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  Lily entered the drawing room to find her father standing before the window, staring out at a patch of blue framed by dark clouds. Her mother sat in the wingback near him, hands folded in her lap, waiting. To pounce, no doubt. They were both dressed for travel, Lady Fernhaven, as always, in the first order of fashion. Her sea-green silk walking dress was a perfect match for her eyes—an unusual hue that Lily had inherited.

  “There you are, darling. Come in. Your father and I have been discussing your future. You know we only have your best interests at heart. Really, you cannot afford to rusticate out here any longer. Look at you.”

  Lily followed her mother’s gaze down to her hands. Despite her efforts she had not been able to completely remove the crimson and viridian stains the paints had left on her fingers. She curled them into her palms and met her mother’s eyes.

  “Mother, I came here to document Uncle Edward’s new botanical specimens. It’s important work. The publications of his papers with my illustrations have been well-received.”

  Lady Fernhaven’s lips tightened. “That is all very well, but you have more important things to consider. Time is not standing still, Lily. I fear soon it will be too late.”

  Usually Lily had a ready reply, but her conversation with Aunt Mary had been sobering. She looked at the woman before her, tense as a coiled spring, then to her father standing motionless and unreadable. Then past both of them.

  Outside, the gardens at Brookdale Manor were awakening. Hardy green spikes of woodland hyacinth poked through the brown carpet of leaves and the thin spears of crocus were well up, bearing their promise of jewel-bright yellow and purple flowers.

  What promise did her future hold? None—unless she chose a different course. Spinsterhood would be a marriage of sorts, a marriage to her father and mother—chilling thought. She might not be able to find that elusive someone, but she could certainly do better than these two. Truly, they were partners even less suitable than the gentlemen who had called upon her. As a married woman she would at least be a lady in her own right.

  Lily focused back on her mother. “Who is it this time? You no doubt have someone in mind, having eliminated the fortune-hunters and untitled younger sons, of course.”

  Lady Fernhaven fixed her with a sharp look. “I am sure you recall my dear friend Countess Buckley. We find ourselves with a similar problem. Her son, Lord Gerald Buckley, is a most agreeable young man. The two of you would suit admirably, Lily. He is heir to a very respectable estate and title. You are the daughter of a marquis, a lady of good family and breeding.”

  Her father left his refuge among the curtains. “I have to agree. We fear you are heading for spinsterhood if you do not mend your ways. At your insistence, we have given you a great deal of freedom—perhaps too much. It is past time to take up the responsibilities of your position in society.”

  Lily tried to read his face, searching in vain for the understanding she usually found there.

  Lady Fernhaven continued. “Lord Buckley is presently sightseeing in America. His mother assures me he intends to call upon you when he returns. They correspond regularly and the situation appears very promising.”

  “Very promising? Is he kind, Mother? Does he treat his servants and horses well? Will he love his wife and children more than a bottle of brandy?”

  “Really, Lily, you do carry on. You are the most particular girl a mother could be burdened with. The Buckleys are a very old and well-respected family. He’ll be an earl, for goodness sake.”

  Lily folded her arms. She knew very little about Lord Buckley, and only vaguely recalled sitting at supper with him—had it been last season, or the one before? He had not left a bad impression. He had not left much of an impression at all. She knew he did not spend much time in London, but then, neither did she. Did he also flee a mother who sought to manage his life? Lily was acquainted with Countess Buckley—it was entirely possible.

  “And if I refuse to entertain Lord Buckley’s company?”

  Her father spoke. “Then I hope you had the foresight to pack your valise. You will return with us to London immediately and remain there.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him—the betrayer—but his jaw was set, his mind made up.

  “What about my painting? And the botanical expedition? Uncle Edward needs me.”

  “We have spoken to him,” her father said. “He understands the situation—understands that he will have to find another illustrator.”

  “You aren’t serious. You can’t be. It isn’t necessary—”

  “It is necessary. I’m sorry, Lily.”

