Chapter 23 #2
His high-handedness and, frankly, arrogance should’ve had her shimmering with outrage and giving him a proper dressing down that he would presume to order her days. An invasion, indeed!
But that was her old self.
The self she’d been before this riding lesson…before last night…before the night of the Derby…before Arabella had introduced herself to him all those months ago.
A change had occurred within her.
A change that had sneaked in when she hadn’t been paying attention.
Again, the question came to her: was there any risk she wouldn’t take if it was Liam doing the asking?
“Saskia,” he said. His charm fallen away, in its place, fervency.
While charm might attract, it was fervency that dug in beneath the surface and grabbed hold of one’s soul.
“You love riding,” he continued, “so why shouldn’t you do what you love?”
Words like that held the power to take a lady’s breath away.
She dragged her gaze from his—she had to—but the sight before her had her stomach falling to her feet. He must’ve guided them around—she’d been too heady with the ecstasies of riding to notice—so they’d circled back to the head of the bridleway and were now returning to Rotten Row.
“Oh.” No hiding her disappointment in that oh.
He shot her a smile. “You’ll be too sore to ride tomorrow, if you don’t stop soon. It’s been nearly an hour.”
“That long?”
A dry laugh sounded through his nose. “Oh, you’ve got the horse madness. Gets in your blood, it does.”
“Oh, dear.”
“No cure for it, I’m afraid.”
Ahead, she couldn’t help noticing the park was more populated than it had been earlier. And those who now populated Rotten Row were turning their heads in the direction of Lady Saskia Calthorp and the new Earl of Bolton. Widened eyes and titillated gossip would follow, Saskia had no doubt.
Past them, she and Liam rode. Then it was across Piccadilly and into the quieter environs of Sloane Street. Sure, they’d been noted by a few fashionable people, but those curious gazes held not an iota of sway with her. Tongues might wag, but what were those tongues to her?
Once they reached Sirens, Liam expertly dismounted before coming to stand beside Peony, his head angled back to meet Saskia’s gaze. “My lady.”
Sudden tension twisted through her. Of course, she was to allow him to help her dismount.
Of course. She was a lady, and he a gentleman.
It was nothing scandalous. What was scandalous, however, was the way her body was reacting to the very thought as she unhooked her right leg and reached out, tipping forward until her hands found purchase on broad shoulders, her fingers digging into corded muscle as her body followed.
If it wasn’t precisely a graceless tumble as her feet hit the sidewalk, it was a near thing.
But she hardly noticed.
Her feet on the ground and likely steady enough to support her—likely, not certainly—her hands remained on his shoulders and his hands on her waist. His mouth was but inches from hers.
A kiss longed to be.
The sort of sweet kiss where their lips would press together for an instant, maybe two, then part wanting more.
The sort of kiss that should’ve been their first, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret the first kiss that had been.
In the air between their mouths was the kiss that could’ve been, but, of course, couldn’t be.
Her hands slid off his shoulders, and she took a step back, leaving his hands no choice but to release her. Her eyes held his steadily. “Thank you for introducing me to riding.”
His eyes held hers as steadily. “My pleasure.”
She could continue with the thank yous and the inevitable farewells, but she had something more substantial yet to say to this man. “It might not be my place to say this, but I feel I must.”
“Saskia, you’re allowed to say anything you like to me.”
He might reconsider his permission once she said… “You must have children.”
The words hit the air like cannon shot, leaden, but not without momentum as he subtly recoiled from their impact.
“But not because of the earldom.” If she was to have but one chance at this conversation, then she would give it her all.
“You’re a good teacher, Liam. You’re patient and kind.
When you spoke of your father, you mentioned the corrupting nature of total power.
But don’t you see that’s not you? That’s not how you would handle your children.
