Chapter Eight
Eventually Tessa’s mare began to tire, and with it the reality of her situation closed in on her again. She slowed her mount and waited for Lord Alverleigh to join her.
No doubt she’d disgraced him with her unseemly behavior, but she didn’t care. She’d had a few moments of glorious freedom and nobody could take that away from her. Whatever punishment he came up with, it would be worth it.
He drew up alongside her, and she braced herself. Would he be like Edgar and Lord Holgrave, who preferred to punish her in private? Keeping her waiting and wondering? Or would he be like Papa and Lord Hewitt who both tended to roar and react, not caring who witnessed it.
He glanced at her and gave her an odd look. “What is it?”
She scanned his face for any signs of anger, but could perceive none. “You didn’t mind?”
“Mind what? Your galloping off like that? Of course not. It’s not the done thing, but it’s just what I wanted to do myself. Next time we’ll go up to the Heath where you can gallop to your heart’s content.”
She wasn’t sure she believed this matter-of-fact response. He might still wait and punish her in private. Recalling that her hair was flying free—wantonly, disgracefully loose and free—she replaced her hat and began to tuck her hair into it.
“Shame to cover it up,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Your hair. It’s beautiful like that. Reminds me of when you were a little girl.”
She ran a hand self-consciously over it. Beautiful? She’d always been told wearing her hair loose made her look like a hoydenish little gypsy. Or in Edgar’s case, that she looked like a whore. She tucked the last few curls away.
They rode back in silence, Tessa wondering what Lord Alverleigh was going to say about her infraction. He seemed lost in thought, miles away. Not angry, but one could never tell with men.
She kept a wary eye out for Edgar or one of his cronies. Next time she went riding—if indeed she were given the chance—she would wear a veil.
When they reached his house, he leapt lightly down and held out a hand to help her dismount.
She took it, still half-expecting him to rebuke her, but as she landed, her legs felt oddly wobbly.
Staggering, she clutched onto him briefly and laughing, steadied herself.
To her surprise, even briefly supported against his warm strong body, she felt a frisson of .
. . what? Attraction? She wasn’t sure; she’d never felt anything like it before.
Whatever it was, it felt . . . dangerous.
She stepped carefully away from him. “Sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve ridden that my legs have gone a bit wobbly.”
He seemed quite unaffected by the contact. “We’ll have to take you riding more often, then, get you fit again. A hot bath will help. And I’ll send around some liniment that will help, too. It smells a bit, but given your current ‘perfume’ I doubt you’ll mind.”
She gave him a cautious sidelong look. A joke? Was he not going to reprimand her at all, then? It seemed not, for he bowed, said he’d see her tomorrow, mounted his horse and rode off.
She mounted the steps slowly, feeling suddenly tired.
As she entered the house, Peverill informed her that Lady Gosforth was dining out and would be attending the opera with friends, and if she liked, she could take her supper in her room.
She accepted the offer gratefully. She had so much to think about.
The ride, much as she had enjoyed it, was not something she ought to expect in future. And that unexpected surge of . . . attraction? Whatever, it was disturbing.
She had stayed overlong at Lord Alverleigh’s home, and she was sure his aunt must be getting impatient for her to go.
She was clearly worried about Tessa’s supposed designs on her nephew, even though Tessa had assured her repeatedly that she had no desire to marry again. And she hadn’t changed her mind.
She didn’t understand the old lady. One minute Tessa was sure the old woman despised her, and then next . . . It was almost as if Lady Gosforth sympathized with her. And why would she care whether Tessa was fashionably dressed or not? Surely she would prefer her unwanted guest to look like a quiz.
It was very confusing.
Never mind. She would try again for a post in the morning.
#
DECIDING TO WALK BACK to his club, Marcus sent the horses to the stables with his groom.
He’d enjoyed his ride more than he’d expected.
She was easy company, riding along beside him in silence for the most part, a relaxed kind of silence, not awkward or uncomfortable.
It suited him; he was not a natural conversationalist.
And then when she’d urged her mount into that most improper—though thoroughly enjoyable—gallop, her face had been alight with pleasure. The sight of her delight had stolen his breath away.
Several times he’d heard her laugh. She’d shaken her long hair loose reminding him of when he’d known her as a child. That child had been full of life: warm, spontaneous and finding joy in the smallest things.
