LITMIR.BIZ

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rider out of the stable was the young master on a showy bay. It was Robert’s first real look at Frederica’s cousin. Clearly greener than grass and still with his mother’s milk on his lips, he was just the kind of youth dangling at the edges of society to be impressed with Lullington’s smooth style of address. Still, even the daring viscount would not dare gull the lad under his own roof.

      Bracewell jobbed at the horse’s mouth. It reared in protest. Its wicked flying hooves narrowly missed Pippin. Frederica manoeuvred neatly out of the way. ‘Take c-care, Simon.’

      Robert caught the bay’s bridle and soothed it with some whispered words. ‘Stirrup cup, sir?’ he asked Bracewell, who seemed unconscious that another had taken control of his mount.

      ‘Yes, by Jove. Good man.’ Simon beamed. ‘I say, Lullington. Good hunting weather, what?’

      ‘Is it?’ Lullington replied, looking up at the clear blue sky.

      ‘You wag,’ Bracewell said. ‘Always ribbing a fellow. What do you think, Maggie? Are you ready to take the first brush today?’

      Frederica winced, causing Pippin to dance sideways.

      Lullington, who had drawn close, caught her bridle. ‘Steady there,’ he said to the horse, his gaze fixed on Frederica. ‘My word, Miss Bracewell, you look simply ravishing this morning. I am quite determined not to leave your side—you present such a pretty picture.’

      Robert gritted his teeth and handed the last of the stirrup cups up to Bracewell. If he had known Lullington was to be ensconced under the same roof as Frederica, he might have whisked her off to Gretna Green and to hell with the consequences.

      No, he wouldn’t. Any more than Lullington would. The man was simply enjoying himself putting a pretty miss to the blush. Robert knew, because he’d done it himself. The last thing the viscount wanted was a wife as poor as himself.

      He just hoped Frederica would see through the viscount’s charm to the rake beneath.

      She hadn’t seen through Robert, though. The thought gave him a cold feeling in his chest.

      Gun over his shoulder, Weatherby marched into the courtyard and approached Bracewell with a touch to his hat. ‘Hunt is meeting at the Bull and Mouth, Master Simon. Ye’ve a half-hour to get there. Deveril here will send the beaters off ahead. You’ll have a good day’s sport, I promise ye.’

      Robert ran around, collecting the goblets from the riders.

      ‘We’re off,’ Maggie said, her face a picture of eagerness. ‘We don’t want to miss the start.’ She trotted out of the courtyard and down the drive, with Bracewell right behind.

      Frederica grimaced as if she’d like to miss the whole thing, but the viscount still retained his grip on her bridle. He gave it a jerk. The little gelding tossed his head, then broke into a canter with Lullington at Frederica’s side.

      Ire boiled in Robert’s gut. How dare he touch her horse? It was as if he’d taken possession. Robert kept a tight grip on his urge to shout a protest. Lullington couldn’t do her much harm if the party stayed together.

      When Frederica leaned back and gave the viscount’s black a sharp slap on the rump with her crop and the black took off at a gallop, he couldn’t hold back his smile. For all her appearance of frailty, his Frederica was a woman to be reckoned with.

      His? What the hell was he thinking? That was one thing she could never be. Not in any way, shape or form. And there were going to be no more midnight visits.

      He’d made certain. He still felt a sharp pain between his ribs every time he recalled the hurt look on her face. What if they could be friends, as she’d asked? Would it ever be enough? Would he be able to resist her appeal? Damnation, he missed her like the devil already.

      It wasn’t as if he’d seduced an innocent, he reminded himself, but there were different kinds of innocent. And she was the most vulnerable to a man like him.

      ‘Don’t stand there daydreaming,’ Weatherby growled. ‘Get off, lad. You need a half-hour start on the pack or they’ll overrun the fox before midday.’

      ‘We don’t want that,’ Robert said wryly and set off through the kitchen garden at a jog. He’d take the short cut and be gone from the inn long before the Wynchwood party appeared.

      The hounds and red-coated hunters streamed up Gallows Hill far ahead of Frederica and Maggie, but Frederica didn’t care.

      ‘Hurry up, Frederica,’ Maggie called back, twisting in her saddle. ‘We are falling behind.’

      That’s the idea, Frederica thought, but she urged Pippin to a greater burst of speed. The gelding, who’d fretted at being held back, took the bit and surged forwards. Frederica kept a sharp eye out for rabbit holes.

      Fortunately, her slow pace had annoyed Viscount Lullington. He’d galloped ahead, promising to return to see how she was doing the next time the hounds were at a stand.

      She caught Maggie up and matched Pippin’s speed to the chestnut. They rode side by side over the brow of the hill. Hopefully, they would not see her particular fox this morning.

      Far ahead, the hunt master blew the view halloo. It seemed her wish was not to be granted.

      ‘Here we go,’ Maggie yelled, her eyes brimming with excitement. ‘Come on, if you want to be in on the kill.’

      Ugh. ‘You go ahead. Pippin is lame. He must have picked up a stone. I will need to dismount and take a look.’

      Maggie gave a little grimace of disappointment. ‘I’ll send Lull or your cousin back to find you if you don’t catch us up.’

      Frederica waved her crop and watched Maggie fly off down the hill.

      Pippin’s ears pricked forwards. He strained at the bit.

      ‘I know, old fellow. But we don’t want to be there when they catch the fox. Wait a few minutes and then you can gallop.’

      A lady in dark green and two men in hunting pink, members of Mr Radthorn’s party whom she’d met at the village inn, straggled up to her. She waved them on. The last thing she needed was some well-meaning gentleman poking around in Pippin’s hooves. He’d soon realise her excuse was a hum.

      She had Pippin walk slowly down the hill, listening to the retreating sounds of baying hounds and the hunting horn. Leaning forwards, she patted her mount’s neck. ‘What do you think? Are they far enough ahead?’

      He tossed his head as if he understood every word.

      She laughed. ‘Very well.’ She dug her heel into his flank and he sprang forwards into a gallop, straining at the bit. Oh, dear. He seemed determined to catch the other horses. The hedge at the bottom of the hill came up fast. Too fast. She hauled on the reins, trying to turn his head. Too late. They were going to have to jump it. Not a good idea in a lady’s saddle.

      Her heart picked up speed. She eyed the closing distance, judged the horse’s pace and steadied herself. Not that the saddle provided much support.

      Pippin gathered himself. And they flew. She was going to make it. Beautiful jump. Clean. Clear. The horse landed. Frederica hit the saddle with a bump and jolted sideways. She was flying again. Straight at the ground.

      Ouch. She landed on her bottom. Hard. She couldn’t breathe. She’d crushed her ribs. Panicked, she clutched her chest. She couldn’t inhale. She was dying.

      ‘Steady,’ a deep voice said. ‘Take it easy.’

      A huge rush of air filled her lungs. Her head swam. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then Robert’s anxious face filled her vision. ‘Where are you hurt?’

      Grateful to feel the air sawing in and out of her lungs, she managed a weak smile. ‘Winded.’

      ‘Are you sure that is all?’ His hands, gentle, clinical, ran over her arms, legs, back. ‘Does it hurt when I

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