horse.
Oliver sighed, resigned as always to Marietta’s reckless escapades. ‘She will do whatever she wants to do—which is what she always does, Emma.’
‘Come along, Julian,’ Marietta urged with a shout of laughter, hearing the smattering of giggles as the group looked on and encouraged by it. ‘Let’s you and me have a little race of our own. To that post at the end of the green and back—and I bet I win.’
With a gentle kick at the horse’s flanks with her heels and firing an amused glance over her shoulder at her friends, while feeling the force of the ancient ladies’ unwavering scandalised cold stares, their faces taut with disapproval on the veranda, with her skirts ballooning behind her she was off, with Julian, always game for anything, tearing after her.
Their horses’ hooves thundered over the hard green turf. All the way to the post they were neck and neck, and not until they turned for home did Marietta pull ahead, finishing a length ahead of Julian. Unfortunately her horse was going so fast she had to pull up sharply, causing the animal to stumble on a raised hillock and tossing her over its head. After flying through the air, in a tangle of flounces and frills and furbelows as her skirts were upflung, she landed on the ground. Unhurt and laughing happily despite the loss of her dignity—for she was the victor after all—she scrambled to her feet.
‘Dear God in heaven,’ she heard someone exclaim in a furious voice, his temper roused, not at all pleased at being almost knocked off his feet. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going, you stupid girl? You might have caused a serious accident.’
Marietta hadn’t seen him at first. She was too busy trying to regain her balance, but she did feel a crackle in the air and perceived the unnatural silence when it fell among her chirruping friends. As she stood, with her nerves jangling like wind chimes in a typhoon, her heart began to beat unaccountably faster when she found herself confronted by the formidable Lord Trevellyan and his beautiful wife, Nadine, who had been forced to halt when she tumbled right in front of them.
Marietta was for once speechless. He was surely the finest man that ever was. Meeting his silver-grey eyes, she felt herself instantly redden with pleasure.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Lord Trevellyan demanded, his voice about as friendly as cold steel, not quite done with chastising her.
The icy tone of his voice checked any wayward thoughts Marietta might have concerning Lord Trevellyan. Having halted in a small puddle left over from the previous day’s rain, she saw that Oliver’s horse had splashed mud on to Lord Trevellyan’s shiny black shoes.
‘Oh dear!’ she put in hastily. Able to see the funny side of the incident, she tried to stifle her mirth, but on seeing the look of unconcealed displeasure on Lord Trevellyan’s face as he looked down at his shoes, her mirth threatened to erupt into hilarity. ‘It really was an accident,’ she began defensively, ‘but I fear I’ve made rather a mess of your shoes …’
Lord Trevellyan’s voice stopped her in mid-sentence. ‘Never mind my shoes. My advice to you, Miss Westwood, is that you learn to ride a horse of that size before getting on to its back.’
Lord Trevellyan was at his most forbidding following yet another bitter altercation with his beautiful wife. The mocking smile on his lips did nothing to make Marietta feel better, although, had she but known, it was himself he was mocking, for Miss Westwood was renowned for her outrageous antics and having witnessed her unblushing display of riding a horse that would have horrified every strait-laced lady who’d borne witness, he grudgingly conceded that she was a refreshing sight in the circumstances.
From a distance he had watched her galloping at breakneck pace with the daredevil recklessness of youth. With her face pressed close to the horse’s mane, a jubilation, there was a simplicity in the way she rode, as if she were one with her mount, confident, trusting and elated. At a glance she was one of the most fearless, skilled riders he’d ever seen mounted—man or woman—and he would love to see her over jumps. Her legs had been displayed to almost immoral advantage by the lifting of her skirts as she had ridden the gelding, golden ribbons around her slender waist that would require no subterfuge to make it appear smaller, flying jauntily behind her. Not until she was almost on top of him had she hauled the horse to a smart stop, and at the same time the horse had tossed her over his head.
Marietta looked at him with eyes that seemed to change through all the shades of green beneath the fringe of long, sooty lashes. Her hair—piles of shining rich mahogany-brown hair—had come loose of its pins during her reckless ride to beat her opponent. Drawing herself up, she set her bonnet at a ridiculous angle atop curls as undisciplined as she was, the ribbon streamers dancing this way and that. Immediately she launched into an apology.
Unimpressed, Max listened to her. The fact that this dratted girl had disrupted his day annoyed him intensely. It was not the first time they had met. He had noticed her vaguely at several events. All the other girls of her age were demure and for the most part kept their eyes cast down, whereas Miss Westwood always stared directly at those she was speaking to, looking about her with a keen and lively interest, her eyes bright with expectancy.
She showed none of the restraint impressed into young girls of good family. It would seem that when Miss Westwood conjured up some new escapade, she set about it with the determination and tactical brilliance of a female Napoleon Bonaparte. The ladies of the island heaped the blame for her undisciplined behaviour on Monty Westwood, of course, for allowing his daughter too much freedom to do as she liked. Max was apt to agree with them.
Based on that sweet pleading look she was giving him, she was apparently hoping he’d be as stupidly susceptible to her appeal as everyone else. Instead, Lord Trevellyan raked her with an insultingly condescending glance from the top of her gloriously tousled hair to the tips of her feet.
‘Of all the brazen, outrageous stunts I have ever seen, yours, Miss Westwood, beats the lot. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to behave?’ he asked contemptuously. He saw her flinch, but he went on, his voice penetrating. ‘I believe you have been in the colony long enough to know its protocol and that young ladies do not go around flaunting themselves as you have just done. Have you lost all sense of propriety?’
Marietta hesitated. Thinking he would accept her explanation ceased to be tenable. She knew that Lord Trevellyan was a man who was used to giving orders, but she too had learned something, which was not to look abashed when she felt it. Her mirth having disappeared, she threw back her shoulders, lifted her head and met his eyes with a fiercely direct stare, unafraid and absolutely uncowed, the action telling him quite clearly that she was neither sorry nor ashamed of her behaviour.
‘I was not flaunting myself, Lord Trevellyan. I was doing no wrong. I took a tumble, that is all.’
‘And almost knocked my wife and myself to the ground in the process.’
‘I have said I am sorry, I can do no more than that.’ She looked into his wife’s exquisite face. ‘Lady Trevellyan, may I offer my sincere apologies for my clumsiness and for speaking so impulsively?’
‘Yes, you may and apology accepted. Everyone who rides comes off at some time—why, even my husband has been known to take the odd tumble,’ Nadine said, casting a cynical eye at the darkly scowling face of her husband before looking again at Marietta. ‘You’re not injured, I hope?’
‘No—thank you for asking,’ Marietta replied, her lips curving into a bright smile. ‘I bounce pretty well.’
‘Next time be sure to keep hold of the reins,’ Lord Trevellyan snapped.
Marietta’s
