It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(36)

“I would prefer torture to his company any day,” Lillian said, gathering up the long side of her skirt and buttoning it to walking length.

As they walked away, Lillian’s back stiffened at the sound of Westcliff’s voice. “You might stop by the icehouse on the way back. She needs cooling.”

Fighting to marshal his emotions into some semblance of order, Marcus stared after Lillian Bowman with a gaze that should have singed the back of her riding jacket. He usually found it easy to step back from any situation and assess it objectively. In the past few minutes, however, every vestige of self-control had exploded.

As Lillian had ridden defiantly toward the jump, Marcus had seen her momentary loss of alignment, potentially fatal on a sidesaddle, and the instant expectation that she would fall had sent him reeling. At that speed, her spine or her neck could have snapped. And he had been powerless to do anything but watch. He had been abruptly cold with dread, nauseated from it, and when the little idiot had managed to land safely, the full sum of his fear had been transformed into blazing white fury. He had made no conscious decision to approach her, but suddenly they were both on the ground, and her narrow shoulders were in his hands, and all he wanted to do was crush her in his arms in a paroxysm of relief, and kiss her, and then dismember her with his bare hands.

The fact that her safety meant so much to him was…not something that he wanted to think about.

Scowling, Marcus went to the groom who held Brutus’s reins, and took them from him. Lost in brooding contemplation, he was only dimly aware that Simon Hunt had quietly advised the guests to proceed with the jumping course without waiting for the earl to lead them.

Simon Hunt approached him on horseback, his face expressionless. “Are you going to ride?” he asked calmly.

For answer, Marcus swung up into the saddle, clicking softly as Brutus shifted beneath him. “That woman is intolerable,” he grumbled, his gaze daring Hunt to offer an opinion to the contrary.

“Did you mean to goad her into taking the jump?” Hunt asked.

“I commanded her to do the exact opposite. You must have heard me.”

“Yes, I and everyone else heard you,” Hunt said dryly. “My question pertains to your tactics, Westcliff. It’s obvious that a woman like Miss Bowman requires a softer approach than outright command. Moreover, I’ve seen you at the negotiating table, and your powers of persuasion are unmatched by anyone except perhaps Shaw. Had you chosen, you could have coaxed and flattered her to do your bidding in less than a minute. Instead you used all the subtlety of a bludgeon in the attempt to prove yourself her master.”

“I’ve never noticed your gift for hyperbole before,” Marcus muttered.

“And now,” Hunt continued evenly, “you’ve thrown her over to St. Vincent’s sympathetic care. God knows he’ll probably rob her of her virtue before they even reach the manor.”

Marcus glanced at him sharply, his smoldering ire undercut by sudden worry. “He wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“She’s not his preferred style.”

Hunt laughed gently. “Does St. Vincent have a preferred style? I’ve never noticed any similarities between the objects of his pursuit, other than the fact that they are all women. Dark, fair, plump, slender …he’s remarkably unprejudiced in his affairs.”

“Damn it all to hell,” Marcus said beneath his breath, experiencing, for the first time in his life, the gnawing sting of jealousy.

Lillian concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, when all she wanted was to head back to Westcliff and fling herself upon him in a mindless attack. “That arrogant, pompous clodpole—”

“Easy,” she heard St. Vincent murmur. “Westcliff is in a thorough temper—and I wouldn’t care to engage him in your defense. I can best him any day with a sword, but not with fists.”

“Why not?” Lillian muttered. “You’ve got a longer reach than Westcliff.”

“He’s got the most vicious right hook I’ve ever encountered. And I have an unfortunate habit of trying to shield my face—which frequently leaves me open for gut punches.”

The unashamed conceit behind the statement drew a reluctant laugh from Lillian. As the heat of anger faded, she reflected that with a face like his, one could hardly blame him for desiring to protect it. “Have you fought with the earl often?” she asked.

“Not since we were boys at school. Westcliff did everything a bit too perfectly—I had to challenge him now and then just to make certain that his vanity didn’t become overinflated. Here …shall we take a more scenic route through the garden?”

Lillian hesitated, recalling the numerous stories that she had heard about him. “I’m not certain that would be wise.”

St. Vincent smiled. “What if I promise on my honor not to make any advances to you?”

Considering that, Lillian nodded. “In that case, all right.”

St. Vincent guided her through a small leafy grove, and onto a graveled path shaded by a row of ancient yews. “I should probably tell you,” he remarked casually, “that since my sense of honor is completely deteriorated, any promise I make is worthless.”

“Then I should tell you that my right hook is likely ten times more vicious than Westcliff’s.”