His eldest sister, Henrietta, would punch Ellis in the arm if he voiced such a sentiment.
The sound of thundering hooves drew his attention, destroying the near silence of the morning. A rider’s shadowy form took shape in the distance, horse galloping across the grass as if the very devil were following. The rider, a woman, if the voluminous deep purple of her skirts was any indication, grabbed frantically at the reins in an effort to slow the animal.
She’s going to fall.
Ellis twisted in the saddle. The pair were headed toward the thick border of forest at his left. He recalled crossing a small ravine in that direction just yesterday, a ravine obscured this morning by the thick mist coating the ground. Even a skilled rider was at risk of being thrown and might break their neck if the animal wasn’t stopped. The lady in question appeared to be alone, no groom in sight. Not so unusual for the country, he supposed, but potentially dangerous given the current situation.
Urging Dante forward, Ellis raced down the slope in the direction of the rider. Sprinting alongside the frenzied animal, he concentrated on regaining control of the horse before its female rider could be unseated.
One of the reins flapped against the horse’s neck as a pair of slender, gloved hands grasped for the leather without success. A thick plait of gold hair bounced against one shoulder as the woman struggled to regain control of her mount; the hat atop her head, worn at a jaunty angle, slid over one ear, and a veil floated over her features, obscuring them. Her skirts billowed up nearly to her chin as she struggled to stay in the saddle, giving Ellis a glimpse of graceful legs encased in snug trousers. If she hadn’t been riding astride, she might well have already fallen to the ground.
Leaning over, murmuring softly to Dante to remain steady, Ellis stretched out one arm to take hold of the loose rein, pulling gently to turn the animal in his direction.
The lady gasped. She tried to tug the reins back.
Stubborn little fool.Did she expect he was trying to assault her? On horseback?
“Let me take it,” he yelled to her.
The horse jerked in Ellis’s direction, slowing into a spin, the motion pulling the lone rein from the rider’s hand without preamble. Tilting to one side with a curse, she slid off the saddle, fingers grasping futilely at the leather before landing in the thick grass.
Ellis immediately dismounted and jogged back in her direction, concerned she might have hit her head or was otherwise injured.
She sat up with a lurch, legs spread wide, purple skirts puffing up around her small form like a mushroom cap. An annoyed snort came from her. Another curse. She adjusted her hat, placing it once more at the proper angle on her head. The purple velvet of her riding habit strained against what must be a spectacular bosom with every irritated breath she took.
Ellis stood back and regarded her with interest, waiting for her to push the bloody veil aside so he could get a better look at her. All he could make out was a delicate nose and chin beneath the fine lace.
“Are you hurt, my lady?”
“No thanks to you.” A jerk of her fingers and the veil was flipped over the brim of the hat. She tilted her chin away, presenting Ellis with an elegant, stunning profile.
The smile waiting on his lips faltered, then disappeared completely.
Dear God.I should have let the horse run all the way to Scotland with her.
There was no mistaking the refined line of her jaw, the small, finely shaped patrician nose, or the perfect curve of her cheek. Ellis knew them all well as he’d spent hours in rapt study of her features.Angelicwas how many in London had described her appearance.
Ellis found her to be quite the opposite.
Rose-colored lips, plump and sensuously formed, parted as she likely considered what sort of insult to hurl in his direction.
She was good at that. Insults. Disdain. That mouth had always held a particular fascination for Ellis, though she’d never once uttered a kind word in his direction.
The shimmering pale gilt of her hair should have warned Ellis of her identity in an instant. Like the rays of the sun spun into gold. Or a dozen guineas spilling out of a gentleman’s purse. The shade was burned undeniably into his memory, never to be forgotten. Strange, considering he couldn’t recall the color of Lady Anabeth’s hair. Butthiswoman, more so than any other he’d ever known, stayed with Ellis no matter where he traveled.
Which isn’t to say their association was a pleasant one. It was not.
“Your Grace,” he managed in a cool, detached tone.
The Duchess of Castlemare tilted her head, acknowledging his presence but little else. She kept her features averted, pretending to stare out over the vista before them. Her shoulders stiffened beneath the velvet of her riding habit rather dramatically, as if being rescued by Ellis was the very worst thing that could have occurred this morning.
Hostile would best describe his acquaintance with the duchess though Ellis always found himself drawn to her. Like lemmings to a cliff. She was a particular sort of craving. A sweet which one longs for but after taking a small bite, realizes the filling was far too rich to be palatable.
Still, as he took the duchess in, the desire Ellis felt for her, dormant for so long, skittered along his skin.
An itch which would never abate.
“Lord Blythe. How perfectly unwelcome.” Her crisp tone dripped with sarcasm, as sharp and cutting as a finely honed blade. Her lovely pouting mouth—Ellis twitched at the sudden lash of arousal—curled as if catching sight of something distasteful, which he supposed was him. Toying with the thick plait of her hair, the duchess twisted to view Ellis, and the cobalt of her eyes, still so unbelievably blue, flashed with dismissal.
