There was about her the air of a free spirit. Could she be tamed? Would he want her tamed, or was that part of what currently appealed to him?
He thought of how she appeared on horseback. A magnificent horsewoman, a veritable young Amazon—born for the hunt, of course, though she didn’t believe it. And yet, what she’d said about hunting—it wasn’t the usual sentimental claptrap some ladies bleated on about. There was passion and fury beneath her convictions. Mistaken as they were.
She didn’t know what she was talking about. Get her out on that stallion of hers one crisp winter’s morning, with the hounds baying and the excitement of the chase alive in the air. He could just see her—
Hart stopped dead in the street, staring blankly into the shadows between two gaslights.
Hehadseen her. Dammit, it was some years ago, but now he’d made the connection, it was all coming back to him.
No wonder the sight of her galloping over the heath on that black horse of hers had nudged at the edge of his memory. It had puzzled him, that faint sense of recognition, because he knew very few youths, and the only jockeys he knew were his own. But that horse...
Now he remembered. He had seen her, met her—so to speak—one winter morning, three or four years ago.
He’d been avoiding Christmas, as usual. After his fatherdied, Christmas had become more unbearable than ever. Not because his mother was grieving—although of course she put on a fine show of it—but because his own grief was real and deep. And private.
Then, once he turned twenty-one, she’d started throwing eligible young ladies at him. Inviting them to house parties at Everingham Abbey. And enacting him tragedies when he showed no interest.
It was easier to stay away, so when Stretton, an old schoolfellow, had invited him to visit, promising some good hunting, Hart, of course, had accepted, taking the invitation at face value.
More fool he. It turned out that Stretton’s two unmarried sisters were the quarry he was expected to hunt. Hart had gravely disappointed them.
On New Year’s Day, an actual foxhunt was arranged, and that was when he’d first come across Lady Georgiana Rutherford. Not that he knew her name, or that she was a lady. He hadn’t even realized she was female.
The hunt had started well. It was a crisp, icy, glorious morning, and it hadn’t taken the hounds long to catch the scent of reynard. The chase was on.
Over hedges, across ditches, mud flying, cold air scouring his lungs, the baying of the hounds, the sound of the horn—this is what he lived for, why he adored hunting. His horse’s hooves shattered the thin layer of ice from the previous night’s frost, tossing up mud and the scent of the earth, a distant hint of summer hay, long dead but still sweet.
Utter exhilaration.
Then without warning... it all fell apart. The hounds stopped, scattered, distracted, the fox seemingly forgotten.
The master swore and threw down his whip in disgust. “One of these days I’ll murder that hell-born brat!” He’d shaken his fist in the direction of a boy sitting bareback on a young black stallion watching them from the crest of a hill. Relaxed, gleeful—his very pose expressed contempt.
Other men joined in. “I’d like to strangle the little wretch.”
“Needs a damn good thrashing!”
Stretton came puffing up to join Hart. “Oh, I say, not again. Bad show that.”
“What’s going on?” Hart asked him. The sudden cessation of the hunt had left him feeling hollow, yet keyed up, disappointed and frustrated.
“Local pest.” Stretton indicated the boy on the hill. “Makes a point of ruining every hunt possible.” He indicated the confusion of hounds. “Scatters food around, destroys the scent with smoked herring heads, even been known to blow false horn calls that confuse the hounds.” He shook his head in disgust. “Blasted fox will be well away now, dammit.”
“Why does nobody do anything to stop him?” Hart demanded, gazing at the bold figure on the hill. “Teach him a lesson in interfering with a gentleman’s pleasures.”
Stretton eyed him. “Why don’t you?”
“Dammit, I will.” And Hart urged his horse after a different quarry, an insolent boy riding a black horse, bareback.
He recalled the fury that drove him that day, his determination to catch the little wretch and give him a good hiding. The lad rode brilliantly, his horse was young and fleet, but like the boy, not quite into his full growth.
Hart’s horse was bigger and stronger and Hart gradually gained on him, the thrill of the chase firing his blood again.
He’d drawn alongside the lad and reached out to haul him from his mount. There was a struggle and they’d both come crashing down onto the muddy ground. The boy didn’t move and for a moment, Hart feared that he’d killed him.
But he’d only knocked the breath from his body, and when he took a great, gasping breath, and opened those dazzling smoke-colored eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes, Hart had realized what he’d done. Dragged a young girl off her horse and hurled her roughly to the ground.
He hadn’t known what to say. He was shocked. Appalled. Had no words to explain. He’d never laid a finger on any female, not in violence.
