Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(32)

“So then you’re here to enjoy yourself. The house parties? The rounds of calls? The balls?”

“All of it.” She indicated the scenery as she patted the neck of her mount. “But, actually, that’s a lie.”

“Why?”

“I don’t enjoy it all.”

“No?”

“I hate riding side-saddle.”

He gave her a rueful grin. A memory of the London cartoon of her on horseback flashed through his mind. “You don’t look uncomfortable.” You look delicious in that midnight-blue riding coat and white stock.

“I prefer my western saddle. How does a woman ever ride to hounds like this? She’d be hanging over the side like a ham in a smokehouse.”

“I cannot tell you,” he said, her humor tickling him. “I’ve never done it.”

“Men should. They’d have more compassion for the weaker sex.”

“You’re not weak,” he said with conviction.

She eyed him for a long moment then faced forward. “I’m getting stronger every day.”

“Bravo. I think you should ride as you wish.”

That brought her around to him, surprise and delight curving her lovely lips. “Here?”

“Why not?”

She snorted. “I’d be a scandal.”

“You’d be a woman to reckon with.”

“One to avoid.”

“Try it.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t. There’s no place. Not in London in the middle of Rotten Row in broad daylight.”

She’d look splendid in moonlight. “Ride at night.”

“That’s not—”

“Possible?” he objected. “Of course, it is.”

“Oh, no. I can’t take the chance. Not here. Carbury’s stable boys would talk. Or his butler. I’d be the brunt of more cartoons. I hated that. So, no, thank you.”

“Ride with me then.”

She frowned at him with such incredulity he was sure she questioned his sanity.

“My estate is through those trees.” He inclined his head toward the east. “My stable, too. And I have a stable hand who would never breathe a word about a lady’s riding habits.”

She shook her head. “You’re serious?”

“Quite.”

She bit her lower lip. “Why?”

Because I long to see you with stars in your eyes, your hair down around your shoulders, naked. He inhaled. She should spur that horse to a gallop. Run far away. Now. “I’d like to please you. Make you smile.”

For a fraction of a second, her blue eyes softened. But she blinked. “If I were discovered, I’d be ruined.”

“I’d guard against that.”

“Your intentions would be—”

“Honorable? Of course, they would.” He shifted in his saddle, his animal intentions totally shameful. He had only to look at her and he was entranced by her eyes. He had only to speak with her and he applauded her forthrightness. Her spontaneity, her humor undid him. The closer he got to her, the more she refreshed him.

“How do I know? What assurances would I have?”

“That I not touch you?” How could I not?

“That you wouldn’t spread rumors about me.”

“Why would I?” When I want you for myself. “I’d suffer no gain if I’d be known to have hurt you.”

“So we’d be house guests who ride together?”

“Friends who ride together,” he corrected her.

“Conspirators,” she breathed, her face alight with devilry. “Oh, superb. How could we do this?”





Chapter Seven


Would the afternoon and evening never end?

Lily sighed, accepting a glass of sherry from a footman as they awaited the bells to go into dinner. Pinkie stood beside her, having maneuvered his way to her to discuss horses.

She liked him, tall and blond and full of life. Gay, too. But becoming a bit of a bore now that she had a chance to enjoy Julian’s company.

“I should like to invite you to view my Arabian,” he said in his clipped British accent. He had a habit to speak so rapidly that she had to concentrate to understand him. “A house party.”

“House party?” she asked, like a loon.

“You’d like his looks.”

“Whose?” She was searching for Julian. Where was he?

“My prize horse.”

“Horse. Arabian. Right. I know cutting horses, my lord. You’d have to tell me what to appreciate in him.”

“I would educate you, never fear. I say, are you well? You’re squinting at me.”

Oh, blast your rapid fire, sir. “Very well. Fine. Perfectly. Thank you. Do go on.”

She spotted Julian enter across the room, his dark eyes sadder than a wet hound dog’s as Hilda Berghoff presented herself at his elbow. Stifling a laugh, Lily focused on Pinkie who rambled on about his “superb creature” who would win him races and purses.

Lily could care less. She preferred to dream of riding with Julian. The dangers were many and could be disastrous, even enduring. Still she yearned for the excitement of it. More minutes with him. Alone. And to ride freely. Of course.