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“Pardon me, good sir,” the woman shouted over the din of the downpour. “Might I request some assistance?”
Arthur froze at the familiar voice, wariness melting into concern as he recognized the lilting tones of Lady Francesca Creswell. He spurred his horse as fast as it could go in the current conditions and stopped before the woman. Her pink walking dress and spencer were soaked completely through. She raised her head to peer at him from the brim of her drooping bonnet, eyes widening in shock. “You,” she breathed before her lips slipped into a frown. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” In more ways than one, he thought irritably as he dismounted. Lady Francesca receiving an invitation to the retreat had not been the plan, though if the ladies were in the dark about his scheme, it stood to reason that Lady Amberwood would invite such a close family member, especially one who had been obviously growing tired of London and its frivolities. “I hadn’t realized you were invited.”
“I hadn’t realized you would attend,” she replied, notching her head up a fraction.
The movement revealed an angry red abrasion marring her chin. He took in her mud-soaked gloves and dirty knees. “You’ve fallen.”
“How could you tell?” she replied sarcastically. “I was on my way to the village when the rain came, and my shoes were decidedly not the thing for such a muddy adventure.” She raised her skirts a few inches to reveal a delicate and wholly inappropriate pair of dirty walking boots. Splotches of mud marred her stockings, drawing his gaze to the delicate ankles they encased. For a nonsensical moment he wondered if her calves were just as pretty, heat sliding through him at the thought of peeling her silk stockings down them.
The flash of ardor fled as quickly as it had come once he got a better look at her feet, or rather, that she kept the heel of the left one raised. He didn’t miss the slight wince she made as she lowered her skirts and shifted. “Your hurt,” he remarked with concern. Hurt enough that she was unable to make it back in the weather. “How long have you been out here?”
He had his answer when her teeth clattered as another gale swept across the road. “Awhile, I think.”
“Let’s get you on the horse before the entire house erupts into a panic,” he said brusquely, reverting to the no nonsense manner he used when handling mishaps at The White Heather. All manner of mishaps occurred at the sort of business he owned, things that a gently bred lady like the one before whom likely couldn’t even dream of. So, when Lady Francesca put a hand up with wide, beseeching eyes, he wasn’t affected in the slightest.
“Mr. Barrow—” The words ended on a squeak as he swept an arm under her knees and hoisted her into his arms. Arthur steadfastly ignored how soft and warm her body felt in his hands, or the cloying scent of rose soap curling inviting around him. He strode stiffly to Midas and set Lady Francesca down, ignoring the slide of her body against his own. Her hand still held his shoulder, clutching for balance.
He gestured to the saddle, knowing that his next words would scandalize her utterly, for she would be required to reveal far more of her legs than her ankles. “Are you able to hoist yourself up with your good foot if I support you?”
She surprised him with her calm reply, the only evidence of her disquiet being the tightening of her fingers on his shoulder. “I believe so.”
“Excellent,” he replied, doing his best to keep his voice even. “Get your foot in the stirrup and use my shoulder as support.” Arthur sucked in a breath when she lifted her skirt to her knee and deftly placed her foot into the stirrup, bearing her leg enough that he caught a flash of the creamy flesh of her thigh over the pretty pink garters she wore. Her calves were indeed as lovely as her ankles, and the thought that he, owner of one of the most infamous gambling dens of London and purveyor of all the sins such an establishment entailed, should be brought so low by the smallest flash of a debutante’s leg was rather mortifying.
“Mr. Barrow?” Lady Francesca said with a small frown, a spectacularly red flush racing across her face despite the appearance of calm.
Get it together, you mooning arsehole.Arthur snapped on his most businesslike smile, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Lady Francesca’s face, which did not help in the slightest, as the sight of her lips only reminded him of their heated interlude at Vauxhall two weeks ago. “All right,” he said tightly through his teeth. “Up you go, My Lady.”
She pulled herself up and managed to awkwardly arrange herself correctly on the saddle. Arthur turned around to allow her time to adjust her skirts into something proper whilst he calmed his raging body, feeling like more of a green schoolboy than he ever had in his entire life. He stared out into the rainy fields and focused on the chilly wind slapping about and the icy rain soaking into his breeches. Just when he thought he’d cooled his lust, her voice rang out, soft and lilting over the downpour.
“Mr. Barrow?”
“What?” he replied, harsher than intended.
There was a pause before her tentative reply. “I don’t think I can balance on him by myself.”
Hell and bloody fucking Christ, she was right. He turned around to see her perched atop Midas, hands clutching his impressive mane and legs dangling precariously over his side. She would be unable to safely sit side saddle without the proper equipment, and he doubted her leg was well enough to ride astride. If, by some freak chance, Midas spooked, she would be powerless to control him without the use of both ankles. Arthur was going to have to hold her in place himself.
“Alright,” he all but croaked, taking a few steps forward and grasping the saddle. He hauled himself up, and her back fell flush against his chest.
Focus on the cold. Focus on the cold. Focus on the bloody fucking cold.Arthur repeated the mantra in his head as he wrapped an arm around her waist to secure her more firmly against him, using his other hand to take hold of the reigns in a white knuckled grip as she squirmed to secure herself, the side of her thigh rubbing against his increasingly uncooperative cock. He kicked Midas into motion, the trusty steed resuming his slow pace. Arthur breathed, slow and long, as Lady Francesca’s hand settled on his thigh. This was going to be the longest ride of his life.
Chapter Four
Francesca shivered, both from the cold and the feel of Mr. Barrow’s solid thigh under her palm. She sucked in a breath as he pulled her more firmly against him, a strong arm wrapping tightly about her waist.
“I have you,” he murmured tightly. She felt his heart pounding against her back, and it pleased her to know that he was just as bothered about their proximity. Francesca tried to focus on the rain or the plod of the horse as he deftly picked his way up the drive of Festoon Hall, but it was rather impossible with Mr. Barrow’s scent cloying about her. He smelled of whiskey and fresh pine, and she fought the supreme urge to bury her face in his neck and inhale. Their mount swayed in the mud, and Francesca tightened her hand on Barrow’s thigh to secure herself. He inhaled audibly.
Deciding to start some conversation for both their sakes, Francesca spoke. “I’m sorry for causing all this trouble.”
“I’m sure you didn’t intend to turn your ankle, and I wasn’t just going to leave you out there.” He shook his head with a deep chuckle that slithered through her chest. “To be honest, I had initially thought you were a trap set by highwaymen, so I am relieved it was merely a lady in distress.”
“You seem a suspicious person, Mr. Barrow,” she replied, and worried that she caused some offense with the forward observation.
But he merely nodded, his voice matter-of-fact. “Where I come from, suspicion was a means of survival.”
Despite knowing she was pushing things, her curiosity stirred. “What was it like? Growing up, I mean.”
