The Devil's Love (22 page)

smile that was all white teeth. He nodded toward Samson. “Darfield has fine

taste in horses, I’ll give him that.”

“I suppose,” Abbey muttered, and glanced warily across her shoulder at the huge

beast.

The man cocked his head to one side as he considered her. “I suppose

Samson

seems a bit intimidating.”

Abbey yanked her gaze to the stranger, assessing him. “A bit,” she admitted

suspiciously.

“I am Alex Christian,” he said, extending his hand.

“Abbey Carrington. Ingram. Abbey Carrington Ingram,” she clarified. If the man

was shocked, he was careful not to show it, but smiled broadly.

“I have some business with your husband, but I had not anticipated I would have

the extreme pleasure of making your acquaintance, Lady Darfield. Are you interested in horses?” Forgetting he was a stranger, Abbey sighed unconsciously

and looked at the stallion again.

“I am really rather unfamiliar with horses. I had hoped there would be one a little… smaller.”

Alex Christian laughed and strolled to Samson and stroked his nose.

“Most are considerably smaller than this beast,” he said fondly. “I noticed several mares; you would be much happier astride one of those.”

“Really?” Abbey said quickly, and pivoted on her heel to examine the other stalls.

Alex strolled casually from Samson’s rather spacious stall to a smaller, neighboring stall, where a roan stood patiently.

“This one is much smaller, and I rather think a gentle sort,” he said, and patted the horse’s neck. Abbey was quickly at his side.

“How can you tell?” she asked anxiously, hoping something as obvious as a

marking would indicate gentleness in a horse.

Alex glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a faint smile of amusement on

his lips. “See how she keeps her head down? And she doesn’t snort and stomp

about like Samson. This horse is used to having many riders on her back.”

As if

hearing him, the roan dipped her head and nudged his pocket.

“Ah! I see!” Abbey exclaimed gleefully. “And if one was to ride her, do you suppose she would, say, go left if one wanted?”

“Yes,” he laughed, stroking the roan’s nose. “I suppose she would.” Abbey glanced at Alex as he cooed softly to the horse. He had a warm, inviting smile,

one that made the corners of his green eyes crinkle. With dark-brown hair just a

shade lighter than hers and a face tanned by the sun, he was a very handsome

man, almost as handsome as Michael. Almost.

“And then I suppose it follows she would also go right?” she asked shyly.

Alex laughed again and nodded. “I think if one were to tug on her rein just so,

she would do just about anything. If I were to ride her, I would do thus.” He smiled and, taking a bridle from a post nearby, looped it loosely over the roan’s head and demonstrated. Abbey watched attentively, trying to memorize

everything he showed her. He had just suggested they look at a sidesaddle when

the stable master, Mr. Hanley, bustled inside. Alex and Abbey turned simultaneously turned toward him; the stable master stopped dead in his tracks

and gaped at them.

“Your grace!” he exclaimed, and hurried quickly to the stall at which Abbey and

Alex stood. Startled, Abbey looked at Alex. Your grace?

“It’s quite all right,” the duke said, waving Hanley off. “Lady Darfield was showing me some of the mounts.”

Mr. Hanley looked nervously at Abbey who, having quickly recovered from her

shock, smiled beguilingly at the flustered stable master.

“His grace is quite enamored of the stallion,” she offered cheerfully.

Mr. Hanley turned red in the face. “Lord Southerland, my humblest apologies. Had

I known you were within, I would have attended you immediately,” Mr.

Hanley

said, emphatically emphasizing the last word.

“Not to worry, Hanley. Lady Darfield and I have quite enjoyed our chat.” He turned to Abbey and smiled, bowing slightly. “I believe Lord Darfield is expecting me. If you will be so kind as to excuse me.”

Abbey smiled and nodded, dipping lightly into a belated curtsey. With a warm

smile, he strolled away, his gait at once graceful and powerful.

“Thank you!” she called after him. Looking over his shoulder with a warm grin,

he nonchalantly waved a hand. Abbey turned her attention to Mr. Hanley, who was

still a little pale after finding the duke unattended.

