Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
By the time Isabella had arrived at the park the following morning, Whitmore was already waiting for her.
He sat tall astride his horse, looking out over the wide expanse of green.
The morning mist still clung to the grass, and sunlight broke weakly through a veil of clouds, casting soft light over the dewy ground.
His silhouette, proud and still, seemed carved into the damp air — the image of a man lost in thought.
She told her groom to wait for her at the end of the Row and pushed her mount forward. The rhythmic sound of hooves against wet gravel carried to where he stood. Whitmore turned at her approaching, a smile spreading across his handsome face.
She shouldn’t think of him in such a way of course. He was a rogue — a man who, from the moment she had met him, had been nothing short of a pebble in her silk slippers. Irritating, handsome, insufferably charming — or so he thought — the sort of man one ought to despise but never quite managed to.
Still, over the last few weeks, they had formed a truce. Perhaps even a friendship, as he had declared. Perchance things had changed between them, though she would not dare admit it aloud, she found the modification agreeable.
Whether courting or friendship, whatever this peculiar arrangement might be, he was making her Season more enjoyable than any she had endured before.
The last two had been exercises in disappointment and tedium, full of forced smiles and false laughter.
But now, with Whitmore’s teasing remarks and unpredictable nature, she found herself smiling for reasons she could not quite define.
No matter how it ended, he had made this year better than the preceding one.
And last night, when she had confessed her worry of being in her sister’s way once they returned to Hampshire, he had spoken with a surprising gentleness — a side of him she had not expected.
He had tried to ease her fears, had shown kindness instead of mockery.
For that, she would be forever grateful.
“Lady Isabella,” he said now, using her full name with faux solemnity.
She pulled her mount to a stop beside him, her gaze sweeping over the mare he had spoken of so fondly the evening before.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said. Her gaze drank in the sight of his muscled thighs before inspecting the horse. The mare was exquisite — sleek, chestnut-golden, her mane dark and shining even beneath the morning light. Whitmore’s hand rested loosely on the reins, his posture one of easy control.
“She is a beauty,” Isabella said. “And she seems placid enough. What is she like to ride?”
“She can be fiery,” he admitted, urging his horse into a slow walk. “But nothing I cannot handle.”
“I have a stallion at home now,” she said as they moved side by side. “He’s from good breeding stock, but very placid in nature. Even around mares, he doesn’t so much as lift his head.”
“Then he is a rare sort,” Whitmore said, glancing at her. “Perhaps he would suit for breeding with my mare — should you move forward with that program we discussed.”
She smiled at the suggestion. “I would like that. I should very much like to see him cover a mare of her quality. He’s from the Darley line — his sire came second at Ascot.”
“Better and better.” A spark lit his dark eyes, genuine interest warming his tone. “You know more about breeding than most gentlemen I meet in Tattersalls.”
“I have an interest, but I’m no expert,” she said with quiet modesty. “Though I’m certain the little knowledge I do hold isn’t looked upon as ladylike.”
“Ladylike or not it’s an admirable quality, to me at least. You have a mind for business as well as pleasure. A rare combination, Bells.”
She looked away, trying not to show how much his words pleased her. “You flatter me, my lord.”
“Only when it’s deserved,” he said easily.
They continued along the path, the gentle clop of their horses’ hooves echoing through the park. Few riders were out this morning. The trees swayed in the growing breeze, and a cool dampness hung in the air, as though the weather were holding its breath.
Whitmore’s gaze lingered on her profile. “You seem lost in thought,” he said. “Did I bore you with talk of women’s admirable qualities?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “I was thinking how different you are when you speak of horses. It’s almost sincere.”
He gave a mock gasp. “You wound me, Lady Isabella. Are you implying I am not always sincere or serious?”
She arched a brow at him. “Clearly, only when you wish to be.”
He laughed softly. “Touché.”
His chuckle rippled through her, unexpected and warm. She turned her face away so he would not see the smile tugging at her lips. A clap of thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, cutting through her amusement.
Isabella looked up at the sky. “It seems we’re about to have a storm,” she said, frowning. “I should probably return home.”
