It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(35)

CHAPTER 8

Before Westcliff could react, Lillian dug her heel into Starlight’s side and leaned over the saddle, her weight shifting to accommodate his sudden leap forward. The horse rallied at once, taking off at a full gallop. Clenching her thighs around the sidesaddle’s pommels, Lillian felt her position weaken, her body pivoting as a result of what she was later to learn had been a “grip seat” that was a bit too tight. Gamely she adjusted the change in her hips’ orientation just as Starlight approached the jump. She felt the rise of his forelegs and the tremendous force of his hindquarters pushing from the ground, giving her the momentary exhilaration of flying over the triangular barrier. As they landed, however, she had to fight for her seat, taking most of the impact on her right thigh and causing an unpleasant stinging pull. Still, she had done it, and very credibly.

Bringing the horse around with a triumphant smile, Lillian was aware of the surprised gazes of the assembled riders, who were no doubt wondering what had prompted the impulsive jump. All of a sudden she was startled by a blur of dark color beside her and a thunder of hooves. Confused, she had no opportunity to protest or defend herself as she was literally snatched from the saddle and thrown across a brutally hard surface. Dangling helplessly across Westcliff’s rock-solid thighs, she was carried several yards away before he stopped the horse, dismounted, and dragged her to the ground with him. Her shoulders were caught in a bruising grip, and Westcliff’s livid face was just inches from her own.

“Did you think to convince me of something with that asinine display?” he growled, giving her a brief shake. “The use of my horses is a privilege that I extend to my guests—a privilege you have just lost. From now on, don’t even think of setting so much as a foot in the stables, or I will personally boot you off the estate.”

White-faced with a rage that matched his, Lillian answered in a low, shaking voice. “Take your hands off me, you son of a bitch.” To her satisfaction, she saw his eyes narrow at the profanity. But his painful grasp did not ease, and his breathing deepened to aggressive surges, as if he longed to do her violence. As her defiant gaze was imprisoned by his, she felt a searing charge of energy pass between them, an undirected physical impulse that made her want to strike him, hurt him, sink to the ground and roll with him in an outright brawl. No man had ever maddened her so. As they stood there glaring at each other, bristling with hostility, the heat between them increased until they were both flushed and quickened. Neither of them was aware of the congregation of dumbfounded onlookers in the near distance— they were too enmeshed in mutual antagonism.

A silky masculine voice interrupted their silent, lethal communion, slicing skillfully through the tension. “Westcliff …you didn’t tell me that you would be providing entertainment, or I would have come out here earlier.”

“Don’t interfere, St. Vincent,” Westcliff snapped.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. I merely wanted to compliment you on the way you’re handling the situation. Very diplomatic. Suave, even.”

The gentle sarcasm caused the earl to release Lillian roughly. She staggered back a step, and was immediately caught at the waist by a pair of deft hands. Bemused, she looked up into the remarkable face of Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent, the infamous rake and seducer.

The intensifying sunlight burned off the mist and laced St. Vincent’s dark gold hair with streaks of glittering pale amber. Lillian had seen him from a distance on many occasions, but they had never been introduced, and St. Vincent had always avoided the line of wallflowers at any ball he happened to be attending. At a distance, he was a striking figure. At close range, the exotic beauty of his features was nearly immobilizing. St. Vincent had the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, light blue and catlike, shaded with dark lashes and surmounted by tawny brows. His features were strong but refined, his skin gleaming like bronze that had been patiently polished for hours. Contrary to Lillian’s expectations, St. Vincent looked wicked but not at all dissipated, his smile skillfully reaching through her anger and enjoining a tentative response. Such a plenitude of charm should have been illegal.

Switching his gaze to Westcliff’s set face, St. Vincent arched one brow and asked lightly, “Shall I escort the culprit back to the manor, my lord?”

The earl nodded. “Get her out of my sight,” he muttered, “before I’m moved to say something I’ll regret.”

“Go ahead and say it,” Lillian snapped.

Westcliff took a step toward her, his expression thunderous.

Hastily St. Vincent tucked Lillian behind him. “West-cliff, your guests are waiting. And although I’m certain they’re enjoying this fascinating drama, the horses are getting restless.”

The earl seemed to undergo a brief but savage battle with his self-discipline before he managed to school his features into impassivity. He jerked his head in the direction of the manor in a silent command for St. Vincent to remove Lillian from the scene.

“May I take her back on my horse?” St. Vincent inquired politely.

“No,” came Westcliff’s stony reply. “She can damned well walk to the house.”

St. Vincent motioned at once for a groom to take charge of the two abandoned horses. Giving his arm to a fuming Lillian, he gazed down at her with a twinkle in his pale eyes. “It’s the dungeons for you,” he informed her. “And I intend to personally apply the thumbscrews.”