  She turned and began pacing, a habit her mother deplored. Her parents were determined. And united. It was so uncharacteristic of them. No wonder her aunt had tried to prepare her. Now Lily was fenced in by her mother, and her father guarded the gate.

  Could any husband be more intolerable than this pair? Maybe she had been wrong to reject all those men. There had been some kind ones, some handsome ones—there must have been. She should have just chosen one and been done with it.

  Possible and probable futures swirled through her mind. The room was suddenly quiet but for the coal hissing in the grate, the swish of her skirts and the sound of her pacing feet. Whichever step she took—right now, under the combined scrutiny of her parents—could set her course for the rest of her life.

  Which life did she choose?

  Lily pivoted to face her mother. “When is Lord Buckley due to return to London?”

  Calculation leapt in Lady Fernhaven’s eyes. “Sometime mid-season, I believe. June at the latest. What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything—not yet.” She could not endure the triumph unfolding across her mother’s face. Lily began pacing again. “And he has expressed interest in, ah, arranging a union?”

  “Yes.” Her mother leaned forward in her chair.

  Lily’s heartbeat sped faster than her steps. Marriage was the only way to avoid becoming a spinster. She shot a glance at her mother. And becoming a spinster was not an option. While she had not anticipated that today would be the day she agreed to wed, there did seem to be advantages. What better way to avoid the pressure to make a match than by making one?

  She stopped in front her parents. “If Lord Buckley and I had an understanding, it wouldn’t be necessary for me to spend the season in town. It wouldn’t even be wise for me to dance and converse with other unmarried gentlemen while he was away.”

  “Where are you headed with this?” her father asked.

  “If I’m agreeable and Lord Buckley is agreeable, then there really is no reason to parade about the salons and ballrooms of London. I might as well continue here, painting.” She widened her eyes and looked directly at her father. “Don’t you think?”

  “Well…” He glanced at Lily’s mother. “She does have a point.”

  “No she doesn’t. She will just waste the season painting pictures of foliage and then refuse Lord Buckley when he returns.”

  “I will not refuse him, mother. I’ll accept Lord Buckley’s suit—on the condition that I can remain here to finish my work, and accompany Uncle Edward’s field expedition next month.”

  There. It hardly seemed possible she had said the words.

  “You will?” Exultation flashed in Lady Fernhaven’s eyes. “You will!” Turning to her husband, she said, “Didn’t I tell you she would come around if only you would side with me?” She rose with a rustle of silk and took Lily’s hands, squeezing them tightly. “You will not regret this, darling. Lord Buckley is a very wise choice. If you will agree to his proposal of marriage, then I think you may be spared the rigors of the London season. In fact, you are right. With Lord Buckley away, your absence will be all to the good. We will, of course, expect you back in town upon his arrival.”

  “Of course, Mother.”

  Her father stepped forward and took Lily by the shoulders.

  “We will hold you to your word.”

  “I know. I intend to keep it.” O
h heavens. What had she just done?

  He pulled her into an embrace. “We’ll see you in town before you go abroad.”

  “And I will arrange something with Countess Buckley when you visit,” her mother added. “She will be eager to renew her acquaintance with you.”

  Chapter 3

  Lily had painted every day since her parents had left, as much as the light would allow, trying to forget the future and lose herself in the swirl of color and shade that had always been her solace. Time seemed so precious now, and she had paid so dearly for what little was left. But today was such a fine day for a ride, Lily had let her cousins coax her away from her easel.

  “You’re going to grow roots if you stay in the conservatory a minute longer,” Isabelle had said.

  “We’ll have to pot you up,” Richard added. “Do come.”

  It had been fine day for a ride—until now.

  Lily clutched at the saddle, but there was no stopping it. It was slipping. Frightened by the sudden motion, her horse shied, tumbling her with a splash into a shallow ditch. Cold mud softened her fall and her favorite green velvet riding habit soaked up water like the rag it had just become. Blast. She should have just stayed in and painted.

