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“Where to?”

“Well, Lido is seven miles long. We are closer to the southern tip of the island, so if we go two miles in that direction we will reach the dunes. But of course, we need not ride nearly so far. We shall keep to the pace that you find comfortable.”

She studied him. “Very well.” And then, without any further warning, she wheeled her mare about, touched the animal’s neck, and set off along the waterline at a fast canter that rapidly increased to a gallop.

“Pomona? Pomona!” Mentally cursing the groom at the stables who’d claimed that the mare was sedate and safe, he kicked the sides of his own mount and set off in pursuit. Her horse must have bolted! She must be terrified! “Pomona!”

There was no indication that she could hear him at all. She was bent low over the horse’s neck. He could only pray that she could hang on long enough for him to catch up and try to get the mare under control.

They flew south along the edge of the water. He was gaining on her slowly because his own mount was the larger and stronger animal. As he closed the gap, spray and wet sand flew up from her horse’s hooves, catching him in the face. In a few more moments he might be able to reach the mare’s bridle… “Pomona!”

She glanced over her shoulder with a frown. She reached for the reins, shortened them… and her horse began to slow. It was almost as though she’d been in control the entire time.

She brought her horse to a stop. “What is it?”

He was panting. He wasn’t even certain how far they’d galloped. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” She was frowning. “Why should I not be?”

“I thought… I thought…” He straightened and coughed, his fist to his mouth, attempting to regain his composure. “I feared that your horse had bolted.”

“Bolted?” She looked at him as though he might be mad. “Of course not.”

“But you…” How could he put this without insulting her? “You… er… Well, your riding has improved a great deal.”

“Thank you. Lady Theodosia arranged for me to have lessons. Her stables are well-known, you know.”

“Well, of course they are,” he muttered. He almost wanted to echo her comment about Lord Byron: Lady Theodosia this, Lady Theodosia that. And here he’d thought that Pomona had been about to break her neck!

He cleared his throat and looked around. “Well, er… those are the dunes of which I was speaking. There is an attractive pine forest just inland. I am certain that you will find a subject for your sketching efforts here.”

She looked up at the steep dunes, covered by silvery green beach grasses that rippled in the sea breeze. He waited. A flock of plovers raced along the surf line, peeping as they chased the waves. He took the opportunity to wipe stray globs of wet, salty sand from his face, his neckcloth, his jacket and his hair.

“No.” She seemed to be speaking to herself. “No. It will not do.”

“No? What about the ruins of that little hut, with the wooden roof beams bleached white by the sun? Is not a half-ruined shepherd’s hut always a picturesque subject for a lady’s watercolor?”

She scarcely bothered to glance in its direction. “No.”

“Shall I find you some other subject that you like better?”

She seemed to refocus her attention on him. “I should be happy to attempt any subject you suggest, of course. But by pure ill luck, I have forgot my sketching materials.”

“Ah.” Now he had her. “Do you know, I had the strangest premonition that you might! So I brought some along myself. A complete palette of pigments from the finest artist’s shop in Venice—not to mention a tablet of cold-pressed papers and some brushes. I thought that I should make you a little present of them.”

For a moment her expression was horror-stricken. She opened her mouth. She closed it again. She seemed to be trying to think of another excuse. Then she sighed. “Oh, very well.”

They walked the horses up a narrow trail through the dunes and dismounted. West tied the horses to a tree. The long, bright green needles of the Mediterranean pines sighed in the breeze and the air was filled with their spicy scent.

Pomona held her hat to her head with hand and made a slow turn, surveying the place with an expression of annoyance. “It is all… sand! There is not a single cliff, or even a boulder!”

“Darling, have you… er, had too much sun?”

She glared at him. “No. I have not.” Without another glance in his direction, she marched off up the trail, veered out of the shelter of the trees, climbed a steep dune, gave the ground a cursory glance, and plunked herself gracelessly onto the sand. “Here is as good a spot as any, I suppose.”

“Here? But is there not very little by way of”—he waved at the dunes— “foreground?”

“I prefer it that way.”