Chapter Eight The Catastrophe at Rotten Row #2
"Miss Bingley!" The Colonel's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. "Sit back!"
Caroline was attempting to do precisely that, holding on the reins for dear life, but her horse had other plans. The mare came down on all four hooves, bucked once for good measure, and then took off at a dead run straight for a line of trees.
The world became a blur of grey sky, brown earth, and the horrifying realisation that she was about to become intimately acquainted with a rather large oak.
Behind her, she heard the thunderous drumbeat of hooves. Black Thunder, because of course it was Black Thunder, was gaining on them with the relentless inevitability of divine retribution.
"Let go of the reins!" the Colonel roared.
This went against every instinct Caroline possessed. Letting go of the reins meant surrendering control. It meant trusting gravity and fate and a penniless Colonel who spent his spare time insulting her wardrobe.
The oak loomed closer.
She let go.
His arm came around her waist like an iron band. For one weightless, terrifying moment, she was airborne, yanked sideways out of the saddle and hauled onto Black Thunder as if she weighed no more than a sack of carrots.
Seraphina, now riderless and free to pursue her true calling as a wild creature, veered left and galloped off towards the Serpentine, with the maid's screaming dog in hot pursuit.
The Colonel pulled Black Thunder to a halt. The warhorse obeyed instantly, transitioning from full gallop to standstill with the precision of a machine. Caroline, meanwhile, transitioned from terror to rage with equal speed.
"You—" She gasped, still clutching his coat sleeve. "You pulled me off my horse!"
"You were about to die."
"I was fine!"
"You were about to meet God. I saved you the introduction."
She was sitting sideways across Black Thunder's withers, pressed against his chest, one arm wrapped around his shoulders in a grip that could have strangled a bear. Her hat was gone. Her hair was coming loose. And her very expensive riding habit was now covered in dust.
"Put me down, you brute," she hissed.
"Gladly. Though I feel compelled to point out that we are still on a horse. Dismounting will require coordination, Miss Bingley. Do you possess any?"
"I possess the overwhelming urge to strike you."
"Please do not strike me whilst I am controlling a seventeen-hand warhorse. It ends poorly for everyone involved."
Black Thunder snorted, as if to underscore the point.
Caroline became suddenly, horribly aware of how close she was to the Colonel. Close enough to feel the solid warmth of his chest through layers of wool and linen. Close enough to see the way his jaw tightened when he was suppressing amusement.
He was laughing at her.
She released his coat and attempted to pull away, which proved difficult given that she was balanced precariously on a saddle designed for one person and that person was not her.
"If you wriggle, you will fall," he advised. "And the horse will step on you. He does not look where he places his feet."
"Then get me off this beast immediately!"
"As you wish."
He swung his right leg over the saddle, dismounted in one smooth motion, and reached up to lift her down. His hands spanned her waist, strong and sure, and for a moment she was suspended mid-air, eye level with him, looking straight at the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
Then her feet touched the ground, and he released her as if she were made of hot coals. Caroline staggered, caught her balance, and immediately began brushing dirt from her skirt with furious, agitated swipes.
"My hat is gone. My horse is halfway to Windsor. And I am covered in—" She paused, examining a suspicious stain on her sleeve. "Is this horse saliva?"
"Possibly."
"This is a disaster."
"This is Hyde Park on a Thursday. Disasters are traditional."
From somewhere down the Row came the sound of Charles's voice, high and plaintive: "I have the dog! But it bit me! It is very small but very fierce!"
Caroline closed her eyes. "I am going to kill him."
"You will have to wait your turn. The dog has priority."
She opened her eyes and glared at him. "This is your fault."
"Mine?" Both his eyebrows rose. "I was not the one who hired a horse with the temperament of a debutante at her first ball. Nor was I the one who brought a brother who does not know how not to chase lapdogs."
"Seraphina is a prime bit of blood!"
"Seraphina is a threat to Society. She ran from a creature that weighs less than a ham."
"She was startled!"
"She was hysterical."
Caroline opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, then stopped. Because he was looking at her, and there was no mockery in his eyes. The look was careful. Assessing. He was searching her face for injuries, checking for damage beneath the fury.
"Are you hurt?" His voice dropped to a quieter register.
"No."
"Are you certain? You were clinging to me as if I were the last solid object in England."
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I was not clinging. I was stabilising."
"You were clinging. Your grip could have cracked my ribs."
"If I cracked your ribs, Colonel, you would know. You would be on the ground, weeping."
"I doubt that. I have been shot at by the French. You are significantly less frightening."
"Give me time."
His mouth twitched. "I look forward to it."
They stood there, in the middle of Rotten Row, covered in dust and indignation, while Seraphina continued her mad dash to freedom and Charles Bingley attempted to reason with a dog that clearly had no interest in diplomacy.
"We need to retrieve Seraphina," Caroline said at last, smoothing her hair back from her face with hands that trembled slightly. She would not think about the trembling. Trembling was for weak women who swooned. She did not swoon. She strategized.
"The horse is long gone. She is probably in Richmond by now, terrorising sheep."
"Then I shall walk home."
"You will not. You will ride Black Thunder."
Caroline looked at the horse. The horse looked back. He would tolerate her presence, his eyes said, but he would not enjoy it.
"He hates me," she said flatly.
"He hates everyone. It is not personal."
"How reassuring."
Richard moved to his horse's side and held out a hand. "Come. I shall walk him back. You will ride. It is non-negotiable, Miss Bingley. You are not walking three miles through London in a torn riding habit looking like you have been dragged through a hedge by vengeful squirrels."
"I do not look—" She caught sight of her reflection in a nearby puddle. "Oh God."
"Precisely. Now mount up before someone mistakes you for a vagrant and calls the Watch."
Caroline, because she was out of options and because her feet hurt and because the Colonel was right, damn him, allowed him to help her into the saddle.
Black Thunder sighed. It was a long, suffering sound.
Caroline sympathised entirely.
The Colonel turned at the sound of continued uproar down the Row. Charles was still engaged in mortal combat with the lapdog, which had apparently decided that surrender was for cowards.
"Mr Bingley!" the Colonel shouted. "Leave the beast to its fate and ride home immediately!"
Charles looked up, the dog dangling from his sleeve by its teeth. "But the poor creature—"
"Is feral and possibly rabid. Go home. Send your carriage back to the park gates to collect your sister. She cannot ride through Mayfair looking like she has been assaulted by highway robbers."