Regency Historical - Love And The Single Heiress Part 8

"I enjoy mythology. Milton said you were in your bedchamber."

"I was, but only long enough to change into riding clothes. I felt the need for some fresh air."

A feeling she could well understand, especially as it seemed someone had sucked all the air from the stables.

He opened the stall door and smiled. "Would you care to join us?"

Even as her mind told her to decline, her feet moved forward. She entered the stall and ran her hand over Venus's satiny nose. The horse nickered and pushed affectionately against her palm.

"She's a beautiful animal," Mr. Stanton said, picking up the brush once again.

"Thank you. Did you ride her?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. She loves to run."

Silence swelled between them as Catherine watched him glide the brush over Venus's glossy chestnut back.

Her attention was riveted on the tensile strength of his arms and the way the linen of his s.h.i.+rt pulled across his chest with each long stroke.

"How was your visit with your friend?"

Her gaze snapped back to his, and she experienced the unsettling sensation that he was aware she'd been watching him. "Fine. And your visit with Spencer?"

"Very nice indeed. He's an exceptional young man."

There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice or his eyes, and some of the tension left her shoulders. Running her fingers through Venus's brown mane, she smiled at him across the horse's back. "Thank you. I'm very proud of him."

"As well you should be. He's very intelligent and remarkably mature."

"He excels at his studies. His tutor, Mr. Winthrop, is in Brighton, visiting his family as he does for a month every summer. Yet even during his absence, Spencer reads avidly. As for his maturity, I suppose some of it stems from the fact that he spends all his time with adults."

She watched him as she spoke, noting how he did not waste a single stroke, and except for the sheen of exertion dampening his skin, appeared tireless. "Venus tends to be skittish around strangers," she remarked. "You obviously have a way with horses."

"No doubt because I spent my youth working in stables."

Catherine blinked at this bit of news. "I did not know that."

He glanced at her, and she had to clench her hands to keep from reaching out to brush back the silky ebony hair spilling across his forehead. d.a.m.nation, he should not look so appealing. If she were sweaty, rumpled, with her hair in disarray and scented with horse, she wouldn't look in the least appealing.

"There is a great deal we don't know about each other, Lady Catherine," he said softly.

His voice, his words, flowed over her like warmed honey, filling her with the unsettling realization that he was right. And the even-more-unsettling realization that she wanted to know more about him. Everything about him. She hadn't ever thought of what his life in America had been like. Clearly he came from humble beginnings if he'd worked in a stable. Surely that wasn't a fact she should find so interesting. And obviously he'd had a family there. Friends. Women...

Which certainly wasn't a fact she should find so disturbing.

"I am hopeful we can remedy that and become better acquainted during my stay," he added.

The distressing and alarming realization suddenly dawned that she harbored that very same hope. Adopting her briskest tone, she said, "But we already have become better acquainted, Mr. Stanton. Thus far we have learned that we have very little in common and hold diametrically opposed opinions on a number of subjects."

Instead of looking offended, one corner of his mouth curved upward in clear amus.e.m.e.nt. "Such a pessimistic view, Lady Catherine. But whereas you choose to view the gla.s.s as half-empty, I prefer to see it as half-full. While our literary tastes may differ-"

"-Drastically differ."

He inclined his head in agreement. "We do both enjoy reading. And we agree that your son is a fine young man. And that Venus is an exceptional horse."

"Yes, well, I'm certain we could also agree that the sky is blue, the gra.s.s green, and my hair brown."

"Actually, right now the sky is streaked with crimson and gold, the gra.s.s is better described as emerald, and your hair..."

His voice trailed off, and his gaze s.h.i.+fted to her hair, making her suddenly conscious of the fact that she'd left the house without her bonnet.

"The lovely chestnut color of your hair, the richness of the deep golds and subtle reds layered through the strands, is not well served when described as merely 'brown. '" He slowly reached out, and a heated tingle of antic.i.p.ation raced through her. His fingers brushed just above her ear, halting her breath.

"Except for this," he said, holding out a piece of hay pinched between his thumb and index finger. "This can be described as brown, although I must tell you, I believe most ladies prefer to decorate their hair with ribbons."

