LITMIR.BIZ

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a delight in moss-green velvet, the long skirts of her habit brushing tan boots. On her guinea-gold curls perched a typically feminine contraption; he knew she’d call it a hat, but to his mind the wisp of fabric anchoring a pheasant’s feather hardly qualified for the title. Turning, he lifted a brow at Percy mounted on a bay gelding beside him. “Shall we?”

      Percy started; his abstracted gaze, very likely visualizing the rival merits of herringbone and country plaid, rapidly refocused. “What? Oh, yes. ’Bout time.”

      Jack smiled and led the way forward, out of the shadows of the firs.

      Pulling up on the crest of the hill, then wheeling her horse to view her cousins, straggling up in her wake, Sophie did not immediately see him. Clarissa, who had reached the spot some moments ahead of her, had likewise turned to view the vista spread below them. Stone walls and still-dormant hedges divided the brown fields, their colour just tinged with the first hint of green. Jeremy and George, fourteen and twelve respectively, were but yards from the top; Amy, bouncing along on her placid cob, brought up the rear. The twins, yet to graduate from plodding ponies, were not included in these afternoon expeditions.

      Reassured that all was well, Sophie relaxed her reins. Eyes bright, cheeks aglow, she drew in a deep breath, savouring the crisp freshness.

      “Well met, Miss Winterton!”

      The hail brought her head round; the deep voice sent the colour to her cheeks even before her eyes found him. He was mounted on a raking black hunter, sleek and powerful. As the animal walked towards her, neck proudly arched, black withers rippling, Sophie was struck by its harnessed power. Then her eyes lifted to its owner.

      Broad shoulders encased in a hacking jacket of soft tweed, his powerful thighs, clad in buckskin breeches, effortlessly controlling the horse, he appeared the very epitome of a wealthy country gentleman. His face, features stamped with that coolly arrogant cast which identified his antecedents more definitively than his name. His eyes were very blue, dark, his gaze intent.

      There was power there, too. As he brought his horse alongside hers, Sophie felt it reach for her.

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Lester.” She forced herself to extend a gloved hand, disconcerted by the warmth that caressed her cheeks and the breathlessness that had assailed her.

      He took her hand and bowed over it, a difficult feat he performed with rare grace. His eyes quizzed her. “We saw you riding up and wondered if we might join you?”

      “What a splendid idea!” From beside Sophie, Clarissa beamed ingenuously.

      Feeling slightly helpless, Sophie could not resist the subtle laughter lurking in the blue eyes holding hers. Very much on her dignity, she retrieved her hand and indicated the track leading on over the hill. “If it pleases you, sir.”

      The smile she received in reply warmed her through and through.

      Jack gestured to Percy, hanging back on his other side. “If you’ll permit me to introduce Lord Percy Almsworthy?”

      “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winterton.”

      Prepared to be wary, Sophie saw at a glance that Lord Percy was sprung from a mould quite different from his companion. Reassured, she smiled and held out a hand.

      As he leant from the saddle to shake it, she thought she detected a look of keen appraisal in Lord Percy’s mild gaze. “M’father’s Carlisle,” he said, giving her a peg on which to hang his hat.

      Sophie dutifully introduced her cousins, in strict order of precedence. Jeremy and George barely waited for Amy’s shy “Hello,” before pouncing.

      “What a bang-up set of blood and bones, sir!”

      “Splendid hocks!”

      “What stable does he hail from?”

      “Is he a Thoroughbred?”

      Jack laughed. “My brother bred him out of Jack Whistle.”

      “The winner of the Derby?” Jeremy’s expression mirrored his awestruck tone.

      Jack’s eyes touched Sophie’s. “The very same.”

      “Is your brother staying with you?” Gerald asked breathlessly.

      Jack couldn’t help his smile. “He was, but he’s gone on to Belvoir.”

      “Oh.” Both boys appeared crestfallen that they had missed the opportunity to badger a breeder who could turn out such a horse as the black.

      “Never mind,” Jack said. His eyes again met Sophie’s. “I’ll mention to him that you’re interested in speaking with him, it’s perfectly possible you may meet in him in Hyde Park.”

      “On Rotten Row?” George’s eyes were round.

      When Jack nodded, Jeremy put their seal of approval firmly on the plan. He breathed out in a great sigh, his face alight. “Capital!”

      Then, with the rapid change of direction that characterised the young, Jeremy turned to George. “Race you to the oak.” They were off on the words, thundering down the slope towards the distant tree.

      As by unvoiced consent they set their horses ambling after the two boys, Sophie glanced up at Jack. “You’ll have to excuse them—they’re rather single-minded when it comes to horses.”

      Jack slanted her a smile. “Harry and I were the same.”

      Sophie let her glance slide away. She could hear Clarissa and Lord Percy conversing; they were only a step or so behind. It was true they had no real chaperon, yet she could not imagine there was any impropriety in the situation; the presence of the children lent a certain innocence to the gathering.

      Jack had only just registered the absence of a groom. He suppressed an instinctive frown. “Tell me, Miss Winterton, do you commonly ride unescorted?”

      Glancing up, Sophie caught the frown in his eyes. Her brows rose. “All my cousins are expert riders; there’s little chance of calamity in a gentle ride about the lanes.”

      “The lanes?”

      Sophie had the grace to blush. “You can hardly expect such high spirits—” she indicated Jeremy and George “—to be content with such mild entertainment.” Somewhat defensively, she added, “Clarissa and I are experienced riders, and Amy’s cob is so ancient it rarely gets above a canter.”

      That last was self-evident as Amy, not content with their ambling progress, was jigging along ahead of them as fast as the cob would go. Barely a canter, much to Amy’s disgust.

      “Besides, sir,” Sophie added, slanting a glance up at him, “I cannot believe that you and your brother—Harry, was it not?—would have been content with the lanes.”

      To her surprise, Jack’s lips firmed into a distinctly grim line. “Indeed, no, Miss Winterton. Which is why I feel peculiarly well-qualified to express an opinion on what disasters are possible—nay, probable—given two high-couraged youngsters on fine horses.” He turned from his contemplation of the boys, now circling the oak ahead, to look down at her. “And,” he added, “which is why I think you should most certainly have a groom with you.”

      A trifle nettled, Sophie reached down to pat the proud neck of her own mount, a raw-boned grey stallion. “You need have no fear of them getting away from me. Few horses can outrun the Sheik.”

      Her action drew Jack’s gaze to her horse; until then, despite his frequent preoccupation with the species, he had not really noticed it. As his gaze took in the large head, the long legs and heavy shoulders and rump, he felt the hairs on his nape rise. Despite the fact he had heard the warning note in her voice, despite knowing she would not welcome his question, he cleared his throat and asked it. “Do you normally ride that beast, Miss Winterton?”

      His curiously flat tone had Sophie glancing up, searching his face. “No,” she admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. “My uncle’s stables

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