Chapter 25 #2
Delicate and feminine, but decidedly a snort.
But it was permission granted, and that was all he needed.
Saskia shut the window.
Then she returned to her seat at the desk.
But the chair was much less comfortable than it had been mere minutes ago.
So, she crossed the room and perched her bottom on the edge of the bed.
But it wasn’t only her body perched on edge.
Her mind was, too.
Liam was on his way…here.
Unable to simply sit with that knowledge, she jumped to her feet and dashed to the door. She pressed her ear to oak, alert to the sound of confident male footsteps.
She should’ve said no, of course.
She should’ve said she was enjoying a lovely, restful night in and he should try it himself sometime.
But her night in had been neither lovely nor restful.
All that reading and writing she’d planned on?
She hadn’t been able to string five words together.
Instead, her mind had been determined to wander beyond the four walls of this room…
across acres of land to the neighboring estate…
to Sir Abstrupus Bottomley’s soirée…where Liam was.
Was he dancing with a marriageable heiress?
Was he bringing her punch at this very moment?
Cowardice.
That was what had her in this room.
She’d been a coward all day—leaving Doncaster without speaking to Liam…not attending Sire Abstrupus’s soirée.
What was she cowering from, anyway?
For someone who made her living using and selling words, she couldn’t seem to find any.
At last, down the corridor sounded the rhythmic thud of confident male footsteps, and her heart performed a neat little flip in her chest. She inhaled deeply to brace herself, but on the exhale, she made the mistake of looking down.
A distressed squeak escaped her.
Upon her return from Doncaster, she’d flung off every last bit of fashionable, uncomfortable clothing and clad herself in her coziest chemise, robe, and slippers—all worn, shapeless wool.
A firm tap-tap sounded at the door, and she jumped.
Her heart a hammer her chest, her skin entirely too hot beneath layers of wool that had been pleasantly warm only moments ago, she counted out a slow, steadying five seconds, which she reckoned was the amount of time it would take her to reach the door if she weren’t already standing beside it—five… four…three…two…one.
She twisted the lock and pulled the handle.
Before her stood Liam, dressed every inch the aristocrat in crisp evening blacks, easy smile curving his mouth, lighting his gold-flecked green eyes, hip subtly cocked in that loose manner of his. His gaze swept down the length of her, then up again. “You’re looking…comfortable.”
He wasn’t being rude, precisely.
He was being diplomatic.
Which was worse.
She crossed her arms over her chest, loose folds of wool bulky beneath, and assumed a defensive, nettled stance. “Women can’t spend all the hours of the day dressed as confections for the gazes of men. My sincerest apologies for causing you any disappointment.”
There.
Let him suck on that lemon.
His smile only increased in amplitude. “I’m not disappointed in the least. A man craves variety. After all, a man can’t live on confections alone. His teeth would rot out of his head. No, sometimes what a man needs is solid, hearty sustenance.”
Outrage flashed through her. “Are you comparing me to mutton stew?”
His head canted, mouth turned down at the corners, as if he were seriously comtemplating her question. “I wouldn’t go as far as mutton. Tender spring lamb and potato pie?”
Her mouth twitched. It didn’t want to, but it couldn’t help itself. Then it was a giggly chirrup passing her lips…then another…until, against her will, she was laughing.
With an undiminished pleased-with-himself smile, he said, “Come on, Saskia, won’t you let me in?”
Of course, she shouldn’t.
Experience had taught her what happened when they were alone in rooms together.
But then, in those rooms she hadn’t been wearing her most shapeless, most comfortable woolen best.
She stood aside and allowed him entry. He crossed the room and stopped beside the dressing table. She returned to her perch on the edge of the bed. Several feet separated them; it should be a safe enough perch.
“About the race…” The rest of the sentence refused to form. What could she possibly say to the man who had held that race in his palm and then lost it?
But he seemed to want hear the rest of that sentence. “What about the race?”
“You lost.” Inelegant statement of obvious fact.