He followed her gaze, his brow furrowing. “It was fine only moments ago. How strange.”
“London weather is a fickle creature.”
“Indeed,” he said, glancing toward the horizon. “We may outrun it if we turn back now—”
Before either could move, the first drops of rain splattered against Isabella’s hand. She stilled, hoping it would pass. Instead, the heavens opened.
The rain fell in earnest — thick, heavy drops that soaked through her jacket and skirts and dampened her riding hat in seconds.
“Oh dear heavens,” she gasped, laughing despite herself. “We shall be drenched!”
“Come!” he called, turning his mare about. “There — the copse of trees!”
Isabella followed, urging her horse after his. The cold rain lashed her face, her skirts clinging to her legs. The scent of wet earth and crushed grass rose sharply around them. The rhythmic pound of hooves against the soaked ground mingled with the steady roar of the downpour.
Under the trees, they found relative shelter. The thick foliage caught much of the rain, though drops still fell intermittently through the leaves. They sat side by side, watching the storm pummel the park beyond.
“This is torrential indeed,” Whitmore said, shaking his head.
“Yes,” she replied, brushing damp curls from her temple. “It’s as if the heavens themselves are displeased with us.”
“Or perhaps they’re merely testing our resolve.”
“To what purpose?” she asked.
“To see whether we can sit together in polite company without scandal,” he said, eyes glinting.
“Then we are doomed,” she said, trying not to laugh. “For we forever do not.”
A gust of wind picked up, and she shivered. Whitmore noticed immediately and shifted closer. He reached out, his arm settling gently around her shoulders.
She ought to have pulled away, to remind him it was improper. But with no one in sight and the rain pressing close, she said nothing. The warmth of his arm seeped through the damp fabric of her gown, his hand rubbing lightly over her sleeve in a wordless effort to warm her.
“I’m sorry I pressed for us to meet this morning. The storm will pass soon,” he said quietly. “Then I shall escort you home.”
“You weren’t to know it would rain,” she murmured. “You needn’t apologize.”
She looked up at him then — really looked — and saw that his own riding coat was soaked through, his dark hair curling damply against his brow. Droplets ran down his cheek and over the strong line of his jaw. One clung to his lower lip before falling, and she could not tear her gaze away.
Had she not thought him handsome before, she certainly did now. Handsome and desirable.
“Lady Isabella,” he said softly.
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring,” he teased.
Her cheeks warmed. “I was not.”
“You were.” His voice was low, almost tender. “And I thank you for it.”
She turned her face away, pretending to study the rain beyond the trees. “You are incorrigible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
A moment of silence stretched between them. The rain beat down heavily on the canopy above, the rhythmic patter oddly soothing.
He shifted closer still. She could feel the heat of his body beside hers, the faint brush of his breath against her temple. The world beyond the trees faded — all that remained was the sound of rain, the scent of wet leather and soap, and the steady thrum of her own pulse.
“You are quiet,” he said after a while.
“I was thinking,” she whispered.
“About what?”
“About how ridiculous we must look,” she said, smiling faintly. “Hiding under a tree like a pair of foolish children.”
“Better foolish than cold,” he said.
“Perhaps.” She hesitated, then added softly, “Or perhaps not.”
He tilted his head. “Why not?”
“Because foolishness can lead to trouble.” Trouble like her throwing herself at his head when she knew she should not.
“Ah,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. “And do you fear trouble, my lady?”
“Yes.”
“Liar,” he said gently.
Her breath caught. “Hartley…”
“Hartley,” he echoed, the word lingering in the air between them like a promise.
She had never spoken his given name aloud before. Hearing it now on her own lips felt intimate, forbidden. A warning. A plea.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Whitmore declared without guile.
The words should have sent her fleeing, should have made her draw away. But she did not move. She did not lift her reins or turn her horse.
Instead, she nodded — slow, inevitable — accepting her fate.
Accepting him.
The rain whispered through the leaves, a steady hymn to the moment as he leaned closer. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath caught between fear and anticipation. For the first time in her life, Lady Isabella Ravensmere did not think, did not weigh consequence or propriety.
She simply felt.