would be inundated with chance meetings and another of her little pleasures would be eaten into by the men who were only pretending to be interested in what she said.
‘Please don’t go too far ahead, my lady,’ Richards called from a few feet behind her.
At the moment they were riding close together, but from experience the young groom knew it was only a matter of time before Georgina leant forward and urged Lady Penelope, her beautiful grey mare, into a gallop and left Richards faltering behind.
Nodding in greeting to the few people out and about this early in the morning, Georgina slowly loosened her grip on the reins, signalling to Lady Penelope to start picking up the pace. As they began first to trot and then to canter Georgina threw her head back and marvelled at the feeling of wind through her hair, wishing she could unfasten it and wear it streaming down her back like a medieval princess.
Rotten Row itself was only just under a mile long and to Georgina it felt like a matter of seconds before she was reining in Lady Penelope to navigate the turn at the end. Richards was a couple of hundred feet behind her and even at this distance Georgina could picture his face, screwed up with concentration and effort. Knowing she shouldn’t be cruel she allowed her speed to fall to a much more sedate pace, giving the sweating groom a few minutes to catch up.
This end of Rotten Row was quieter, with some of the grooms preferring to stick to the Hyde Park Corner end, spending much of their time talking and catching up on the gossip about their masters rather than exerting the horses. However, as she turned, one lone rider was coming up past Richards.
Immediately she felt her body tense. She recognised him from his posture, the way he held himself. Of course he would be at ease on horseback; the man seemed to do everything naturally. Trying to suppress the bubble of pleasure at the thought of meeting Mr Robertson again, she wondered if he had contrived running into her while out riding. It was unlikely, she kept these early morning rides to herself, and it wasn’t as though many ladies in London kept a horse in the city, let alone made a habit of being out riding at such an early hour.
‘Lady Georgina,’ he said, his voice deep and warm as he slowed to match her pace. Richards was just coming up behind them and she motioned for him to keep his distance, signalling everything was all right.
‘Mr Robertson, what a surprise to see you here,’ she said drily.
‘You think I’m following you?’ he asked, a smile forming on his lips, revealing surprisingly white teeth contrasting against his bronzed skin.
‘It is rather a coincidence...’ she said, even though she’d convinced herself this was nothing more than chance. Or fate. As she looked at him she tried to limit her admiration to the easy way he sat on his horse, his good posture and clearly excellent riding skills, but she found her eyes roaming over his body. It was hard not to notice the sculpted muscles under his riding garb and the tanned skin that spoke of his time under the blazing sun... Quickly she snapped her eyes back to his and tried to focus.
‘I suppose I did follow you from the ballroom last night,’ he said, ‘but even I wouldn’t dream of ambushing a young lady while she’s out riding for pleasure.’
‘And you? Are you out riding for pleasure?’ Georgina asked.
Even though she knew very little about Mr Robertson she did know quite a lot about how society worked. A man newly arrived in London, with few family connections, would struggle to easily find a horse to ride. To want to hire one for the Season showed either a deep love of riding or a view that all gentlemen should have access to a mount at any time. Given what she’d seen of Mr Robertson so far it seemed far more likely to be the former than the latter.
‘Indeed. Back home I’m in the saddle at least five hours a day. Riding for pleasure isn’t quite the same, but it is better than the alternative of not riding at all for months at a time.’
‘Back home?’ Georgina asked, trying to make her question sound casual.
He regarded her for a moment, and she wondered if he would once again dodge the question about his origins. ‘Australia,’ he said eventually. ‘The Eastern Coast.’
Where they transported convicted criminals.
Telling herself not to be foolish, Georgina found her imagination running away with her. Thoughts of brutal criminals, men in chains, toiling away under a baking sun filled her mind. She’d never even seen a picture of Australia, but in her imagination it had sands the colour of amber and harsh conditions.
She felt her mouth go dry as the unbidden image of Mr Robertson shirtless, toiling away in a chain gang, popped into her head. She’d felt the hard muscles of his chest the night before, muscles made strong by manual labour. Quickly she reached for a question, any question, to distract herself from the image.
‘What’s it like?’ Georgina asked.
Mr Robertson laughed softly. ‘Like nothing you could ever imagine.’
She didn’t think he was going to say any more, but after a moment he continued.
‘It’s nothing like England,’ he said, ‘In any way whatsoever. The people are coarser, no time for these customs or manners that matter so much in London. The land is beautiful, but harsh. I’ve known many a man go wandering off into the wilderness never to be seen again.’
‘That wouldn’t happen in Surrey or Sussex,’ Georgina murmured.
‘But despite all the trials it throws at you there’s something rather enchanting about it. I’ve never seen such blue sea or golden sands. Or such vast expanses of land where there’s not a single sign of a settlement.’ He was staring off into the distance as if remembering fondly. ‘I suppose that’s how you feel about your home, wherever it may be.’
‘You were born there?’ Georgina asked.
He looked up abruptly, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘No,’ he said brusquely.
They rode in silence, side by side, for a few moments, Mr Robertson clearly still deep in thought, reminiscing about the land he seemed to both love and fear a little.
‘You were born in Hampshire,’ he said after a few minutes.
‘You’ve been enquiring about me?’
Shrugging, a gesture not normally seen among the men of the ton, he grinned. ‘I’m residing with Lady Winston. She seems to know everything about everyone.’
‘That’s how it is,’ Georgina said, almost glumly. There was no mystery among the ton. Those whom her mother deemed to be suitable friends or companions for Georgina numbered very few and her social circle was small. The wealthiest members of society, those with the oldest family names and largest estates, only socialised with people of a similar position, meaning even if you didn’t like someone very much you ended up spending rather a lot of time with them.
‘Are you related to her?’ Georgina asked as they neared Hyde Park Corner, turning their horses for another lap of Rotten Row.
‘Not exactly...’ He paused. ‘I’m in England with two good friends, Mr Sam Crawford and Mr George Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald is Lady Winston’s nephew.’
It was a strange way of putting it, not exactly, but she supposed some people had friendships that were as close