“Aye.”
“Are you…all right?”
“Aye, I’m all right.”
And the thing was, he did appear to be all right.
How was that possible? It had been his final race—the final race of the winningest jockey of the last decade—and he was all right after a loss like that?
“I know you wanted to leave the sport with a win.”
He shrugged, intriguingly unbothered. “The important thing is Morningstar will be all right.”
“What happened?”
“A few furlongs from the finish, I felt him pull up subtly. I suspect it was an overreach injury.”
“Overreach?”
“When a back hoof strikes the heel of a front hoof. It can happen at high speeds toward the end of a race when fatigue begins to set in.”
“Can it cause lasting damage?”
“Oh, aye. It can lacerate tendons and cause infections.”
“Could he have finished?”
“Likely.”
“Could he have won?”
“Possibly,” Liam allowed. “It turned out to be a mild injury. No skin broken or damage to the hoof capsule.”
“But you didn’t know that, so you took him out of the running.”
Liam held her gaze. “Any laurels I receive is down to the horse who allows me to ride him. That horse trusts me to see him through the race. If he comes up injured, I have to honor that trust and put safety before glory.”
“You’re an honorable man, Liam.”
His quick smile flashed. “That going into the memoir?”
She snorted. “And cheeky.”
“Enough about me,” he said. “Tell me, how are your riding lessons progressing?”
“I love riding.” She was grinning. She couldn’t help herself. “Well, once my bottom got accustomed to it. Peony is such a dear.”
“I thought you would get along.”
“Your sister gave her to me.”
Liam’s brow lifted. “Did she now?”
Saskia’s head tipped to the side. “Why do you ask like that?”
“Gemma wouldn’t give a horse to just anyone. She must like you.”
“Well, I’m honored to have been deemed worthy.” The words fell from Saskia’s mouth in her usual way—laced with irony—and she immediately regretted her tone, for it was at odds with how she felt, which was truly honored.
She changed the subject. “Watching you today was a completely different experience from all the other races I’ve attended.”
“Oh?”
“Now that I can ride, I’m able to more fully appreciate what you do out on the turf. You’re magnificent, Liam.”
The lighting in the room was dim—only two candles burning, one on her desk and the other on the nightstand—but she thought a flush might’ve reddened the tips of his ears. “You’ll turn me into an insufferable braggart.”
She wasn’t finished. “But even though you’re masterful and magnificent”—she had no right to say these next words—“I can’t like how you’ve put yourself at risk with every race and get bruised and injured and…and…suffer.”
He considered her for a long moment. “But, Saskia, everything in life comes with risk. Even your library.”
Her brow creased. “I suppose a bookcase could fall on me.”
“You’re the writer, Saskia,” he chided. “You should know a metaphor when you hear one.”
The thing was, she had caught the metaphor, but she hadn’t wanted to address the metaphor, for she sensed its potential to lead to tricky places more comfortably left unexplored.
Liam, however, clearly did not feel the same, for he said, “Sometimes, you must put yourself at risk for what you love. For example, a dog—”
“First mutton stew, now you’re comparing me to a dog?”
He continued, undeterred. “A dog loves to have its belly scratched, but that is the most vulnerable place on its body. Still, a dog will roll onto its back and expose himself to get its heart’s desire.”
“Hmm, you might work on your metaphors.”
“Out there on the turf”—fervency shone in his eyes—“I might’ve gotten battered and bruised and suffered the occasional whip lashing to the face—”
“There’s still a silver stripe on your cheekbone.”
“But it was all part of being able to do what I loved. But, Saskia,” he continued, “those are mere injuries. Riding never caused me a moment’s suffering. But you?”
“What about me?”
“Does writing cause you to suffer?”
She snorted. “Bad writing certainly does.”
“But you’re a good writer.”
Oh, the na?veté of the non-writer… “Good is subjective.”
“Hardly.”
“I’ll tell you a dirty secret.”
“Is this another confession, Lady Saskia?”