Summoning her courage, she took Alex’s hand, hiking up her skirts with her free hand. He caught her boot and helped her swing onto the saddle, settling down between his legs. Her heart pounded, her breath coming fast and uneven. She held her hands up, terrified to touch the horse lest it spook and throw her.
“It’s all right, I have you,” Alex wrapped his arm around her waist, settling his hand just above her hip. His other hand caught hers and wrapped them around the front of the saddle. “Hold on here and lean against me,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, rumbling against her back and she sat up taller to minimize their contact. “Are you ready?” he said, leaning over to her ear. His breath was warm against her cheek and she shivered, then nodded to hide her reaction.
Fern had been wary of horses since she was a girl. She could tolerate riding behind one in a carriage but gave them a wide berth in all other situations. Riding the beast was simply out of the question. But somehow, in Alex’s arms, her terror subsided, the low tremor in her pulse humming in his presence.
Alex started slowly, riding at an easy pace until they left the city center. He eased the horse into a trot and then a gentle canter, pulling Fern closer as he increased his speed. The wind rushed by Fern’s face, catching her hair and sending it in all directions. The air was cold on her bare legs, but she didn’t feel immodest. Now she understood why people enjoyed riding. She felt free, as though she were flying.
Fern had never been so close to a man before, and she reveled in the scandalous sensations. The hard planes of his chest and stomach, the weight and strength of his arm across her abdomen sent shivers rushing along her spine. Her pulse quickened at the steady rolling motion of his hips against her backside, the heat of his hand on her hip, the steadiness of his breath against her temple. She was trusting him completely, and the notion thrilled and terrified her.
“Don’t ride up to the front,” Fern said as the horse slowed outside the familiar stone gates. They arrived at Boar’s Hill far too quickly, wrenching her from the pleasure of being held in Alex’s arms. “There is a servants’ drive just ahead, I can walk from there.”
“I won’t have you walk alone,” Alex said, his voice low. Her heart jumped at the protective tone, wishing the ride were longer.
Alex dismounted and led the horse to the servants’ drive, where he turned to Fern and reached up to her. His wavy hair was messy from the ride, his cheeks pink, and his blue eyes glimmering. He was breathtaking, and a knot grew in her throat. After Alex was engaged to Rose he would become hers, another possession and pleasure belonging to her twin simply because she knew how to act, pleased their parents and made everyone happy. Unlike Fern.
Alex put his hands on Fern’s waist and lifted her down. She stumbled a bit as her back leg cleared the horse and he steadied her, pulling her close against his chest. Fern relished in his warmth for a moment before she pulled away, straightening her skirts. “If I go up this path I’ll be close to the kitchen door. It’s never locked and no one will be in there at this hour.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said, his tone allowing no argument. He carried both of their bags as they walked silently along the path, stopping to tie off the horse on a fence rail. The house was dark as they approached, the solid brick edifice illuminated only by the light of the half moon. “Are you certain your family won’t know you’re missing?”
“My father is in London, and Aunt Margaret told my mother I had gone to bed early with a headache.”
Alex let out a low laugh. “So your aunt is onto us?”
Recalling the conversation with her aunt and the mention of her feelings for Alex caused her pulse to speed up once again.There is no us, we are only friends.“She supports my studying,” she replied tightly.
They hurried along the garden path to the portico shielding the kitchen door from the elements, arriving out of breath but out of sight. “Thank you for taking me home.” She paused. “For everything.”
Alex smiled wanly, putting the satchels down. Fern’s bag fell as he released it, spilling several notebooks onto the stairs. As they gathered up papers, Alex picked up a small notebook, its pages falling loose. “What are these?” he said, standing to examine the revealed sketch.
Fern swallowed a shriek as she reached for the book. “Oh, they’re nothing, it’s—”
“These are yours?” he interrupted, his eyes fixed on a drawing of a carefully detailed sketch of a Scottish thistle, with each part of the bud and stem labeled in intricate writing. He turned the page and inspected a sketch of a sprig of hyacinth in the moonlight. “These are remarkable,” he breathed. “They could be in a textbook, with this much detail.”
Her cheeks warmed as she bathed in his praise. “It’s just something I do sometimes. I’m terrible at embroidery, so this occupies my hands.”
He turned another page, tracing his fingers over the bold lines capturing the striking curves and soaring domes of Bodleian. Another drawing, featuring the main doors of Bodleian, the collegiate coats of arms intricately captured on the page. Alex chuckled as he turned to the next page, a sketch of the interior of the mathematics library. “May I keep this?” he asked with a grin. “It’s a picture of my second home.”
She smiled, warm with the pleasure his appreciation gave her. “Of course.”
Carefully, he tore the page from the binding of the notebook and tucked it into his pocket. As he did, Alex glimpsed the page underneath. “What is this?” he asked, holding the notebook closer.
Fern’s eyes widened in horror as she reached for the notebook. “No, that’s not, it’s not—”
“It’s me,” Alex said with awe in his voice. She had captured him in a three-quarter profile, his head tilted down, with a lock falling over his forehead. His hair was a bit too long and curled around his ear and neck. He was in need of a trim. She had tried again and again before she captured the exact line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the slight dimple in his cheek. His eyes were looking back towards her, the thick line of lashes dramatic under feathered brows. His mouth was curled slightly in a smile, as though she had captured him at the precise moment when she made him laugh. She had drawn him from memory while waiting for him to arrive at the library one day. “You drew me?”
Fern squeezed her eyes closed as humiliation washed over her. “It just—it’s—I sometimes draw people and—”
“Is this how you see me?” His voice caught as he met her eyes.
This is the sort of time when it’s helpful to be able to read emotions,Fern thought ruefully. She would have felt angry and distrustful if she had found a sketch of herself in someone’s notebook. But he’s not yelling, or frowning, he looks…happy? “Are you upset with me?”
“No.“ He chuckled. “My mother would love this.”
“She would?” That was not what she expected to hear.
His lovely mouth curved into a smile. “She always tells me I’m handsome, and honestly, I never truly believed her. I thought she was being a fawning mother.” He paused, gazing at the drawing again. “You created this.”
Fern nodded, a sudden surge of pride in her work welling up in her chest. “I draw a lot, you know. I see pictures and find the patterns and draw what I see. I’m terrible with people, normally.” She took the notebook and flipped back, past several attempts she had made to sketch her sisters, mother, random people she saw on the street. He had captured their bodies with precision, but their visages were smudged, erased again and again from existence. “The faces always look wrong, like I’ve stolen all the life from them. I’ve never gotten a face right before yours.”
