revealed things she had had no intention of revealing. It just seemed so natural to be with him, to share thoughts and ideas with him, that she inevitably slipped and said things that were at variance with her new identity.
She had to guard against him, and in more ways than one. It frightened her, the depths of passion he could provoke in her. She was afraid of what he made her feel. She found herself thinking about him when he wasn’t present, and when he was with her he absorbed her. She felt herself turning toward him as a flower turns and opens to the warmth of the sun. And she resisted.
She had been relieved to see him coming toward her in the roulette room. She had known he would stand between her and the unpleasant, persistent Lord Alden. And that was another danger. She mustn’t get
in the habit of looking to him for protection. All her life she had stood alone. She mustn’t lose her toughness now. Linton was handsome, and charming and considerate, but their relationship was only temporary. By March she would have enough money to pay off Mr. King.
Winchcombe would be clear and she could go home to her old life. She would be glad, she told herself sternly, when March finally arrived.
* * * *
She revealed more about herself at the Sevenoaks sale. When Linton called for her he was pleasantly surprised to find her dressed in boots and a warm gray pelisse that was distinctly unfashionable but admirably suited to a horse sale. She asked him about his own stables, something they had never discussed before, and he admitted that he occasionally raced his horses. “I wouldn’t mind picking up a likely mare,” he said. “We must keep our eyes out for one.”
There was quite a large crowd of people present, walking about the stables and examining the horses. It occurred to Jessica as she walked among them that it was going to prove difficult to resume her own identity and take her place in the horse world as a breeder when her face had become one of the most famous in London. Everyone there seemed to know who she was. Resolutely she beat down the thought, telling herself that people were quick to forget.
They met Mr. Romney, who was there with Sir Francis Rustington, a young man as enthusiastic and rich as he was, and the four of them went round the stables together. By the time they finished, Jessica’s status had risen from inconvenient female to resident expert. She didn’t say much, but what she did say was informative and to the point. After he watched her feel the legs and look into the mouth of a chestnut colt with professional competence, Mr. Romney burst out, “Where did you learn about horses. Miss O’Neill? You don’t miss anything.”
She looked at him kindly. “Why don’t you call me Jessica? I told you I was part Irish. I grew up with horses. Don’t buy this one, Mr. Romney.”
“Bertram,” he put in.
“Bertram,” she nodded gravely.“He looks all right, but his breeding is questionable. There’s speed there all right, but neither his sire nor his dam had any staying power at all. Much better to go with the dark bay.”
“The Tabard colt?” said Linton.
“Yes. If you can get him for a hundred guineas you’ve got a bargain.”
They moved toward the stableyard where the auction was going to take place and Linton asked “Did you see a mare for me?”
She flashed him a look. He had been very quiet on the stable rounds. The two younger men had not noticed, being full of comment themselves, but Jessica had.
“The same one you saw, I should imagine,” she returned composedly.
The faintest and briefest glimpse of a smile showed in his eyes. “The Dolphin filly?”
“The Dolphin filly.”
The filly they were speaking of was a big, deep-chested chestnut. Neither of them had mentioned her when they had observed her in the stall, and she had not attracted the attention of either Bertram Romney or his friend. Jessica said now, “Her dam was Classic Princess.”
Linton
She had to guard against him, and in more ways than one. It frightened her, the depths of passion he could provoke in her. She was afraid of what he made her feel. She found herself thinking about him when he wasn’t present, and when he was with her he absorbed her. She felt herself turning toward him as a flower turns and opens to the warmth of the sun. And she resisted.
She had been relieved to see him coming toward her in the roulette room. She had known he would stand between her and the unpleasant, persistent Lord Alden. And that was another danger. She mustn’t get
in the habit of looking to him for protection. All her life she had stood alone. She mustn’t lose her toughness now. Linton was handsome, and charming and considerate, but their relationship was only temporary. By March she would have enough money to pay off Mr. King.
Winchcombe would be clear and she could go home to her old life. She would be glad, she told herself sternly, when March finally arrived.
* * * *
She revealed more about herself at the Sevenoaks sale. When Linton called for her he was pleasantly surprised to find her dressed in boots and a warm gray pelisse that was distinctly unfashionable but admirably suited to a horse sale. She asked him about his own stables, something they had never discussed before, and he admitted that he occasionally raced his horses. “I wouldn’t mind picking up a likely mare,” he said. “We must keep our eyes out for one.”
There was quite a large crowd of people present, walking about the stables and examining the horses. It occurred to Jessica as she walked among them that it was going to prove difficult to resume her own identity and take her place in the horse world as a breeder when her face had become one of the most famous in London. Everyone there seemed to know who she was. Resolutely she beat down the thought, telling herself that people were quick to forget.
They met Mr. Romney, who was there with Sir Francis Rustington, a young man as enthusiastic and rich as he was, and the four of them went round the stables together. By the time they finished, Jessica’s status had risen from inconvenient female to resident expert. She didn’t say much, but what she did say was informative and to the point. After he watched her feel the legs and look into the mouth of a chestnut colt with professional competence, Mr. Romney burst out, “Where did you learn about horses. Miss O’Neill? You don’t miss anything.”
She looked at him kindly. “Why don’t you call me Jessica? I told you I was part Irish. I grew up with horses. Don’t buy this one, Mr. Romney.”
“Bertram,” he put in.
“Bertram,” she nodded gravely.“He looks all right, but his breeding is questionable. There’s speed there all right, but neither his sire nor his dam had any staying power at all. Much better to go with the dark bay.”
“The Tabard colt?” said Linton.
“Yes. If you can get him for a hundred guineas you’ve got a bargain.”
They moved toward the stableyard where the auction was going to take place and Linton asked “Did you see a mare for me?”
She flashed him a look. He had been very quiet on the stable rounds. The two younger men had not noticed, being full of comment themselves, but Jessica had.
“The same one you saw, I should imagine,” she returned composedly.
The faintest and briefest glimpse of a smile showed in his eyes. “The Dolphin filly?”
“The Dolphin filly.”
The filly they were speaking of was a big, deep-chested chestnut. Neither of them had mentioned her when they had observed her in the stall, and she had not attracted the attention of either Bertram Romney or his friend. Jessica said now, “Her dam was Classic Princess.”
Linton
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