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By the time Marchmont found them it was too late to do anything. They were galloping headlong down the hill from a stand of trees. He dared not get in their way, lest he distract them and cause an accident.
In his mind an image flashed of Zoe, in the summer before she vanished, galloping ahead of him on a narrow bridle path. She’d bolted and taken a fractious mare for a mount—daring herself and everyone else, as she too often did—and he’d gone after her, his heart in his mouth.
When he caught her and scolded her, she told him he was stuffy. She complained of her French lessons and mimicked her French tutor’s efforts…until Marchmont was clutching his stomach, laughing helplessly.
In less than a twelvemonth she was gone, and all the brightness went out of his world.
Now he watched, heart pounding, until at last the two riders slowed and turned onto the road that would take them across the Serpentine. When they returned to Rotten Row they seemed to exchange words, but briefly. He made his way back to the Row and waited.
Lady Tarling rode ahead. When she reached him, he resisted the urge to shout at her for endangering Zoe. His mind knew—if his gut didn’t—that Zoe endangered herself.
He schooled his features and his voice and greeted the lady politely. She was flushed with the exercise, and her dark eyes were dancing.
“Ah, Duke, you have your hands full, I’ve heard—and now seen,” she said. She looked as though she would say more, but she only shook her head and laughed. Then she rode away.
Zoe dawdled, pretending to be enraptured by the view. She was probably catching her breath. Not on a horse in twelve years! She must be numb as well as exhausted.
He waited.
At last she trotted sedately to him. He would not be surprised if she pretended not to see him and trotted right past him, but she slowed and stopped.
“How beautiful it is,” she said. “Everywhere I look, there’s greenery. I cannot remember when last I saw so much green. In Egypt, you know—”
“Are you insane?” he broke in impatiently. “You haven’t ridden in twelve years. That gelding is too wide for you, and the saddle is too short. Yet you raced with a complete stranger on terrain you don’t know. I saw you gallop headlong down a hill. You could have been killed.”
She looked at him in the way most people looked at his aunt Sophronia when she made one of her dafter pronouncements.
“But of course I’ve ridden in recent years,” she said. “Many times. Sometimes we traveled up the Nile on holiday or to abuse the peasants. Then the men would let me ride in the desert. Sometimes a camel, sometimes a donkey, and sometimes a horse. They knew I couldn’t run away then. I tried, but it was no use. All the desert looks the same, and in no time I’d be lost. They had no trouble catching me, and it amused them. It was a game to them.”
She spoke of the Egyptian experience with less emotion than she’d employ to describe a pair of gloves or slippers. But he could see the scene too clearly and Zoe in it. The vision upset him, adding to the stew of fear and anger inside.
While he struggled to beat down emotion, she looked calmly about her.
“I like this place,” she said. “I did not realize it was so large.” Her gaze came back to him. “I must like her, too, though I find I’m very jealous.”
“I don’t care whether…” He paused, trying to think past the fear and rage he couldn’t quite command. “Jealous?”
“She’s so elegant,” Zoe said. “She knew who I was, I believe, but she did not snub me. That was generous. If I were your concubine, I would be very suspicious of protégées.”
“She is not my con—”
“Her seat is excellent. Better than mine.”
He would like to get his hands on the person who’d turned her mind to Lady Tarling. He ordered himself to be calm.
“Her saddle fits her,” he said. “Her mount fits her. She did not steal her mother’s—”
“No.” She held up her hand. “You will not scold me. This was fun. I want fun. I want a life. In Egypt I was a toy, a game. I was a pet in a cage. I vowed never to endure such an existence again.”
He stared at her in outraged disbelief.
He told himself her English sounded well enough but her grasp of meaning was less than perfect. He told himself a great many sensible things, but his gut reacted to the accusation, the patently unfair accusation. She was equating him with the swine who’d caged her and treated her like a pet and a game.
“I drove you all about London yesterday,” he said. “I took you to buy dresses and underthings and shoes and stockings. And I told you I would take you for a drive today.”
“I needed to ride.”
“You might have said so.”
“I didn’t know it then. And even if I had known it, you would not give me a chance to say what I wanted. We’ll do this, you say. We’ll do that. I will collect you at two o’clock, Zoe. I will make you respectable, Zoe, whether I like it or not, for your father’s sake, and because I said I would, and I always keep my word.”
“I know the words are English,” he said, “but the thinking must be Arabic, because I cannot make heads or tails of it.”
She signaled her horse to walk on.
“Oh, no,” he said. “You will not utter cryptic remarks and dismiss me. I will not be dismissed.”
She ignored him.
He dismounted and stalked to her. He brought her horse to a halt.
“Get down,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“Coward,” he said.
Her blue eyes flashed.
“Go ahead, then,” he taunted. “Run away.”
Her eyes were blue murder but she let him help her dismount. Her bottom must be sore, and her legs would soon be aching painfully.
“You need to walk,” he said.
“No, I don’t!” She stamped her foot and winced. “I’m only a little stiff. I do not wish to walk with you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You care about nothing,” she said. “What about the horses? You cannot leave the horses in the middle of the bridle path.”
“Your groom will deal with the horses.”
“I am not going to walk with you,” she said. She tried to mount her horse.
He could have amused himself watching her try to climb into the sidesaddle unaided, but he wasn’t in the mood to be amused. He grasped her hand and dragged her away from the horse and started toward the Serpentine. “I think I’ll drown you,” he said.
She kicked him in the shins and ran.
The attack being the last thing Marchmont expected—though it should have been the first, he later realized—he was slow to react. Stiff-legged and tired though Zoe must be, she made surprising progress during that moment’s delay, and disappeared into a stand of trees.
It was sheer stubbornness propelling her, he told himself, and that wouldn’t take her far. She’d had almost no exercise in recent weeks, her muscles were tired—though she might not realize it yet—and she was dragging a train of heavy cloth.
The trouble was, she didn’t need to go far to get lost—or to trip over that accursed train and stumble and crack her skull against a tree trunk or fall into the Serpentine and drown.
“I shall drown her, I vow,” he muttered, and ran after her.
He watched for a flash of blue and soon found her. She was near the Serpentine but not on the footpath. He easily closed the distance between them, but she kept at her shambling run.
When he came within a pace of her, he reached out to grab her arm. He stepped on her train and his boot tangled in the hem, jerking her off balance. Down she went, and so did he, on top of her.
As they struck the ground, his hat fell off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw hers roll away. Nearer to hand, her bosom rose and fell with her labored breathing. He raised his head and chest to take his weight off her, but he didn’t roll off her completely.
Damp curls clung to her temples and near her ears. Her skin
was pink with exertion. She was scowling up at him, blue eyes glittering.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” he said.
Her hands came up. Instinctively he drew back. But she didn’t scratch his eyes out or punch him as he expected. She slid her fingers into his hair and grasped his head. She pulled, bringing his face to hers, and kissed him full on the lips.
At the first touch, he felt the skittering shock he’d experienced the day before, but deeper and stronger this time, as though he’d touched an electrifying machine. This time, though, he didn’t draw away. Her mouth was soft and warm and her scent and taste spilled into him, sweet and fresh and warm, like a summer garden.
Inside him a riot seemed to be going on, of feelings. He didn’t know what they were and didn’t care. About them was springtime, cool and damp, but she tasted like summer and he craved the heat. Her hands slid down to his jaw and her mouth was searching for more from him. She was by turns insistent and coaxing, and he was all too willing to be led.
His brain slowed and he forgot everything else but the warmth and scent and taste of her. She brushed her tongue over his lips, and the shock he felt this time was a familiar one: the rush of pleasure at an invitation.
