to her life.