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“You will slay me,” he agreed with a wink. “But I think you won’t want to leave my lair afterward, fair maiden. Just wait until you can see what I can do with my tail.”
“You’re disgusting.” But she pressed her fingers to her mouth to suppress a giggle. A tail, indeed.
“What?” He grabbed up one of the tails of his coat with a faux expression of injured innocence. “What did you think I meant?”
“I don’t want to ride with you anymore.” He would make her laugh in earnest, and she’d lose all her moral authority.
“Coward. Go on then.” He nodded to the right. “Your horse will run totally out of control. Such a pity, but she’s a flighty creature. I’ll chase you.”
And that was when she realized that spending every morning with him might be a lot more fun than she had anticipated.
A flick of her reins and a whispered command and her mare perked her ears, turned, and accelerated up to a gallop. Mr. Stanton’s platitudes and assurances to their fashionable companions on Rotten Row echoed after her.
Gina’s bonnet was whipped away, caught on her neck before being left behind and she was free. The wind in her hair, pressing her thighs tightly into the saddle pommel to stay on, almost flying across Hyde Park.
She let the mare have her head until they were both winded and Gina’s legs were screaming with the effort. As she slowed, first to a canter, then a trot, Mr. Stanton appeared at her side.
“Got you. I enjoyed that.” He grinned unrepentantly and held out her bonnet. “Again?”
CHAPTER6
21 July1817
“What areyou going to interrogate me about today?” Gina asked. “Since I am certain we have run out of every possible accomplishment I could have, and every detail of my preference or not for said accomplishment.”
A month after the Midsummer incident, as she was calling it, she and Mr. Stanton had been out together every day. Every day he asked whether she liked a particular accomplishment. And in the coming days, she found her mother spontaneously thought it unnecessary too. It had taken them a whole month to make their way through the list, starting with their discussion of embroidery on the first day, and yesterday she’d professed her loathing for decorating tables. She’d held to their bargain after her not-entirely, alright not-at-all honest profession of love for embroidery, and told the truth. Consequently, her weekly appointments with tutors were down to just French, German and embroidery. He’d even removed many of her visits to the modiste with a little comment that perhaps her wardrobe could benefit from more restraint.
“You don’t like talking about yourself?” Mr. Stanton replied. He took in her light sprigged-muslin dress—she’d had her maid remove the majority of the most egregious decorations from it—and she had to confess, seeing his eyes darken with interest was worth it.
“Not especially. And especially not to you.” She’d started over-embellishing her dresses to put off fortune hunters with any taste, and test the honesty of any man who complimented her appearance. Emmett, horrible as he was, didn’t deserve to have his eyesight offended by those dresses.
They had ridden out to Hampstead Heath today, a little further than Hyde Park or Regent’s Park that they often frequented.
“A pity, as I like listening to you.” He took a turning in the path into a secluded knot of trees.
She followed and found he’d led them to the edge of the lake, quite shielded from view, and dismounted. He caught her stirrup as she halted her mare. His fingers brushed her ankle. And though her ankle had been brushed a thousand times, this felt different. Encompassing. Inviting. Then his hand was gone.
“It’s warm, we should let the horses rest and drink. Here.” He raised his hands to her.
She swung her leg off the sidesaddle and hesitated. No way down except an ungainly jump, or him.
“Trust me.”
“I don’t,” she replied, but slid off her horse and into his arms. Her front dragged down his body and stole all the air from her lungs. Her toes touched the ground, but didn’t release her, looking into her eyes, holding her by the waist.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked after a second. He hadn’t done this before.
“Tempting you,” he whispered.
His mouth was a mere quarter of an inch from hers and the space between them thrummed with potential. It would be no effort at all to tilt her face to his, push onto tiptoes and press her lips to his.
She wanted to. Despite her protests, despite him being a horrible person. He was temptation incarnate. The little opened door of his consideration in helping stop her mother’s nagging about her accomplishments spilled light onto their engagement. It wasn’t as bad as she’d initially thought.
“Mr. Stanton—”
“Emmett.”
She blinked.
