other side, giving Nikolay a first glimpse of the rider’s face: sharp cheekbones, the firm but fine line of jaw, almost feminine beneath the helmet, the intensity of green eyes fixed on the jump as the rider sighted the target. Nikolay couldn’t be sure if the rider saw him. The horse and rider took the jump again, coming to a stop in front of him at the gate.
The rider undid the strap of the helmet and removed it, shaking loose a stream of walnut waves. He was a she. A not entirely warm smile played on her sensual lips. ‘Nikolay Baklanov, I presume?’ She tossed those glossy waves with presumption. ‘You are late.’
‘You are riding without permission or supervision. Klara Grigorieva, I presume?’ Nikolay countered. Best to begin as he meant to go on with this supercilious miss who clearly possessed a healthy dose of arrogance, if not common sense. Nikolay placed a booted foot on the rungs of the gate and gave his newest pupil a considering gaze from head to boot. ‘You’re the Russian ambassador’s daughter?’
She swung off the horse. ‘I am, and this is Zvezda, my mare.’ She smiled broadly, eyes sparking as her boots hit the ground. ‘Surprised? Not what you expected?’
‘No, not at all.’ She was also very tall for a woman, a fact emphasised by the male attire she wore, breeches that encased long legs and emphasised the slenderness of waist. Her hair fell to that trim waist, and she had a face that rivalled Helen of Troy, a beautiful mix of eastern exoticism in the seductive slant of those eyes arched with narrow dark brows, the sharp cheekbones of her Russian ancestors and the delicate jaw of an English rose—the perfect combination of strength and femininity.
‘“No, not at all”?’ she parroted. ‘What does that mean? No, not at all surprised? Or no, not at all what you expected?’
Nikolay put a hand on the horse’s bridle. ‘You know very well you had the advantage of me.’ But he would not be cowed by that surprise. Neither would he allow her to keep that advantage. Bold women were attractive up to a point. ‘I think you like surprising people, Miss Grigorieva.’ How intriguing; the ambassador’s daughter had a rebellious streak. He petted the horse, looking for neutral ground before their first encounter became overly adversarial. ‘Zvezda, that’s Star in Russian.’ He didn’t miss the spark in her eyes. She hadn’t known. Interesting. ‘Pretty name. Pretty horse.’ The mare was an excellent specimen of English horseflesh. A Russian name for an English horse, much like the daughter, apparently. Klara was a name that could bridge both worlds, where Grigorieva could not.
Nikolay watched her carefully, this Anglo-Russian creation standing before him. ‘What is it that you’ve come to me for, Miss Grigorieva?’ His eyes drifted, letting his gaze convey explicitly what his words implied. If she wanted to play with fire, he’d light the match.
‘Riding lessons, of course. This is a riding school.’ She didn’t flinch.
‘You already ride exceedingly well, as I am sure you know.’
‘I am told you’re the best. Isn’t that reason enough?’
‘The best at what?’ It was a provocative question, hardly the sort of thing one said to an unmarried young woman. But she was not the ‘usual’. One had only to note her breeches, as opposed to a riding habit, to know that much. The mischief in him wanted to knock Miss Grigorieva from her high horse. The officer in him wanted to control her, wanted to rein in the danger she might pose.
‘Riding,’ she answered with a cool arch of her brow that implied an innuendo of her own. She turned towards Zvezda, reaching up to grip the saddle and a bit of mane. ‘A leg up, if you please?’
Touché. All the better to see her with, Nikolay thought wryly. He cupped his hands to take her boot, keenly aware of the curve of her hip and buttock, so near to his face that he could kiss that derrière as he tossed her up. He opted for professional detachment. ‘Let’s try the jump again. This time, I want you to count your strides. Anyone can jump if they’re brave enough,’ he challenged. ‘Not everyone can do it on a pace count. That’s true art. Take it in five strides.’ Nikolay drew a line in the dirt with his boot. ‘From here.’
‘I’ll take it in four.’ She fastened her helmet.
‘I asked you to take it in five,’ Nikolay responded sternly. If this had been his cavalry, he would have had a soldier whipped for such insubordination. ‘If you study with me, I expect you to take direction as well as your horse, Miss Grigorieva. Can you do that?’
She wheeled the white mare around in a flashy circle but not before Nikolay caught the hint of a flush on her cheeks. Ah, so Miss Grigorieva was not used to being disciplined. He imagined not, with that haughty demeanour of hers. She was used to people doing her bidding, not the other way around. She took the fence in five strides, but it was a fight for the fifth before the mare lifted. She’d started too fast and the mare had eaten up too much ground. ‘Again, Miss Grigorieva! This time with five even strides so it looks like you planned it that way.’
She shot him a hard look and Nikolay chuckled. The wilder the filly, the better the ride. Part of him was going to enjoy taming the diplomat’s daughter and part of him was going to regret it. He just wasn’t yet sure which part was going to be larger. ‘Heels down, Miss Grigorieva. Let’s try again.’ London had just got more interesting, if not more dangerous.
Heels down? Was he joking? No one had told her that for years. She was no amateur and yet she begrudgingly discovered there was a bit of room in the stirrups still for the slightest of adjustments. She turned Zvezda around and pointed her towards the jump. Five even strides. She’d show that arrogant Russian prince perfection in motion. Heels down. Hah. That would be the last time she gave him reason to find any fault with her.
They worked on counting strides for the better part of the hour until the mare was tired, but not too tired, not too sweaty. Sweaty horses chilled easily in the winter. Nikolay Baklanov had a good eye, not just for the horse, but for the rider, too. His arrogance was well earned. His reputation did not disappoint. Even with her experience, she’d picked up a tip or two during their session which was something of a surprise in part because she’d not expected to and in part because learning something had only been a portion of the reason she was here. The other part was that she’d been sent on a mission of sorts to vet the young Kubanian royal. The Prince had been in London for two months; long enough to have called on the ambassador himself. Since he hadn’t, her father had decided to send her to call on him. She was to meet Prince Baklanov and establish his ‘quality’.
Klara dismounted to walk her horse while the mare cooled. The Prince fell into step beside her, debriefing the lesson with instructions on what to practise throughout the week. She could easily imagine him giving the same terse litany of instructions to his troops. He would be a commanding leader. Up close, he was tall, a novelty for her. She could look most men in the eye, but she reached only his shoulder, a very broad shoulder. There was no doubting he was a rider of superb calibre. He was built for it with long legs, muscled thighs evident even through the fabric of his trousers and lean through the hips. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, only muscle: well-trained, well-hewn muscle.
This was no dandified cavalry officer whose position had been purchased by his parents and good fortune of birth. This man was a warrior, a point accentuated by the dark hair worn long at his shoulders; the firm cut of his jaw and severe, chiselled lines of his face. A woman could look at that face for hours, could lose herself in the dark depths of his eyes—eyes full of secrets. He was a man who knew how to be dangerous to both men and women—a warrior to one, a lover to the other.