What in God’s name had she been thinking? Abbey wondered helplessly when she

emerged from the house at promptly two o’clock, dressed in a turquoise riding

habit Tori had made for her in the event she should encounter a mule in England.

She nervously fidgeted with her borrowed riding crop as she watched a young man

lead an enormous gray mare from the stable outfitted with a sidesaddle.

Michael

followed behind on Samson, who pranced impatiently beneath him, forcing Michael

to rein hard to control the beast as he neared her.

“Good afternoon, madam. I took the liberty of selecting Desdemona for you,” he

announced with a succinct nod. “She’s perhaps a little green, but I think you

should have no trouble.”

Abbey’s heart sank. Mr. Hanley had promised she would be given a very, very tame

mount. Michael gave her a curious look, then motioned toward the mare with his

head.

“If you please, Lady Darfield,” he said expectantly.

Abbey peered up at him, then slowly slid her gaze to the horse, who was yanking

her head against the stableboys tight hold. Abbey’s stomach lurched.

“Is something amiss?” Michael asked suspiciously.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed a little too loudly.

He lifted a dark brow. “Is there another mount you prefer? Mr. Hanley informs me

you have not ridden as yet and did not know if you had a particular favorite—”

“Desdemona will do nicely,” she said, nodding to emphasize she was quite fine.

If only she could move her legs.

The stallion snorted with anticipation. “Abbey, if you are ready,” Michael said

again.

She nodded, mustered all her courage—which wasn’t much—and walked purposefully

toward the mare. She stopped and bravely stroked the mare’s nose, just as Lord

Southerland had suggested.

“Be gentle, Desdemona,” she whispered, “and there will be a bucket of

carrots at

the end of the day.” Feeling the stableboy’s eyes on her, she walked to one side

of the horse. Another young man appeared at her elbow and bent over, cupping his

hands together. Abbey stared at him as if he were insane.

“Pardon, mum, but don’t you want a lift up?”

Abbey regained her composure and laughed lightly. Naturally she would have to

get on the horse to ride it.

“Yes, of course.” She placed her foot in his cupped hand and gasped loudly when

he vaulted her upward. It was a miracle that she landed in the saddle at all.

She took a moment to adjust to the terribly awkward sidesaddle, feeling ridiculous perched precariously high on top of the horse as she was. She doubted

she was sitting correctly, but fortunately, the thick folds of her habit concealed any glaring errors on her part.

One of the young men handed her the reins; she grabbed them hastily, gripping

them with all her strength. The two young men exchanged a look before the older

one spoke.

“My lady,” he muttered quietly, “don’t pull so hard. Give the horse a little slack and she’ll do all right by you.”

Abbey nodded, then gave him a slight frown that suggested he might have insulted

her by explaining something so fundamental. With her riding crop stuffed tightly

under one arm, and her hands gripping the reins for dear life, she turned a serene smile to Michael.

“We are wasting daylight,” she chirped, but strangled on her words when the mare

began to move. Smiling enigmatically, Michael reined in next to her.

“I think we’ve plenty of daylight. Why don’t you lead?” he suggested.

Abbey swallowed a lump of fear and gripped the reins even tighter. “Surely you

would rather. Lord only knows where I would lead you.” She laughed nervously.

“Lord only knows,” he agreed with a chuckle, and kneed his stallion forward.

“Follow me,” he called cheerfully, and cantered forward. Had the stableboy

not

slapped the mare’s hindquarter, Abbey might have sat in the drive until Michael

returned from his ride. With a small shriek, Abbey grabbed the saddle horn and

prayed for mercy as the mare trotted after the stallion.