  “Lily!” Isabelle turned her horse and raced back. “Are you all right? Is anything broken?”

  Lily struggled to her feet. “Do I look all right? No. I rather resemble a mop.” She set her hands on her hips—her very damp hips—and tried to ignore the clammy fabric clinging to her. “Go ahead. Laugh. I don’t find the situation particularly funny.”

  “Of course not.” Richard dismounted and offered his handkerchief. “You may want to—mop up.”

  Her cousins burst into a fit of laughter. “Sorry, Lily, but you are a sight. We’re glad to find you in one piece, though.” Richard bent and fished her saddle out of the ditch.

  He examined it carefully. “You won’t be riding back on this,” he said, pointing. “The girth’s given way.”

  Lily gathered her sodden skirts and waded forward. “How do you propose we get home?”

  “We could double up.” Richard looked at her muddy dress and took a step back. “But maybe I should just trade horses with you—once I catch yours, that is.”

  She climbed out of the ditch and took the reins of Richard’s horse—his very tall, very spirited horse. She glanced up at the beast, then over to Isabelle. “Would you care to ride Hercules home?”

  “Moi? Oh, no thank you. I’m quite comfortable where I am. You’ll have to ride astride, you know.”

  Astride! If she were observed riding in such a very unladylike fashion it would be the talk of the shire. Lily turned to protest, but a cold east wind gusted up and her teeth began to chatter. Visions of steam rising out of a hot bath tantalized her. Riding astride might be risky, but she certainly couldn’t remain dripping here in a cold field.

  It took some doing, but with her skirts kilted and a boost from Richard—who, like a gentleman, kept his head turned away—she managed to throw a leg over Hercules’s back. She hauled herself into the saddle, wet velvet bunched up around her thighs and showing an indecent amount of skin. How wicked it felt to sit with her legs exposed and splayed across the huge animal’s back.

  She laughed nervously. “If Mother could see me now she would either disown me or die of mortification. Probably both! Why, just last month Miss Clara Abernathy caused a minor scandal in London when she lifted her dress to mid-calf while descending the steps of the family carriage.” Lily looked at the water dripping from her bunched skirts and down her naked thigh. It was outrageous. “Let’s take the back way and cut through the fields. We can’t chance being seen.”

  “True,” Richard said, still keeping his eyes conspicuously averted. “But Farmer Cottle has his bull out to pasture. It’s the meanest-tempered animal you’ll ever see.”

  Isabelle nodded. “Would you rather risk certain goring? Let’s ride around to the front gates—it will be faster and we can stay behind hedgerows most of the way. And don’t worry. There wasn’t anyone on the ride out, after all.”

  “Very well,” Lily said at last, all too aware of the muddy trickles snaking down her legs. “I need a bath now!” She wiped her cheek with the damp sleeve of her riding habit and urged Hercules forward.

  The wind was blowing colder when they traded the shelter of the hedgerows for Brookdale Manor’s elm-flanked drive.

  “Almost home,” Lily said, then halted abruptly. Oh no. Why hadn’t they risked the bull?

  A gentleman was sitting his gray horse before the wrought-iron gates. There was something military in his bearing, a controlled energy that left the impression he could move from repose to full charge in an eye-blink. His lean, handsome face was turned to her, and she watched in horror as his gaze lowered to take in her exposed legs. Hot embarrassment washed over her and she was suddenly, unbearably, conscious of her indecent state.

  “Who is that?” Isabelle stopped beside her.

  “Someone I’m sure I do not want to meet.” Lily yanked the reins sideways and kicked her heels hard.

  The great horse reared, its powerful muscles tensing and releasing as it bolted forward. Lily clung to the saddle, concentrating on staying on as Hercules leapt the ditch that ran beside the drive and made for the open fields. Behind her she could hear her cousin’s alarmed shouts, but she hardly cared. Her only concern was to remain mounted and disappear from view as quickly as possible.

  “Hold on!” The man’s voice sounded impossibly close.

