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Chapter 2
John had enjoyed early morning rides for as long as he could remember. First, they used to be his escapes from his household. Later, when he returned from war, he resumed his habit to calm his restless mind. He enjoyed the fresh morning air, the speed, the smell of horseflesh, and the sound of hooves. No eerie silence of the early mornings inside his house, no people to ask him about his war experiences, no walls suffocating him.
Since he’d sold all the horses along with other possessions in an effort to pay off his debts, he was left with no transportation for a while. That was until he acquired a young and inexperienced green-broke horse that nobody wanted because of her bad temper. John had broken more than one horse in his lifetime. Being an officer, he’d spent most of his adult life atop a horse. He knew how to treat them, and he understood his mare perhaps more than he understood people. She was just like him. Easily spooked, nervous, on guard. They both disliked crowds of people and enjoyed galloping. She was perfect for him. Besides, he didn’t have much choice due to his limited funds, and he was in need of transport.
Early mornings in the park usually meant solitary rides, and that’s how John and his mare preferred it. The aristocracy was not out until after noon, and the park was quiet and empty. John made several measured laps around the Serpentine before urging his horse into a gallop.
The wind beat in his face, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and baked his hat. John felt strong, free, and alive. The wind almost took off his hat, and he caught it hastily. However, at the same moment, the horse slipped on the dirt, gave a loud squeal, and reared. John tightened his knees and tried to press his body closer to her neck, but it was too late. Gravity forced him down and he fell to the ground with a loud thump before rolling several times and stopping in the grass next to the path.
“Perfect, just bloody perfect,” he muttered to himself. He groaned and sat up gingerly then looked down at himself. He was covered in dirt and grass. His hip ached from where he’d landed on his left side, and his arm was bleeding. He brought the injured arm closer to his face, squinting at it. How in the hell he’d managed to tear through his jacket, shirt sleeves, and scratch his arm deeply enough to bleed, he didn’t know. He only knew that in addition to dirt, he was now covered in his own blood. His valet would be delighted, he was sure.
John sat in the dirt, contemplating whether to clean off in the Serpentine or gallop home for a full bath when he heard another horse’s hooves advancing in his direction, a small rider glued to the back of the horse.
“This day is just getting better and better,” John muttered to himself again and put his hand over his forehead so he could see better against the shining sun. The rider stopped a few feet away from him and dismounted. John tilted his head and squinted again. The rider approached him, the skirts of her riding habit swishing about her ankles. The sun was at her back, so he couldn’t see her face, but the few tendrils of her hair that had managed to escape out of her bonnet were glowing gold, and the sun at her back gave the appearance of a halo over her head.
“Are you all right?” she asked, coming close to him. Her voice was angelic too, a bit husky and low, yet somehow extremely feminine.
“What?” he asked, bewildered, too distracted by her angelic visage. The last thing he’d expected from his solitary and extremely early ride in the park was company. Especially divine company.
“Are you hurt?” she asked again.
She kneeled before him, her head covering the sun so that he could make out her facial features. She had extraordinary whisky-brown eyes fringed with dark blond lashes, a lush mouth, and a dainty nose. Her golden hair continued to glow in the sun, highlighting her angelic face.
“Oh, I see you are,” she exclaimed as she noted his bleeding arm. “Let me help.”
She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and extended her hand toward him. John instinctively pulled his arm closer to his body.
The young lady looked at him with what looked like astonishment for a moment before laughter replaced the emotion in her eyes. “It’s all right,” she said slowly, as if talking to a spooked horse or a child. “I don’t bite.”
“And how would I know that?” John muttered under his breath. He got up, ignoring her outstretched hand and her handkerchief. He was looking down at the ground, acting like a wounded animal.
He truly had no idea how to conduct himself in social situations. Wasn’t there a rule saying he couldn’t converse with a lady unless they had been previously introduced? Maybe that didn’t count if said lady witnessed your undignified tumble off of your horse.
The young lady with golden locks seemed to sense his uneasiness and extended her handkerchief again. “Here, take it. Press it to your wound, so you don’t bleed out.”
John looked up and saw the lady was smiling at him and waving her handkerchief like a white flag. He took it and pressed it to his injured arm.
“I’m sorry, I’m not good at”—he cleared his throat—“interacting with people,” he finished lamely.
“Me either,” she replied cheerfully and gestured to the solitary path. “Hence, early morning rides. Usually, there’s no one around here.”
John nodded and turned the kerchief bloody side up, pressing the clean side to his wound. The young lady’s eyes widened as she saw the amount of blood soaking the white linen.
“Oh, my!” She hastily drew another handkerchief from her other pocket like a magician and thrust it toward him. “You seem to be bleeding profusely.”
“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly.
She raised a brow at him, as if disbelieving his words.
“I’ve had worse,” he added at her look but took her proffered piece of linen. “Although, I should probably head homeward.”
“Oh, of course, do you need help mounting your horse?” She was watching him innocently, as if ready to assist him if he said yes.
“And what will you do if I say I do? Boost me up?” He smiled at her and she laughed.
“No, of course not. But my footman, James, might. He’s over there.” She pointed at a tall young man a few feet away, watching them carefully.
“Thank you, but I’m all right.” For proof, John mounted his horse in one fluid motion. “Oh, and”—he turned to her, drew out his own clean handkerchief from his pocket, and extended it with his uninjured arm—“thank you for the bandages.” He dropped the linen and without looking to see whether she caught it or not galloped away.