They had not gone far when Abbey decided she had mastered riding. In spite of

the constant jarring, it really was not so difficult. In her mind, she went over

and over what Lord Southerland had told her. Tug right to go right, tug left to

go left. Rein in to stop, slack the reins to run. Do not let the horse know you

are frightened, for she will surely take advantage of you. The only real discomfort she experienced was the fear she would topple from the saddle at any

moment given the odd way in which she sat. With Michael in front of her, she

managed to slide one leg awkwardly over the side of the saddle and let it dangle

below her bunched habit. That position was much less comfortable, but it felt

vastly more secure. She smiled happily to herself before tentatively testing her

heels in the mare’s side. The mare lurched forward and Abbey was soon bouncing

along next to Michael.

“You ride well,” he said when she caught up to him. Abbey smiled in response and

cautiously reached up to adjust her slipping bonnet. “I’m surprised you found

the opportunity to ride with so much time at sea. Where did you learn?”

Abbey laughed. “Oh, here and there… catch as catch can. One must seize

opportunities when one is handed them,” she said in a very confident voice. “You

know, carpe diem, that sort of thing.”

Michael rolled his eyes. Carpe diem, indeed! She was bobbing along atop a fat

old nag like apples in a tub of water. Had his good friend, Alex Christian, the

Duke of Southerland, not laughingly explained their encounter in the

stables, he

might well have had Black Widow saddled for her. He wanted to wring her slender

neck for not telling him but had determined a little lesson was in order.

Fortunately, the nag she was on could be trusted to do nothing faster than waddle. He glanced down at the shapely calf and booted foot that hung uncomfortably across the lip of the sidesaddle and swallowed a lump of desire.

There was at least one other lesson he wanted to teach her.

They rode along at what Michael thought was an excruciatingly slow pace for over

an hour. Samson chomped at his bit to be given his head, but Michael held him

tight. Abbey looked exhausted. Her bonnet had long since fallen behind her, and

wisps of mahogany hair fell from her pretty coif. She still had not released her

death grip—one hand on the saddle horn, one on the reins.

A cool breeze had picked up strength, and thick clouds were beginning to form

above. A storm was coming and Michael decided it was time to turn back, but not

before he had one last laugh at her expense.

“See that great oak just ahead?” he asked. Abbey peered ahead and nodded. “What

say we race for it?” He had to turn his face so she would not see his smile at

her look of horror.

She studied the tree for a long moment, then looked down at Desdemona.

“I—I

think Desdemona is tired?” she said hopefully.

“Hardly. Desdemona loves to run.”

“She does?” she asked in a voice gone from hopeful to hopeless.

Michael could not suppress a grin. “Come now, on my mark,” he called to her, and

bent over Samson’s neck.

“Ready… set… go!” he shouted, and spurred Samson forward, giving him free rein.

He heard Abbey’s shout behind him, and when he reached the tree, he yanked

Samson around, instantly doubling over with laughter at the sight of Desdemona

walking along with Abbey on her back, shouting furiously.

“Did you do something to my horse?” she demanded angrily when at last she

reached him.

“Certainly not! That was Desdemona’s top speed,” Michael choked through fits of

laughter.

Abbey’s eyes narrowed. “You knew? she shrieked.

He dismounted and caught Desdemona’s reins when she flung them at him. Michael’s

sides began to hurt with laughter as she flung a string of very unladylike oaths

at him and slid, or rather rolled, from the horse’s back. He caught her when her

legs buckled on impact.

“Abbey, you should have told me,” he said when he at last caught his breath.

“You could have been seriously hurt. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because,” she said stubbornly.

“Because?”

Abbey avoided his gaze and glanced to the meadow. “I thought you would not want

to go if you knew,” she said softly.

Michael felt an uncharacteristic rush of elation. So she had wanted to go with

him! “No, Abbey, I would have driven you in a carriage,” he replied sincerely.

Abbey’s violet eyes grew wide with a spontaneous hopefulness he found enchanting. And bothersome. Bloody hell.

“Why did you never learn to ride?” he asked leading her to the oak.

“I never had the opportunity. In Egypt I rode a dromedary, and I thought that

skill would lend itself at least in some small way to a horse’s back. In Paris

we took carriages. In Amsterdam boats were the preferred mode of travel.

And in

Virginia, well, we had a mule that would occasionally agree to having someone on

his back, but only under extreme duress.”