made a bow from the saddle with a smile of approval and a grin at his friend, and she suspected that he was receiving a coded message to suppress what he might have said, had she not been the widow of Sir Richard Golding. ‘I am honoured, my lady. We always try to perform better when we have a special audience.’
‘Then I shall watch even more carefully,’ she replied, smiling back at him.
‘Watch this, then,’ he said. ‘See if you can see the difference since last week, Verne. This young lad learns fast. Brilliant potential.’ He trotted away to the side of the arena, reining back slowly before setting off to dance diagonally across the space. Annemarie had not seen this being practised before.
‘You were here last week?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the grey.
‘And the week before. And the week before that too,’ Verne answered, also watching. ‘A big improvement. Nearly fell over himself last week.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Good,’ he said, quietly, without indicating exactly what he meant. ‘Now, would you care to see the driving carriages while we’re here? He has some dashing phaetons and my own curricle is—’
‘Lord Verne,’ Annemarie said, stopping just inside the coach-house, a cool, spotlessly clean place lined with black-panelled coaches, shining brass and silver, and padded upholstery. The idea of driving again was more than appealing, in Brighton where she would not be remarked. But not with this man, not while she was being used so flagrantly to help him achieve his purpose. She had had enough of being used and now she was not so innocent that she couldn’t tell when it was happening again. Even if he did come to Brighton on weekly visits, that was no reason why she should be obliged to play this cat-and-mouse game with him. He had kissed her and today paid her an outlandish compliment and sought her company. She had better beware, for these were the first signs of something she must avoid at all costs. And she was one step ahead of him, which he must be aware of by now.
‘My lady?’ he said, stopping with her.
‘Lord Verne, I believe our scores are equal now.’
‘Enlighten me, if you will?’ He removed his beaver hat and, pulling off his gloves, stuffed them into the crown and placed it on the seat of the nearest vehicle. ‘What scores are we talking about?’
‘I showed you my bad manners when I was angry and you retaliated by showing me yours when you were angry. Now we have both redeemed ourselves, as you said you wished to do. You can go and get on with whatever you have to do here and I can do the same. Alone. Thank you so much for the tour of the stables. Do these doors lead to North Street?’ She had already seen the questions forming in his eyes. Angry? Me? When?
‘When was I angry with you, my lady? Do remind me.’
She ought to have kept quiet. She had set out the premise of a debate and now would have to refuse to elaborate. ‘Never mind,’ she whispered. ‘If you don’t recall it, then why should I? Please, which way is the exit?’
Shaking his head, he tried to hide his smile behind a knuckle as he came to stand four-square in front of her, lifting her chin to see beneath the bonnet into her deep violet eyes rimmed with black lashes long enough to sweep up moonbeams. ‘You thought I was angry when I kissed you?’ he said. ‘Really?’
She tried to move away, mortified that she had shown him so clearly what was in her mind. Secret thoughts, not to be shared. But now her back was against the cool wall, held there by his hands braced on either side of her, and she feared he meant to repeat it, after all her denials and disapprovals.
‘Since you ask, yes! Why else but to...?’
She saw his eyes widen. ‘To what? Humiliate you?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It was unforgivable, my lord. I am not to be used so.’
‘If that’s what you believed, then it was indeed unforgivable of me and not at all what I meant. I would never use such means to humiliate a woman.’
‘Then if that is the case, please don’t say any more. We shall forget about it.’
‘I hope not,’ he murmured.
‘I would like to return home, if you please.’
‘Steady, my lady. I shall take you home, but there’s no need to go galloping off like a spooked filly.’ His head lowered to hers and she was compelled to watch his mouth, to hear the softly spoken words, few of which she could remember later, that sounded like those he might have used to a nervous horse about to bolt. Gentling. Calming. Words of admiration about breeding and class and exclusiveness, elegance and loftiness that needed a man’s hand, not an old man’s, nor a boy’s. She might have shown irritation at that too-personal opinion, but she did not, for something deep within her kept her still and listening, as though at last she was hearing the truth for the first time.
‘Come on, my beauty,’ he whispered, holding out his arm for her to take.
Placing her fingers again on the blue sleeve, she walked with him to the door, blinking at the sunlight.
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