Suitors and Sabotage(38)

Those steps took him to Lancelot.

Ben ran his hand over the horse’s legs and back and under his belly, checking the girth. All looked fine. Lancelot bumped him with his nose and went back to his grazing, still twitching.

Knowing that he was lucky, that the incident could have been so much worse, Ben was rather baffled as to why it had happened. It was most unusual for Lancelot to balk. The horse loved to jump.

Shaking his head, he shrugged, straightened his coat, and dusted off his shoulders. He found his hat, and as he straightened, his eye fell on the edge of the saddle pad and a small bump, indicating something underneath. Nothing should be underneath a saddle pad!

Reaching up gently, Ben touched the bump. Lancelot danced away, nickering. “Easy, boy, easy.” Ben tried to lift the pad but had to loosen the girth before he could raise it enough to get beneath. When he did, his fingers explored and found a burr—a small, prickly burr. He stared at it for some minutes, noticing the flecks of lint and horsehair caught up in the tiny spikes. He dropped it into his pocket and tightened the girth again—though not as taut this time. He would not get up on the saddle. There was likely a sore spot, bruise, or even a small cut where the burr had rubbed until Ben had made it unbearable by shifting his weight.

“Poor Lancelot. That’s no way to treat a fine creature like you, now is it?” Ben rubbed the long black nose thoughtfully and then reached for the reins again.

Strolling back up the lane, Ben retraced the route in a loping stride that in no way matched the fury coursing through his veins. He was glad of the long walk back to the manor; it allowed his rage to crest and ebb, settling into a deep, seething anger. Had he seen Jake or Percy before that, there would have been fisticuffs. Ernest would have joined the melee without question, and the mill would have seen them to the door posthaste. Ernest would have lost his ladylove because of Ben’s temper—being in the right would not make a difference.

Once through the gates, around the curves, and across the bridge, Ben spied the Shackleford towers through the trees; he did not hurry but allowed the tranquillity around him to erode his anger. While he ascended the hill, he heard a great roar of approval, cheering, and clapping. It would seem the race was won.

Within moments, a figure in skirts appeared at the top of the hill and quickly approached. As Emily got closer, her worried expression provided another salve to Ben’s mood. By the time they were near enough to speak, Ben was once again a clear-thinking gentleman—a clear-thinking gentleman who had every intention of seeing burrs stuck to the backsides of two empty-headed sots who deserved to be thrown into a gutter of sewage.…

“Benjamin. Benjamin, are you all right? You look quite terrible,” Emily said as she rushed toward him. Then she quickly added, “A wounded knight sort of terrible, of course. Looking brave and—”

“I am fine, thank you, Emily. Might look a little worse for wear, but I will be able to put most of it to rights with some soap and water.” Then he took a deep breath. He did not want to shout his next words; the burr was not her fault. “Our miscreants have been at it again. Quite adaptable, these fellows. And cavalier. Thought nothing of putting a burr under Lancelot’s saddle pad.”

Emily stopped and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh good Lord, no. You could have been killed.”

“Or Lancelot could have broken a leg. It was an idiotic and perilous thing to do.”

“That’s it! I will have them here no longer.” She whirled around as if she were going to march up the hill and have it out with Percy and Jake once and for all.

This was something Ben planned to do, and had been planning to do since he found the burr. Forgetting himself, he touched her arm to garner her attention. Emily gasped and whirled around. They were now standing very close together.… And Emily had closed her eyes.

Leaning into him, she lifted her mouth, and Ben forgot why he was angry. Suddenly he was confused; he knew Emily was hoping he would kiss her, and the thought was tempting, but they were standing in an open field where anyone could see. He shifted to look around her and waved casually to the group waiting at the top of the hill.

“Emily. Emily!” he whispered sharply in desperation. “Smile at the family.”

Her eyes flew open, and she stared at him with wide eyes. “Are they watching?”

“Indeed.” Ben lifted his cheeks, shifted, and waved again.

“Oh dear.”

“Exactly.”

Doing as he had suggested, Emily slowly turned and waved … while heaving a heavy sigh. “Please don’t thrash Jake, Benjamin. I know he deserves it, but Imogene pointed out that he is not himself right now. He is still grieving.”

“And Percy’s excuse?”

“He has none. Thrash away.”

“Thank you. I think I will.”





chapter 10


In which enthusiasm for an idyllic respite by the lake is thoroughly dampened

The climb up the hill was neither arduous nor overlong; it was, however, unpleasant because they were watched the entire length. As Ben and Emily drew nearer, laughter could be heard, carried on the wind. Percy’s and Jake’s guffaws carried the best—though Ben might have been a tad oversensitive. He found the sound markedly irksome.

Once at the top of the incline, the families stood back so that Ben might lead Lancelot to the stables. There was a great deal of meaningless chatter around him; he ignored all until he entered the yard and a groom stepped forward. Passing him the reins, Ben requested that the coachman see to the horse’s loin.