Catherine sucked in a breath and clenched her teeth in annoyance, although she could not decide if she were more annoyed at him for throwing her so off-balance, at herself for allowing him to do so, or at him for not appearing the least bit off-balance. Well, clearly she was more annoyed at him as she had two reasons.

"And,"he added, "we clearly share a love of horses... do we not?"

"I can't deny I love them." She threw him an arch look. "Horses never argue with you."

He threw an equally arch look right back at her. "No, they never do." He walked around Venus to stand beside her. She inhaled sharply and caught a pleasing whiff of sandalwood.

"Our last conversations seem to have ended... awkwardly," he said, "and I feel bad about it. Can we call a truce?"

Dear Lord, she didn't want to call a truce at all. She wanted to summon up the irritation she'd felt toward him, which was far preferable to this heated, almost painful awareness of him. Of his strength. And height. And compelling eyes. And the sight of him, rumpled, the strong, tanned column of his neck visible where he'd removed his cravat.

When had their relations.h.i.+p taken this unsettling turn? She didn't know, but she dearly wished she could retravel that road and avoid the disastrous detour she'd somehow taken. "I seem to recall asking you something similar," she said.

"Yes. Although I suspected you really wanted my complete surrender."

"And is that what you want, Mr. Stanton? My complete surrender?"

Something flickered in his eyes. "Are you offering it, Lady Catherine?"

He hadn't moved, yet somehow it seemed as if he'd drawn closer to her, and she took an involuntary step backward. Then another. Her back b.u.mped into the rough, wooden wall.

"Today's Modern Woman does not surrender, Mr. Stanton. If the occasion calls for it, she may consider a graceful capitulation."

"I see. But only if the occasion calls for it."

"Precisely."

"Well then." He stepped forward, stopping less than an arm's length away. He looked down at her, his eyes filled with something she couldn't read, along with a hint of unmistakable amus.e.m.e.nt.

Amus.e.m.e.nt? Aggravating man. How dared he be amused when she was so... unamused. Out of sorts. And d.a.m.nation, breathless by his nearness. She pressed herself harder against the wall, but compensated for her cowardice by raising her chin a notch.

He reached out and captured her hand in his, and her breath backed up in her throat at the sensation of his skin touching hers. She detected the roughness of calluses and realized she'd never been touched by hands like his- hands that did not bear the softness of a gentleman's. Her hand looked pale and small and fragile against the tanned strength of his, yet his touch, while strong, was infinitely gentle. She watched, transfixed, as he slowly raised her hand to his mouth.

"I don't believe I've ever witnessed a graceful capitulation, Lady Catherine. I shall look forward to it-should the occasion arise." The words whispered over her skin, stunning her with a flash of heat. Then, with his gaze on hers, he pressed a warm kiss to her fingertips.

Oh, my. The sensation of his mouth touching her fingers sizzled pure pleasure up her arm. Before she could recover her breath, he lowered her hand and released it, and she pressed her lips together to contain her disappointment.

His touch was... lovely. Gentle, yet with an underlying intensity that made her feel as if her skirts had caught fire. It had been so very long since a man had touched her. Yet she hadn't realized that she'd missed it so very much until just now. And never had a touch inspired such a blaze of heat...

Catherine gave herself a mental shake. Good heavens, this wouldn't do at all. She surrept.i.tiously wiped her fingers on her gown in a vain attempt to remove the provocative feel of his lips from her skin. "I cannot imagine such an occasion arising, Mr. Stanton."

He had the nerve to smile. "Hope springs eternal, Lady Catherine."

Humph. The best thing clearly was for her to retreat and remove herself from his disturbing presence. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Stanton..."She turned and walked toward the stall door. "I'll see you at dinner."

Instead of merely letting her leave, he reached out and opened the stall door for her. Not about to let him ruin her perfect exit, she swept through the opening like a s.h.i.+p under full sail.

