that no man had any right to so much as comment on his actions. He was going to make a point of seeking that woman out at every opportunity and, if nothing else, wringing a damned apology out of her.
Chapter Four
Lord Lensborough strode down to the stable yard at first light with a sense of having endured a night of unmitigated torture. The bed, his temper, the troupe of clog dancers who’d been practising in the room above his all night, had all conspired to rob him of sleep.
After a few nights, he’d grow accustomed to sleeping in a semi-recumbent position, or exhaustion would inure his feet to dangling off the edge of a bed that only a midget could stretch out on in comfort. He could even deal with the clog dancers by stuffing cotton wool in his ears.
Which only left his temper. And he had a nasty suspicion that was not going to improve until he’d left The Holme, and one infuriating red-haired shrew, far behind.
No sooner had his thoughts bent in her direction, than Lady Hester trotted into the yard on a pretty little grey mare. He shook his head in disbelief. Not only were there not many people who could beat him down to the stables in the morning, he had the peculiar feeling that he had summoned her up, like a genie from a magic lamp, exactly as he’d done the night before.
Grudgingly, he admired her splendid seat. Then noted, as she bent forward and patted her mount’s neck, that her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure almost like a woman who had just made love. No, he corrected himself, annoyed that such a comparison had sprung to mind in relation to Lady Hester. She looked just like she had done when she had been surrounded by the children last night, until she had seen him and all the animation had drained from her face.
Her clothing was in better condition than the frightful rags he had seen her in before, though. The bottle-green habit fitted her like a glove, outlining a figure that, though it was slender, was not totally without womanly curves. The jacket hugged a surprisingly full pair of high, firm breasts. As she slid from her mount, her skirts snagged briefly on the pommel and he caught a tantalising glimpse of a booted ankle. Rooted to the spot, he had sudden, total recall of endlessly long legs, encased in torn black stockings, splayed out as she lay face down in the mud.
He frowned at the inappropriate image that had lodged in his mind, forcing his eyes to return to her face. They widened at the sight of a garland of paper flowers decorating her riding hat. What could have prompted her to adopt such a touch of whimsy to what was otherwise quite an austere outfit? Was she, in defiance of her hopeless state, the kind of girl who rode through the morning mists, dreaming of a prince on a black charger riding to sweep her away from her life of drudgery and dependence? Who would place a coronet among those vibrant curls, deck her swanlike neck with jewels, and murmur the sort of flattery she would never hear from a real flesh-and-blood male? The notion amused him.
He could certainly understand her very evident pleasure in having been out on such a fresh, clear morning, whatever had prompted it. There was nothing like having the world to yourself before the business of the day crowded in.
As she smoothed down her skirts his eyes followed her gloves’ progress over the contours of her hips. Having been privy to a breathtaking display of her athleticism the day before, he just knew that little posterior would be firm and muscular.
She looked up, catching his very masculine appreciation of her feminine attributes, her whole body tensing as the colour leached from her face. He frowned, feeling truly sorry that her antipathy for him had the power to destroy her pleasure in a pursuit that was so dear to his own heart. With a sigh, he began to cross the yard. All his anger towards her had achieved so far was to deprive him of sleep. It was time to call a truce.
He would use their mutual love of riding as a means of extending an olive branch.
‘Good morning, my lady. I see you enjoyed your ride.’
‘Yes.’ Her tone was guarded, her eyes wary. He supposed he ought not to be surprised she was gearing up to do battle after the way their previous encounters had gone.
‘I am very fond of riding myself.’
‘At this hour? I assumed you would lay abed till noon like most gentlemen of fashion.’
‘Ah, but I am not a gentleman of fashion. And when I am in the country I keep country hours.’
‘But I don’t suppose you ride every morning.’
‘Ah, but I do.’
‘Before breakfast?’ She rapped the side of her boot with her riding crop in vexation.
He nodded. ‘I never breakfast until after my morning ride.’
‘Bother,’ was all she answered.
The smile this response produced died on his lips as Hester suddenly shrank back against the stable wall, guilt written all over her face. He whirled round, following the direction of her horrified stare, to see Sir Thomas and his ruddy-cheeked son-in-law enter the yard. Sir Thomas was glaring from one to the other of them as if he could not decide which of them he was most annoyed with.
Lord Lensborough’s hackles rose. The man had every right to deal with his own niece as he saw fit, but did he think that he should meekly obey his dictum to avoid her company?
Sir Thomas raised his crop as he approached Hester, and for one awful moment he thought the man was going to strike her with it. Instead, he used it to point at the paper garland on her riding hat and growled, ‘I suppose I do not need to ask where you have been.’
Lady Hester’s hand fluttered up to her hat in an unconscious gesture of self-defense.
‘No, Uncle.’ She lifted her chin defiantly.
‘Peter,’ Sir Thomas barked.
His son-in-law jumped at the sound of his name.
‘Perhaps you would be so good as to show his lordship around the stables, and, if he wishes to ride out, accompany him round the estates in my stead. I am going to be occupied with other matters for a while.’
While Hester hung her head, Lord Lensborough leaned against an open stable door, folding his arms across his chest.
‘I had no idea you were such an early riser, my lord,’ Sir Thomas addressed him with forced politeness.
‘Neither had I, Uncle. Truly,’ Hester blurted, raising her head. For some reason, that statement caused amusement to flicker across her uncle’s face.
‘That I can well believe.’ He chuckled, before turning to Lord Lensborough and remarking, ‘Harry mentioned last night that you keep extensive stables, my lord. He spends a lot of time in London, does my nephew, and seems to regard you as a regular Corinthian.’
Lensborough dipped his head in acknowledgment of an accolade he often received, though on this occasion he recognised it for the attempt it was to divert attention from Hester.
Peter ambled forward. ‘I’m a keen rider myself,’ he began, ‘though not up to your standard, I warrant. But I would be honoured to show you around the place. There are some good gallops to be had up towards the moors.’
‘A word of warning, Peter,’ Sir Thomas interjected. ‘Keep well away from The Lady’s Acres—the
