initially—
perfectly legitimately—felt at his outburst was fading, only to be replaced by a soupcon of alarm. This was the man she might shortly marry.
Behind his terse words, his almost violent movements, she'd glimpsed a temper as fiery as hers. To her mind, that counted in his favor—she'd much rather deal with a fire-eater than a man with ice in his veins. It was his possible—now likely—attitude to her riding that filled her with concern. In the two years she'd lived in England, this country of reserve, riding had been her only outlet for the wildness that was an integral part of her soul.
An integral part of her —if she didn't release it, exercise it now and then, she'd go mad. And as a proper young lady in England, riding like the wind was the wildest activity permissible. What if her husband—he whom she would vow to obey and who would have control over all aspects of her life—forbade her to ride? To ride wildly—for her, they were one and the same. She could see the problem looming, yet before she fell, she hadn't imagined his enthusiasm. She hadn't forgotten their mutual exhilaration, the shared enjoyment. He'd reveled in the wildness as much as she. The gates of the Hall appeared ahead; as they slowed,
Francesca shot him a glance. He was frowning. In a way that boded her no good.
"What?"
His gaze flicked to her, still aggravated, still stormy. "I'm considering riding in to inform Sir Charles you shouldn't be riding his hunters."
"No!"
"Yes!" The chestnut jibbed; ruthlessly, he steadied it. "You're an exceptional rider—I won't deny that—
but you don't have the strength to manage hunters. If you must run wild, you'd do better on an Arab, a mare. Something fleet and nimble, but more responsive to your guidance. You on the grey—or that bay you rode yesterday—if the horse bolts, you won't be able to control it." She met his gaze with muted belligerence, unwilling to be bullied. Unfortunately, in this case, she knew he was right. If one of Charles's hunters got away from her, all she'd be able to do was cling and pray. Their gazes remained locked, both gauging, assessing the shifting possibilities… "All right." Looking down, she gathered her reins. "I'll speak with Charles."
"Do that." His tone was just short of an order. "No more hunters." He paused, his gaze still on her face.
"So you promise…?"
She threw him a glance that had a warning blazoned in it. "I promise I'll talk to Charles tonight." He nodded. "In that case, I'll leave you here."
He hesitated, then swept her a bow that was the essence of elegant grace—on horseback, a feat not to be sneered at. With a last look, he wheeled the chestnut and cantered down the lane. Francesca considered his departing back, then, lips curving in an appreciative smile, she turned the grey down the drive.
Her would-be husband had redeemed himself. She'd expected him to make a push to forbid her to run wild, even though he'd enjoyed the wildness, too. Understood it, too, it seemed; he'd been clever enough to avoid the pitfall. Considering his tack, she noted that he'd seemed primarily concerned with her safety.
Pondering that, she trotted to the stable.
Later that night, clutching a woolen shawl about her nightgown, Francesca climbed onto her window seat and settled among the cushions.
For the past year, she'd been searching for a suitable husband, looking to make a respectable marriage. She'd been raised with that as her goal; she'd looked forward to having a husband, a home, and a family for as long as she could recall. She knew what she wanted from life. To be happy, contented, she needed a relationship much as her parents' had been—a fusion of deep passion and abiding love. Without that, her life would not be complete; it was her destiny—she'd known that for years. Within four months of putting off her blacks, she'd realized she wasn't going to find her destiny in the neighborhood of Rawlings Hall.
When she'd first suggested going
perfectly legitimately—felt at his outburst was fading, only to be replaced by a soupcon of alarm. This was the man she might shortly marry.
Behind his terse words, his almost violent movements, she'd glimpsed a temper as fiery as hers. To her mind, that counted in his favor—she'd much rather deal with a fire-eater than a man with ice in his veins. It was his possible—now likely—attitude to her riding that filled her with concern. In the two years she'd lived in England, this country of reserve, riding had been her only outlet for the wildness that was an integral part of her soul.
An integral part of her —if she didn't release it, exercise it now and then, she'd go mad. And as a proper young lady in England, riding like the wind was the wildest activity permissible. What if her husband—he whom she would vow to obey and who would have control over all aspects of her life—forbade her to ride? To ride wildly—for her, they were one and the same. She could see the problem looming, yet before she fell, she hadn't imagined his enthusiasm. She hadn't forgotten their mutual exhilaration, the shared enjoyment. He'd reveled in the wildness as much as she. The gates of the Hall appeared ahead; as they slowed,
Francesca shot him a glance. He was frowning. In a way that boded her no good.
"What?"
His gaze flicked to her, still aggravated, still stormy. "I'm considering riding in to inform Sir Charles you shouldn't be riding his hunters."
"No!"
"Yes!" The chestnut jibbed; ruthlessly, he steadied it. "You're an exceptional rider—I won't deny that—
but you don't have the strength to manage hunters. If you must run wild, you'd do better on an Arab, a mare. Something fleet and nimble, but more responsive to your guidance. You on the grey—or that bay you rode yesterday—if the horse bolts, you won't be able to control it." She met his gaze with muted belligerence, unwilling to be bullied. Unfortunately, in this case, she knew he was right. If one of Charles's hunters got away from her, all she'd be able to do was cling and pray. Their gazes remained locked, both gauging, assessing the shifting possibilities… "All right." Looking down, she gathered her reins. "I'll speak with Charles."
"Do that." His tone was just short of an order. "No more hunters." He paused, his gaze still on her face.
"So you promise…?"
She threw him a glance that had a warning blazoned in it. "I promise I'll talk to Charles tonight." He nodded. "In that case, I'll leave you here."
He hesitated, then swept her a bow that was the essence of elegant grace—on horseback, a feat not to be sneered at. With a last look, he wheeled the chestnut and cantered down the lane. Francesca considered his departing back, then, lips curving in an appreciative smile, she turned the grey down the drive.
Her would-be husband had redeemed himself. She'd expected him to make a push to forbid her to run wild, even though he'd enjoyed the wildness, too. Understood it, too, it seemed; he'd been clever enough to avoid the pitfall. Considering his tack, she noted that he'd seemed primarily concerned with her safety.
Pondering that, she trotted to the stable.
Later that night, clutching a woolen shawl about her nightgown, Francesca climbed onto her window seat and settled among the cushions.
For the past year, she'd been searching for a suitable husband, looking to make a respectable marriage. She'd been raised with that as her goal; she'd looked forward to having a husband, a home, and a family for as long as she could recall. She knew what she wanted from life. To be happy, contented, she needed a relationship much as her parents' had been—a fusion of deep passion and abiding love. Without that, her life would not be complete; it was her destiny—she'd known that for years. Within four months of putting off her blacks, she'd realized she wasn't going to find her destiny in the neighborhood of Rawlings Hall.
When she'd first suggested going
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