He immediately fell into step beside her. "I've finished grooming Venus, and as there is something I need to discuss with you, I'd be happy to escort you back to the house." She bit the inside of her cheeks. She had no desire to discuss anything with this vexing man. Vexing. She instantly brightened. Yes, he was vexing. Irritating. She could not, would not, find such a man attractive. Perhaps she should engage him in conversation regarding the Guide so as not to forget exactly how irritating and vexing he was. To remind herself how little they had in common. Because she somehow seemed constantly to forget.

Marching from the stables, she struck out for the house at a brisk pace, intent upon her plan of retreat.

He not only kept up with her easily, but looked as if he were just strolling along while doing so.

"Are we late?" he asked.

"Late?"

"Based on the speed of your gait, which quite resembles a gallop, by the way, I was wondering if we were perhaps late for dinner."

"I enjoy a brisk walk. It is, um, very good for the const.i.tution."

"You are clearly feeling better. Is your arm hurting?"

"Only faintly. What did you wish to discuss with me?"

"When do you plan to tell Spencer what happened?"

"Why do you ask?"

"He asked me this afternoon if something had upset you in London. Clearly he sensed something in your

manner." "What did you tell him?" "That our journey to Little Longstone had exhausted you." "Which is true." "Yes, but it wasn't the truth, and I did not like being less than honest with him. I'd like to know when you plan to tell him, as I wouldn't want to mention the incident to him before you've done so."

"I would prefer that you not mention it at all."

She felt, and ignored, the weight of his stare. "Surely you intend to tell him what happened."

"What would be the point? He'd only worry needlessly."

"But what if he finds out from someone else? Your father. Or Philip, whom your father has most likely

notified. Or Meredith."

d.a.m.nation, the man had a point, and about something that was none of his business, which only served to vex her further. "I agree that the news should come from me-if I decide to tell him. Therefore, I shall write to Father and Philip and ask them not to mention the incident."

"I fully understand your concern for your son, indeed it is admirable. Still, don't you think Spencer would prefer the truth-especially since you can a.s.sure him you're going to make a full recovery? I believe he deserves as much. A lad on the brink of manhood does not appreciate being treated like a child."

"When did you become an expert on children, Mr. Stanton-and my child in particular?"

"Actually, I know nothing about children, except that I once was one."

"So you consider this the voice of experience speaking?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. No one likes being lied to."

She halted, swung around to face him, and treated him to her most glacial stare. "As much as I'm excruciatingly grateful for your unsolicited advice, I really think / know how best to handle this situation. Spencer is my child, Mr. Stanton. You barely know him. I've raised him alone- and without interference-from the moment he was born. If I decide to tell Spencer, I will do so in my own way, when we have a quiet moment together, so as to minimize his worry."

He said nothing for several seconds, just stood, the breeze blowing his hair, his gaze steady on hers in a way that made her want to squirm and perhaps examine her behavior, but she feared it would not hold up well to intense scrutiny. After all, hadn't she been living a lie these last months regarding her connection to the Ladies' Guide? And she was increasingly, uncomfortably aware that something about this man affected her behavior in ways she didn't understand. And wasn't certain she liked.

Finally, he inclined his head. "Spencer was already worried about you. And it bothered me to step around the issue with him. I well recall how difficult it was to be a boy that age. No longer a child, not yet an adult. I knew I was capable of much more than anyone gave me credit for, and I think perhaps Spencer is as well. However, I offer my apologies. I meant no offense."

"Indeed? I suppose then that you thought I'd consider it a compliment to be called a liar?" She shoved aside her inner voice that whispered you are a liar.

"I did not intend to call you such."

"What was your intention?"

"Merely to encourage you to tell him what happened. As soon as possible."

"Very well, Mr. Stanton. Consider me encouraged." She raised her brows. "Now, is there anything else you feel we need to discuss?"

He blew out a breath and raked a hand through his hair in a gesture of clear frustration. Good. Why on earth should she be the only one out of sorts? "Only that I'm not certain how another conversation has deteriorated into an argument."

" 'Tis no mystery, Mr. Stanton. It is because you are opinionated, irritating, and altogether aggravating."

"A statement that is very much like the lake calling the ocean 'wet,' Lady Catherine."

She opened her mourn to respond, but he touched his index finger to her lips, effectively cutting off her words.