  She risked a glance over her shoulder. Truly, it must be a nightmare. The stranger was pursuing her, leaning low in the saddle—and he was obviously a far better rider than she would ever be. Despite her best efforts he was closing the gap between them. He drew his mount alongside, matching hers stride for stride.

  “Kick your feet from the stirrups,” he commanded.

  Before she could protest he leaned in and wrapped one arm tightly around her waist. He pulled her to him and Hercules, who wanted nothing of the maneuver, put on a final burst of speed and ran out from beneath her. She was suspended, clamped against the stranger, his arm coiled just below her breasts.

  She must have been held in that most humiliating way for a very short time, although it did not seem so. The stranger brought his mount to a halt, then leaned over and lowered her to the ground.

  Lily might have admired his riding skill, if she had not been so angry. But his “rescue” had made the situation a hundred—no, a thousand—times worse. She tugged at the disarray of her skirts as he dismounted and came to stand beside her.

  “That was a near thing, Miss. Are you—”

  She looked up him. His amber-flecked brown eyes were unnervingly close. “I am perfectly fine. Except for being chased down and plucked from my horse.”

  He regarded her steadily for a moment, and she had the impression he was trying not to smile. “Then I must beg your pardon. I assumed your mount had run away with you.”

  Cheeks flaming, Lily lifted her chin. “It was not at all the case. I was only…” But how could she explain? Wasn’t it obvious that someone who had behaved as indecently as she had would flee the eyes of a stranger?

  “Lily!” Isabelle rushed up with Richard close behind. “Oh dear, what a dreadful morning you have had.”

  “That was quite a bit of horsemanship, sir,” Richard said, giving the stranger an admiring look.

  “Like someone out of the circus!” Isabelle added. “The way you swooped her from the saddle.”

  “Indeed,” the man said. “Perhaps I should seek out that profession, since I have been informed I have little prospect as gallant rescuer. My apologies to you all for the manner of my introduction. I’m James Huntington, down from London and looking for Sir Edward Strathmore of Brookdale Manor. Is this his residence?”

  “You have found it, sir.” Richard offered his hand. “I’m Richard Strathmore. Sir Edward is my father. This is my sister, Isabelle, and my cousin Lily.”

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nbsp; “Lily’s girth broke,” Isabelle explained. “The saddle slipped and took her with it. That’s why she was—”

  “Isabelle, please!” Lily felt her blush deepen.

  “I was only going to say that it was lucky your fall was softened—by a nice muddy ditch.”

  Lily wanted to cover her face with her hands. Did this man have to hear every humiliating detail?

  “I have heard that some people pay dearly to lie in a bath of mud,” Mr. Huntington said. “Good for the complexion.”

  The tension burst.

  “Mud baths!” Richard laughed—the wretch—and Isabelle too.

  The so-witty Mr. Huntington smiled, humor sparking golden lights in his eyes. It was beyond mortifying.

  Lily could take no more. She swept them all with a glare, then turned on her heel and marched back across the pasture, dragging her ruined skirts as she went.

  James watched the woman’s retreating form. What an odd creature. She had charged off like some kind of bandit-queen, riding astride and leaping ditches. All she lacked was a dagger clenched between her teeth. A dagger she would have used on him when he pursued her, no doubt.

  Richard smiled. “You caught Lily at a severe disadvantage, sir. You will find her far more agreeable once she has had her bath.”

  James doubted it. He did not intend to find her at all—agreeable or not. He would consult with Sir Edward and be gone before the admittedly shapely Miss Strathmore had finished rinsing out her hair. She had a lovely pair of legs and he would not soon forget their display, but his business had nothing to do with the beauty who had sat so brazenly astride her mount.

  “Come, we will bring you to the house. Father will be in the library.”

  “You are most kind. Despite the awkwardness of our introduction, my errand demands that I see him.”

  After the grooms had taken their horses, Richard escorted James inside and rapped on a mahogany door.

  “Hello, Father. You have a visitor. Mr. James Huntington of London.”