” When he looked as if he might protest, she continued, “The way you manage your horses without whip or spur, but rather with guidance and encouragement, that’s the sort of father you shall be. ”
He didn’t look as if he fully believed her words, but as if he were, at least, considering them…considering her. “So,” he said, at last, “all roads lead back to the topic of wife.”
She blinked. Her eyebrows crinkled together. “I suppose one would need one.”
“A wife who would like loads and loads of children.”
Somehow, her fervent, heartfelt argument had veered off course. The conversation they were now having wasn’t the one she’d begun. “I suppose that won’t be too difficult for you.”
“Won’t it?”
She swallowed against a throat gone parched. “You must know half the women in the ton are madly in love with you.”
He snorted. “They’re not in love with me. They’re in love with an image of me.”
Though the words hadn’t been directed at her, they stung. She’d numbered amongst the ranks of those women until recently—until she’d gotten to know him. “I have another confession,” she somehow said.
“Should I become a priest?”
“Definitely not.”
Wickedness glinted in his eyes. “What’s your confession, Lady Saskia?”
“That was me.”
“Pardon?”
“I was one of those women.” Oh, how could she possibly bring herself to say what she must say… “That first night, at the Drunken Piebald—”
“I have a vague memory of that night…”
She steeled herself, unwilling to let humor distract her.
“It was why I avoided meeting you for years—you were correct on that point when you asked why we’d never met.
It’s why I assumed the identity of Arabella.
Because, you see, I was one of those women who saw Liam Cassidy and…
and…” She inhaled. “And liked what she saw.” She exhaled.
“And, yes, it was the image of you that formed the basis of my, erm, liking, which doesn’t make me much different from all those other women who swoon at the sight of you. ”
“Have you ever swooned, Saskia?”
“Metaphorically.”
His eyes narrowed subtly. “And now that you know me?”
“I like you differently.”
“Differently?”
“More.”
She’d never known the effect truth could have on time—that it could make it stop. Or, at least, that was how it felt as she stood on this stretch of sidewalk, her breath caught in her lungs between an inhalation and an exhalation, facing Liam with the truth between them.
At last, he said, “On the subject of wives. Any wife of mine would know me for who I truly am. It’s only then that one can give love and feel it in return.”
She nodded. “An attuning.”
“Aye, Saskia, an attuning.”
Though she’d written many such moments of a hero staring intently into the eyes of a heroine, she’d secretly thought such moments might share more in common with fantasy than reality. But, now, she saw how wrong she’d been.
To a point.
In her books, her hero and heroine always found the exact right words to say to one another. But out here, in reality, she struggled and asked questions like, “Weren’t you supposed to have left London today?”
A tick of time beat past as he found his footing around this conversational pivot. “Aye, but…”
“But you couldn’t leave knowing that I couldn’t ride a horse?”
He smiled, as if caught out. “There’s a village fête I’m expected to attend,” he explained. “Then I’m off to Somerton to see Morningstar prepared for the journey north to Doncaster.”
Ah. “So, you’re definitely seeing the season through.”
“My last.” One couldn’t mistake the note of loss in his voice. The career that would’ve been cut short. “I had a good run on the turf.”
She nodded. “Better than most.”
“And you will be there?” His gaze had lost none of its fervency. “You’ll be in Doncaster for the St. Leger?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
He searched her eyes, and must’ve found what he was looking for.
“Until the St. Leger, milady,” he said, properly, and even bowed.
Then he grabbed Peony’s reins before mounting Homer with a smooth, fluid motion.
He gave Saskia a final tip of the hat, then clicked his tongue, easing Homer into a walk with Peony trailing half a length beside.
It was with a flutter in her stomach and a lightness in her step that Saskia walked into Sirens. Mrs. Dunlevy’s lifted eyebrows greeted her, but she simply nodded at the woman and kept walking and didn’t stop until she was in her private rooms upstairs.
No promises had been spoken between her and Liam.
Yet something bound them.
Something more than the physical.
Something more than liking.
It was that sameness.
It was that understanding.
It was that attuning.