rise to a myth. Propping her chin on her hands, gazing across the meadow at the house in the distance, Caro recalled the many tales she and her sisters had spun about their elusive neighbour. Tall and very thin, he could have been a handsome man were it not for the meanness of his mouth, the coldness in his eyes. Upon the rare occasions she had come across him out on his estate—for Caro and her sisters were wont to trespass there often when out playing, when they were much younger—the marquis’s haughty stare had frozen her to the bone. He wore the powdered wig and wide-skirted coats of his youth too, giving the appearance of having stepped out of a portrait. When he spoke, it was with a strange lisp at odds with the iciness of his tone, which terrified them. For the Armstrong sisters, the marquis had come to epitomise the evil, brooding monster in their darker make-believe games. Crag Hall was their haunted castle. It was Cassie who gave him the nickname Marquis of Ardhellow. Papa, who was somewhat in awe of the man, would be appalled by the liberties his daughters had taken with his neighbour’s prestigious title and spotless reputation.
Without her sisters, trespassing upon the Crag Hall estate had lost much of its appeal. Today however, the spirit of rebellion which she had to work so hard to suppress, combined with a need to put as much distance between herself and her own home, prompted Caro to climb over the boundary wall and into the grounds for the first time in years. She would welcome an encounter with the intimidating owner, she told herself. Though she was not exactly sure what she would say to him, she was certain she would not simply turn tail as she had done when younger.
The house was vast, three storeys of blond sandstone with six sets of windows placed either side of the huge Palladian Corinthian frontispiece giving it the look of a Roman temple. Two sets of stairs led up the pillared entranceway, the pediment of which was carved with the family motto and the Ardhallow coat of arms. Only Papa had ever been inside, and Papa was not inclined to describe in any sort of detail a house of which he was clearly envious. Caro imagined a whole series of opulent rooms opening out the one on to the other, hung with tapestries and huge historical paintings, the kind usually seen only in churches.
Skirting the path which led around the west wing to the rear, avoiding the large walled kitchen gardens, she headed for the rose garden. It was then that she spied the riderless horse. A beautiful creature with a coat the colour of golden sand, it was galloping full-tilt across the paddock towards her, bucking and snorting in its efforts to rid itself of the empty saddle. Surprised and entranced, she felt a fleeting sympathy for the animal, followed by a much stronger desire to ride the untamed creature, to feel the exhilaration of trying to control such an elemental force of nature. The horse came to an abrupt halt right in front of her, flanks heaving, eyes staring wildly. Unthinking, Caro stretched out her hand to touch the soft velvet of his nose.
‘No!’
She froze.
‘For God’s sake, are you out of your mind? Can’t you see he’s spooked? He’ll take your fingers off.’
She dropped her hand and stared in astonishment. Striding towards her, dressed in breeches, top boots and a shirt, all of which were covered in a film of fine dust, was a young man wearing a furious expression. He was also carrying a riding crop which, by the look of him, Caro reckoned, he would happily use on her.
Later, she would notice that he was also a very attractive young man. Later, she would also notice that he was well built, with the natural grace of an athlete. But for now, it was that riding crop and the furious look in his eyes which made her glare at him defiantly, and just as defiantly reach out once more for the horse, clucking softly in the way that never failed, and did not let her down now. The young stallion tossed his head once, then nudged her palm, snickering contentedly.
‘What the devil!’
Caro cast him a triumphant look. ‘It is simply a question of empathy. Animals respond to gentleness,’ she said, with a pointed look at his whip. ‘If your riding is as aggressive as your language, Mr Whatever-your-name-is, then I am not surprised this magnificent beast threw you.’
For a moment, she really did think she had gone too far. He glared at her, delivering a look even darker than her own. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rumbling and intensely masculine laugh.
He was younger than she had first thought, probably not that much older than she was herself. His hair was close-cropped, very dark brown tinted with bronze, which seemed to reflect the colour of his eyes. She had thought him austere in his anger, but in humour his face was quite changed. His expression softened when cleared of its frown, though his mouth was still intriguingly turned down at the corners. The day’s growth which darkened his jaw, the smattering of hair she could see through the open neck of his shirt, the deep tan on his forearms and neck, all added to a general impression of wildness which appealed to Caro on a fundamental level, in the mood she was in.
His frown returned as he watched her stroking the horse’s pale blaze. ‘Let me assure you, young lady, that if this animal let you close enough to inspect his flanks, you would find not a trace of violence. Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Caro. I live over there.’ She waved vaguely in the direction of her home.
‘You mean Killellan Manor, Lord Armstrong’s place? I met one of his daughters once. Haughty female, tall. Lady Celia, I think her name was.’ He frowned, peering into her face, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Yes, I can see the resemblance now, though you are not so tall, and your hair...’
‘Is more carrot than Titian. Thank you for pointing that out,’ Caro said.
‘Actually, it is more like copper. Burnished copper. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.’
‘Oh. That was a compliment.’
‘A very badly worded one, I’m not surprised you took it amiss. I’m Sebastian, incidentally.’ He made a face. ‘Actually, Sebastian Conway, Earl of Mosteyn.’
Caro’s eyes widened. ‘Good grief, you are the marquis’s son!’
‘For my sins.’
‘I can’t believe our paths have never crossed until now,’ she said blithely.
‘I don’t live here, when I can avoid it. I find that my father and I deal best when we are not confined under the same roof.’
‘Well, you must deal very badly indeed if you cannot stand being under such a very large roof,’ Caro replied. Realising too late that she had been both rude and probably hurtful, she covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...’
Sebastian shrugged. ‘No need to apologise, it’s the truth. My father finds my presence offensive. Nothing about my person pleases him and nothing I can do will change his mind. He packed me off to Harrow at the first opportunity. I went straight from there to Oxford of my own accord. In the weeks since I came down, my mere presence here has offended every bone in his stiff-necked body. Fortunately, I am not obliged to please him, having come into some money of my own. I’m off to London next week, and shall be more than thankful to shake the dust from this place for ever.’
Though the picture he painted was painfully bleak, his tone was flippant. ‘My father is lately remarried,’ Caro said. ‘There is only so much influence he can accrue by marrying off his daughters, you see. He has decided the time has come for him to produce some sons. Or at least, for Bella to produce some sons. Bella is my new stepmother. She hates me.’
‘And so you are trespassing on my father’s grounds in order to escape.’
‘It
