They rounded the stable’s corner, and Francesca saw he’d tethered a beautiful sorrel gelding near a forgotten woodpile. The horse nickered when he saw his owner approaching. The marquess quickened his pace, outdistancing her.
“Lord Winterbourne.” Francesca slowed to a walk as he reached the horse and began loosening the reins. Without a word, he mounted the gelding, gracefully turning him away from her and the stable.
Oh, no. She wasn’t about to allow him to ignore her this time.
“Lord Winterbourne!” she bellowed so loudly that not only all of Hampshire but half of Scotland probably heard.
His horse certainly did. The copper-red animal jerked his head toward her. She saw the impatient flick of Winterbourne’s wrist on the reins, then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed muscled legs into the beast’s flank and guided the mount to face her. The softness was gone from his eyes, and she felt the stab of his piercing gaze.
The last lavender and indigo rays of the autumn sun illuminated him from behind, melding horse and rider into one, transforming him into some mythical being—a satyr or centaur. The sky was darkening, but through the shadows of dusk, his eyes dismissed her.
“Good-bye, Miss Dashing.” He spurred his horse and rode into the streaks of dying light.
“Wait!” she called after him. “I thought you said your horse lost a shoe.”
Not surprisingly, he didn’t bother to turn around. Hands on her hips, Francesca frowned after him.
Two
Ethan Caxton, the Marquessof Winterbourne, suppressed an uncharacteristic shudder and urged Destrehan forward. Grayson Park, pale and dreary, rose before him like a hoary mist out of the inky night. Destrehan shied as they crested the hill overlooking the estate, and Ethan knew exactly how the thoroughbred felt. He reined the horse in and stroked the gelding’s sleek copper mane.
He’d been raised primarily in London and had never liked Grayson Park. The estate was tainted with too many bad memories—having been his mother’s last refuge when his stepfather flaunted his newest mistress.
In the moonless darkness, his late stepfather’s country house appeared even more formidable and massive than usual. Baroque in style, the house was a long, severe rectangle of gray granite. Two-dozen windows overlooked the south lawns, most of them as black as the far reaches of Hell. Weak light shone from a handful of parted drapes on the upper floors, and the dim glow gave eerie illumination to the gargoyles leering down at him, their talons gripping the stone balustrade encircling the roof.
Ethan wasn’t superstitious, but he’d felt uneasy on the ride back from Skerrit’s farm. The ghostly vision of Grayson Park only heightened the feeling. On top of everything, the image of the Dashing girl standing next to Skerrit’s woodpile, twilight tumbling about her like the curls of her chocolate hair, refused to leave him. He couldn’t put her out of his mind, and it was damned unnerving.
Heshouldhave seen her home. He’d realized his lapse halfway to Grayson Park, but when he returned, both she and the horse were already gone. He cursed his error these last five miles or so, consoling himself with the certainty that she was native to the area—a country miss who most likely lived close to Skerrit’s farm. Nothing could account for his oversight. Nothing except a mixture of unyielding anger that his presence had been revealed and the unexpected distraction of a well-shaped ankle.
He’d been inspecting Skerrit’s property, searching for evidence that the farmer was not what he seemed. Careful to keep out of sight, Ethan had rounded a corner of the stable and seen the girl climb on the rickety bucket to peek inside the barn. He should have retreated, but then she leaned forward and he caught the flash of her slender ankle. His gaze lingered, skimming her shapeless mantle and fastening on the thickness of her rich hair. He’d paused just long enough in his appreciation to see her wobble. He’d been in time to catch her, but his valiant efforts cost him his anonymity.
Ethan hoped the lie he’d told about Destrehan losing a shoe didn’t arouse the farmer’s suspicions. The excuse was weak at best. If Skerrit doubted it, weeks of surveillance and careful preparation were destroyed. Skerrit would undoubtedly disappear, and with him, Ethan’s best chance at uncovering the French government’s most successful arms smuggling operation.
Perhaps meddlesome women, not French spies, were the real threat to his mission. Spurring Destrehan forward, he tamped down his annoyance and covered the last few yards to the arched brick entry of Grayson Park.
A footman carrying a flambeaux materialized from the gloom and took the horse’s reins, while another appeared almost immediately to light the marquess’s way. Ethan dismounted and paused to run his hands along Destrehan’s fore and back legs, checking for any injury or strain.
