Chapter 11
There were, Charlotte Tolliver knew perfectly well, several things a lady ought never to do.
She ought never to ride unchaperoned; she ought never to meet a gentleman unescorted; and she certainly ought not to do either of those things before dawn, clad in a riding habit cut altogether too snugly about the figure, and seated astride a spirited chestnut gelding.
She was, therefore, in direct violation of Society’s expectations on no fewer than three counts, and the day had scarcely begun.
The air at Ashwick Park lay sharp upon the skin, touched with dew and the tang of woodsmoke drifting from distant cottages.
It was the sort of hour that set the blood dancing in one’s veins—when all the world still belonged to men who rose early for sport, or to ladies sufficiently reckless to seize it for themselves.
Lottie adjusted her gloves and pressed her heels lightly to the horse’s flank, sending him along the narrow track. Her heart beat with a rhythm that felt suspiciously like delight.
She had informed no one of her intention to ride that morning—her sisters least of all, who possessed neither discretion nor the faintest respect for it.
Still, Lottie entertained little doubt that, should Theo or the Duke of Morleigh discover she had ridden out nearly an hour beyond Town to meet Jasper Deverell—alone, before sunrise, no less—they would be moved to violence, despite the fact that Deverell was Theo’s closest friend.
How fortunate, then, that neither gentleman resided at Tolliver House.
She rounded the final hedgerow and drew up her horse before the low rise that overlooked the south field.
Deverell sat astride a sleek black stallion, one hand resting lightly upon the pommel.
He had neglected the civilising influence of a hat, and the early light had done him the disservice of rendering him picturesque.
Indeed, he looked precisely like the sort of man for whom breathless young ladies wrote dreadful poetry.
He saw her approach and smiled with that particular expression of his that hovered somewhere between admiration and provocation. “I had begun to wonder,” he called across the field, his voice carrying easily in the still air, “if you might’ve come to your senses.”
Lottie urged her horse down the slope. “I am, alas, quite mad.”
“I feared as much.” He guided his stallion alongside her with ease. His gaze travelled over her in a manner that was not, strictly speaking, gentlemanly. “New habit?”
“Yes. Do you approve?”
“It is violently distracting.”
“Good.”
He laughed. “Shall we?”
“Indeed,” she said, wheeling her horse towards the narrow path.
“The course runs through the west grove, across the stone bridge, along the northern edge of the lake, and past the old chapel ruins. The first one to scale the old hunter’s lodge and touch the weathercock atop the roof shall be victorious. ”
“We are to scale the roof?”
“Of course.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do try to keep up, Mr Deverell.”
“Only you,” he called after her as she trotted away, “would devise a contest that ends in trespass and the possibility of a broken neck. I find myself wildly inclined to best you badly.”
She pulled up just short of the tree line, turning her horse. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with mischief. “Hush. This shall be our starting point. The moment you say the word, we ride.”
“On the contrary, Miss Tolliver. I believe it only proper that the honour be yours.”
“Very well.” Lottie’s answering smile was all teeth.
She leant forwards in the saddle, her body already aligning with the motion she craved.
Her seat was light but sure, her posture perfectly attuned to the familiar gait of the chestnut beneath her.
He shifted restlessly, snorting and pawing at the turf, his nostrils flaring as though he too could taste the challenge.
He was hers—spirited, clever, a touch too unruly to be considered safe by Society’s standards, as the dull creatures Aunt Belinda kept were—and she trusted him as she trusted the beat of her own heart.
“Three…”
Deverell shifted beside her, every line of him coiled like a whip.
“…Two…”
Both horses stamped the earth, necks tossing as they sensed the promise of flight.
“…One.”
They sprang forward like arrows loosed from a string, hooves tearing at the ground and the wind roaring in their ears. Lottie’s gelding surged ahead. Her riding hat flew back at once, caught only by its ribbon, and she gave a whoop.
She had always loved to ride—not along Rotten Row, all decorous posture and promenades, but like this: unbridled speed, wind at her cheeks, and the earth racing beneath her in a glorious blur.
In the country, she rode every day—twice, if she could manage it under Aunt Belinda’s watchful eye.
In such moments as these, she remembered herself: not a young lady or a daughter to be arranged, but a creature of motion and wild joy.
Deverell kept pace at her side, his mount as sleek and dark as a shadow.
He looked maddeningly composed, but there was something else in his face—something bright and delighted and very nearly boyish—that told her he was loving every second of it.
He called to her, though the words were lost in the wind between them; she caught the curve of his grin and returned it without hesitation.
Branches whipped past them as they thundered into the west grove.
“Is this”—Deverell’s voice rose above the pounding of hooves—“the part where you politely allow me to win?”
“I do nothing politely, Deverell!”
A flash of black to her left—his stallion gaining, Jasper’s form all elegant ease, damn him—and then they burst from the trees and onto the open rise.
The stone bridge loomed ahead, but Lottie’s gelding didn’t falter. They reached the foot of the bridge first.
Lottie bent low. She was flying, faster than sense, faster than scandal, and God, it felt glorious.
From behind her came Deverell’s voice. “You mean to kill us both, don’t you?”
She laughed aloud, wild and breathless.
They cleared the bridge and veered sharply as they hit the northern edge of the lake.
The ground grew soft and springy, dew flung from their mounts’ legs, reeds whipping at their boots.
