The quiet life of Frances, Lady Rathmere, is disrupted
forever the day Jack, 4th Marquess of Streatham, arrives from London and almost
rides her down. At the same time a stranger arrives in the locality, makes a
play for her young cousin and scandalous letters accusing Frances of an illicit
liaison appear in the national press. Is Jack their author? Frances is convinced
he is, and has no idea the trouble those letters are going to bring in their
wake.
EXCERPT:
“Gyp!
No! You will be soaked!” Rolling to her knees, Frances stared across the grass.
Too late. Gyp’s front paws were already in the water. “Gyp! No!”
The
faint sound of hooves distracted her. At the end of the meadow she saw a
flicker of white against dark foliage. Her eyes narrowed. No gentleman of her
acquaintance would ride without jacket, gloves and hat on Gybford land. Shirt
sleeves were for the gypsy or the common field labourer.
Whoever
he was, he turned his horse and hurtled across the ford in a shower of spray.
Frances sank back on her heels, frowning. Ought she to be wary? Strangers were
rare in the district, though vagrants and gypsies occasionally travelled the
old route by the river. Frances opened her mouth to call her dog, and realised
that would bring Gyp into the path of the horse.
The
vibration from the great iron-shod hooves thudded up through the grass into her
spine. Really, there was no need for such speed. One would think the snorting
grey was in a race. The rider aimed for the gap between the river and the beech
tree and gave no sign of having seen her.
Faster
than she would have believed possible, the huge grey horse filled her vision.
Forgetting
her dignity, Frances scrambled to her feet and lunged for safety behind the
beech tree. She caught a glimpse of the wide-eyed rider gaping at her.
Gyp
sprang up from the river bank like a red flame in the sunshine and loosed a
loud bark beneath the horse’s nose. The horse veered sharply away from both dog
and the river.
The
rider flew out of the saddle, struck the bank with his shoulder and disappeared
over the edge. Water droplets rose in a huge shower, sparkled for an instant
and fell back into the stream.
Frances
hesitated, one palm clasped to her mouth, suppressing a breathless urge to
laugh. It served him right, really; but she ought not to laugh. One should not
mock another’s misfortune.
The
stallion snorted, wheeled and tore across the field, hooves flinging clods of
grass high in its wake. Gyp followed, barking, but returned when Frances called
her name. The horse was in no danger and would soon slow and stop of its own
accord.
The
rider, however, might need careful handling. She’d suffered similar falls as a
child when she had not paid attention to her pony, and knew how foolish he
would feel, which might mean an outburst of some kind.
