She looked to be past the first flush of girlhood – perhaps twenty-three or so, but the face…
Ravishing, the rake within him purred – high cheekbones, full lips, and although her skin was more tanned than fashion preferred, it suited her, wholesome and real. He couldn’t quite establish the colour of her eyes through the settling dust, but he could discern them glowering at him as though he were the devil incarnate.
She appeared as a wild creature, and he became aware of his gawp.
Roguesnevergawped.
He pitched her one of his suave smiles – the disarming one that never failed to disarm and stepped forward. “Miss, I–”
The mare snorted, stamping its hooves, thick dust rising and casting his cream buckskins to fawn.
Prudently he stepped back. “You appear in somewhat of a hurry, Miss. Can I–”
“Oy! What you doing?”
Two more riders sped up to flank the woman, expressions fierce – which was laughable as they’d hardly a whisker to their chins, and were most probably grooms, judging by their horses and clothing.
Decidedly miffed, Jack presented them his marquess glare.
“I, my young fellow, was nearly trampled to death by your mistress’s appalling horsemanship.”
The woman’s lips parted, bosom heaving – not that he peered too closely, as he’d noticed a pistol strapped to her saddle.
“Who are you?” one of the grooms asked, blond hair sticking out willy-nilly and returning a rather impressive groom glare himself. “You don’t belong from round here.”
Insolent grammarian.
“I am the Marquess of Winterbourne. Who are you?”
“I be Benjamin Roskilly, and this here be Samuel Trescott.”
“Well, Benjamin,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at the woman, “you should inform your mistress of some manners. And she owes me a pair of remarkably expensive buckskins, cut from the king’s own deer no less.”
The words were meant for her to speak, to repudiate his patently absurd demand, but instead she pressed her lips mutinously closed, and before another word could be bandied by either party, the woman snapped her reins, the horse whirling on command.
She cantered off in the direction from whence she’d come, hair streaming like brown silk behind her.
“Who is your mistress, Benjamin?” he asked, twisting to the fresh-faced groom. “I’d like to know where to send my bill.”
“The lady is Miss Penrose, and you weren’t expected till the morrow. Back along by two miles be the turn for the manor.” A sudden grin broke the groom’s soft physog. “And a wink is as good as a nod to a blind hoss, my lord.”
With that nonsensical nonsense, both lads took off after the unruly Miss Penrose, and Jack stood watching their horses recede into the distance, dust clouds spiralling and merging once more.
“Well,” muttered Miggens, “you made an utter bumblebroth of that.”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” he murmured, brushing off his buckskins. “I may have to amend my approach, ’tis all.”
Miss Penrose, it appeared, was no timid girl. No one rode with such wildness, such wanton freedom if their true nature was reserved and wretched. She was no unassuming dove but a wild bird, unfettered and glorious. That pretty creature wouldn’t care if her hair became tangled in the throes of passion or her chemise ripped. He could imagine…
No. He would not imagine.
Rogues and innocents doth not mix.
He was simply here for a light woo.
A woo and withdraw, if you will.
His breath quickened. Maybe there was something to be said for fresh country air after all.