The lake glimmered in the half-light, and ducks scattered in protest, beating their wings furiously as the horses thundered past.
Deverell’s stallion pulled alongside hers then, dark and gleaming, and for one heart-pounding moment they were neck and neck.
“You are cutting the turn too wide!” he shouted over the rush of wind.
“I favour drama!” she cried back, barely turning her head.
“You’ll favour a tumble into the lake next!”
She rose slightly in the stirrups. “Worried for my safety, Deverell?”
“Worried I shall have to fish you out!” His grin, dimpled and reckless, flashed beside her.
They were flying now, and the chapel ruins rose ahead. Lottie veered to the left as they approached a fallen arch, and the gelding leapt over it clean.
“Ha!” she cried, half triumphant, half wild.
Deverell took the long way around. “Show-off!”
“Coward!”
They burst past the ruined wall at the same moment, side by side again.
The old hunter’s lodge came into view, and atop it, the weathercock spun lazily.
Lottie urged the gelding on with a low whisper and a nudge of her heel.
He answered her with a surge of strength that nearly unseated her, and they tore across the final stretch.
Deverell was still beside her, barely a length behind… but barely was not ahead.
They thundered into the clearing, both horses skidding as their riders pulled hard on the reins.
Lottie flung herself from the saddle before the horse had fully halted, landing hard in her boots. For a moment it was nothing but chaos and cold, and then she was running, skirts hiked, boots flying over uneven ground.
Deverell was half a second behind, dismounting with a curse and giving chase. He was faster than she expected.
He was next to her already, and so, with a wicked grin, she veered sideways, slamming her shoulder into his ribs.
He staggered with a laugh, slipped in the mud, and went down hard.
Lottie shrieked with laughter as she dashed the rest of the way to the lodge.
“That is cheating!” Deverell called as he righted himself and scrambled to catch up.
“There were no rules!” she sang out.
Lottie hit the base of the lodge wall, scrabbling for purchase until her fingers closed around a rusted iron trellis, half-collapsed and clinging to the side of the building. Perfect.
She hauled herself up with a grunt, skirts bunched and boots slipping, the cold biting through her gloves as rust flaked beneath her grip.
“Bloody hell—”
“Language, Mr Deverell!”
“Oh, I’ll show you bloody language—”
“Save it for the roof!”
He reached the trellis a moment later, boots knocking mud from the wall, and they climbed together, laughing, panting, and swearing.
Lottie was nearly there now, the weathercock above them spinning gently in the morning breeze, just out of reach. She gritted her teeth and hauled herself upwards.
“Nearly there—” Jasper gasped behind her, close enough now she could hear the scuff of his boots and the wicked grin in his voice.
“Not fast enough,” she panted, stretching, and with one final, graceless lunge—her glove nearly tearing on the edge of the weathervane—her fingers closed around the cold metal tail.
She whooped, winded and triumphant. “That, sir,” she called, clinging to the crooked slant of the roof, “was a win.”
She turned, breathless with glee and fully prepared to gloat, only to find Deverell already moving.
He gave a sweeping, mocking bow atop the roof, as though it were a ballroom floor, and then leapt from the lower eave to the grass below, landing in a crouch.
Rising, he dusted his hands off on his breeches and looked up, smug as a devil.
“Well struck, Miss Tolliver,” he said, voice rich with laughter. “Your triumph is absolute.”
“Show-off,” she muttered, turning towards the edge, and promptly went still.
The roof had felt exhilarating when she’d been racing across it with the tiles beneath her boots, wind in her hair, and the thrill of victory thrumming in her blood.
It now felt rather… high. A misstep here would be undignified at best, and fatal at worst.
She bent her knees, gauging the distance to jump down. The corner of the eave looked manageable, if she could just get one foot over.
Until, of course, her boot slipped. She fell on her bottom, sliding down to the eave, where she stopped and looked down at the ground, suddenly quite terrified.
Below, Deverell stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at her with a grin.
“Do not dare laugh,” she hissed.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Although you do appear to be in a small amount of trouble at present.”
“I am perfectly capable of climbing down.”
“I’ve no doubt. Though,” he added thoughtfully, “I do wonder how you might ride home with a twisted ankle.”
She muttered something foul under her breath.
He stepped nearer, spreading his arms. “Come now, Miss Tolliver. Shall I offer you a gentlemanly rescue?”
“I do not require rescuing.”
“No, no, certainly not. Merely a… well-placed landing arrangement. Might I catch you?”
She leant forwards, eyeing the distance and pressing her lips into a thin line. The ground looked terribly far away, and she was beginning to slip further down the roof. She glanced down again and felt her stomach twist. Damn him.
“I am not a damsel in distress,” she called.
“Never. But come now, Miss Tolliver. I will catch you safely.”
She huffed. “If you drop me—”
“I shall never forgive myself.”
She stared at him, jaw clenched. “Very well,” she bit out. “But I do not wish to see so much as a smirk!”
“I shall only smirk internally,” he promised, arms still outstretched.
With one last murderous glance at the distance below, she jumped.
He caught her cleanly, with a grunt and a stagger, but his hands gripped her waist, strong and sure.
She looked up. He looked down.
“Quite the jump,” he murmured.
“Quite the catch,” she replied, oddly out of breath.