Perhaps that wellspring of joy hadn’t been entirely driven out of her. A man could hope.
But then, when that exuberant, wild, gallop was over, she’d leaned forward, patted her mare’s neck, and then straightened, turning to face him, the joy slowly drained from her face, leaving only that wary, somehow braced expression, that he hated.
What had drained the happiness from her? What did she think would happen? And when he’d stared at her, wondering what had caused that abrupt change in her demeanor, she’d hastily stuffed her hair, her glorious wild silver-gilt curls back under the ugly hat as if she were embarrassed or ashamed.
It disturbed him. What had her life been like? Not being allowed to ride, even though she loved it? And that disturbing change of expression at the end, almost like a child expecting punishment, not a grown woman entitled to enjoy herself in an activity she obviously loved.
He would make sure she had many more opportunities to ride.
Though what would happen if she found a job as a companion, or worse? He didn’t like to think of that at all.
#
TESSA SAT IN FRONT of the looking glass in her bedchamber, brushing her long hair. The action invariably sparked thoughts of Hewitt, her last husband. He loved brushing her hair—both her husbands had—but Hewitt’s brushing was always a prelude to . . . unpleasantness.
Even though she knew he was long dead, she still found her body bracing itself for the moment when he would wind her hair around his hand and jerk her back. . . She shivered and dropped the brush. How could she ever be free of the memories?
She sighed and tugged on the bell-pull to summon a maid to arrange her hair.
It was too long and too unruly for her to arrange it in the smooth style that was required for a lady.
As the bell faintly jangled downstairs she froze, then turned back to her reflection—and stared, as the realization dawned on her.
She didn’t have to please anyone anymore: she could do whatever she liked with her hair. Whatever she liked.
She picked up her nail scissors and without further thought, hacked off a lock of the long, silver-blond hair. it floated to the floor, bright against the rich dark colors of the Turkey rug. That would do it. She snipped off another. It fell curling to the floor. Yes!
By the time the maid arrived, Tessa was concentrating so hard on cutting her hair that she didn’t hear the girl come in. She did, however, hear her scream. “M’lady, m’lady, whatever are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Wishing she had some bigger scissors, Tessa kept cutting.
“Oh, m’lady!” The maid started gathering up the fallen locks, then gazed at Tessa in dismay, her hands full of hair, for all the world as if she thought Tessa could put it back on her head.
Tessa laughed. “Take it away and burn it.”
“Oh m’lady,” the girl said dolefully, but she left the room, clutching handfuls of hair.
Tessa kept snipping until finally not a single long strand remained.
She looked at her reflection and laughed.
She looked like a scarecrow, her hair short, but all different lengths and sticking out in all directions.
She ran her fingers through it and laughed again.
Perfect! No man would want to marry her now.
A knock sounded on her door, and without waiting for her response the door opened, and Lady Gosforth stood there. She lifted her lorgnette. There was a long moment of absolute silence, then, “Good gad! What have you done to yourself, gel?”
Tessa stood slowly and shook her hair again. A few remnants of long blonde hair slithered from her shoulders to the floor. She faced the old lady defiantly. “I never liked it long.”
“You look like a hedgehog!” the old lady said acidly.
“I like hedgehogs.”
There was another long silence as the old lady glared at Tessa through her lorgnette and Tessa stared back. She would not be intimidated. Besides, what could anyone do? Her hair was gone. It was too late now.
Eventually Lady Gosforth turned and stalked away without another word.
A few minutes later, another knock on the door sounded. This time it was Bragge, Lady Gosforth’s dresser. She gazed at Tessa, her hands clasped. “Oh, m’lady, your beautiful, beautiful hair.”
“I wanted a change.”
Bragge took a deep breath. “Yes, m’lady. Now, if you’d sit down here, I’ll just neaten it a little.”
Tessa thought of refusing, but then Bragge added in a low voice, “Her ladyship’s instructions.”
Knowing Bragge would get into trouble if she refused, Tessa sat.
What did it matter if she were tidied up?
She’d never have to brush her long hair again.
In one fell swoop—well, with lots of little snips—she’d banished the reminder of both her husbands handling it in that disturbing manner.
She laughed again, thinking of it. She felt so much lighter and happier already.
“There you are, m’lady, that’s better.”