Chapter Sixteen

Augusta cried herself to sleep again. Though she'd gone to great lengths with her appearance to no avail, dinner had been entertaining. Quin had even revealed Papa was sending Bellerophon to Rolleston-on-Dove. Yet, he still did not want her.

What was she doing wrong?

She bristled at the foolish way she'd flung herself into his embrace after he'd delivered the news about Bellerophon. Shortly thereafter, he'd joyously swept her into his arms and carried her upstairs, filling her with anticipation for his kiss, his touch, his love. That hope quickly dissipated when he deposited her at her bedchamber door and told her ‘good night' before disappearing down the hall.

Tears sprang to life at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. She wasn't normally this emotional, but she had no one to talk to about her worries and cares and her loneliness, with the exception of Louisa. There were some things a lady dared not share with her maid, however.

Perhaps I should write a letter to Mama.

What would Mama advise her to do? How she missed being able to pepper her mother with questions. Mama always knew the answers, but her mother was also worried about Delphi. Confiding in her would only cause her more upset. How she longed for the way things used to be, untroubled and monotonous and laced with laughter.

"Good mornin', missus." Louisa floated into the room like a spring cloud, carefully carrying in tea. She placed the tray on a side table, then moved about the room, opening curtains to allow rays of brilliant sunlight to brighten the room.

"Good morning." Augusta wiped her swollen eyes as she sat up and cast a fretful look beside her. Nervously, she swiftly rumpled up the covers before Louisa knew the truth about Quin's indifference. "Thank you, Louisa."

"Will ye be breakin' yer fast downstairs or shall I 'ave Cook prepare a tray?"

As much as it pained her, she had to face Quin sooner or later. "If you would be so kind as to help me into my morning gown, Louisa, I intend to join my husband downstairs."

"Mr. Prendergast has already eaten, missus."

"Already—"

"Yes, missus. He's been gone close to an hour."

She stared out the window, pondering what to do. Bellerophon and the joke Quin made about riding Careless seeped into her thoughts. No one who knew her would dare call her a careless rider, though she rode astride when physicians argued it decreased a woman's childbearing abilities. Poppycock! Drivel to keep women closeted indoors, according to Mama. Horseback riding was a notable trait in a world where sidesaddles carried their own risks. A distant cousin lost her life on a bucking horse after getting her foot tangled in the saddle. And there were other dangers. Chief among them, a loose saddle slipping beneath a horse.

"Ready my habit," she said, firmly resolved to face Quin. Come what may. "I believe I shall get in a brisk ride."

"Is that wise?" Augusta fought the urge to cringe as Louisa's gaze flitted to the sheets.

"I am quite certain. The exercise is just what I need."

"Very well." Louisa placed the tray over her lap and poured a cup of steaming hot tea. "But may I suggest ye should 'ave somethin' to eat first?"

She shook her head. "Tea will suffice. I prefer riding on an empty stomach."

An hour later, Augusta made good on her claim and descended the stairs dressed in her favorite dark blue riding habit, embellished with faux military trim, to include matching kid-leather gloves and nankeen boots. The hue brought out the color of her eyes, which, in Delphi's opinion, had always been her handsomest feature. She patted her hair confidently, hoping to impress Quin with the pretty picture she painted, her hair neatly arranged under a matching bonnet.

Determination flowed through her as she straightened the lace at her cuffs and meandered through the house. Its expansive corridors bordered windows facing the gardens and artfully adorned interior rooms. The urge to stop and explore pressed on her, but she kept on, her mind made up. She'd go riding with or without her husband.

On her way to the stables, she stopped off at the kitchen, plucking a biscuit from a basket. Mrs. Banks clucked and fussed like an old hen, but she laughed off the woman's concern, singing a stanza from The Joys of Country Dibdin to calm her.

"‘Let Bucks and let bloods to praise London agree. Oh, the joys of the country my Jewel for me. Where sweet is the flow'r that the May bush adorns, and how charming to gather it but for the thorns.'"

Mrs. Banks offered a quick smile, then escorted her to the back door and arrowed her to the stables. She set off, light of step and eager to test the stride of one of Quin's beautiful horses.

"‘Where we walk o'er the mountains with health our cheeks glowing. As warm as a toast honey when it isn't snowing." She ate her biscuit, glorying in the texture as she continued to sing, her heart pitter-pattering as the arched entrance to the stables drew closer. "Where nature to smile when she joyful inclines, and the sun charms us all the year round when it shines.'"

The stable boy named Jimmy shot her a look as she entered the courtyard.

"‘Oh, the mountains and valleys and bushes, the pigs and the screech owls and thrushes," she sang on to Jimmy's delight.

His big grin made her heart swell. "Let Bucks and let bloods to praise London agree.'"

"‘Oh, the joys of the country my Jewel for me,'" they sang together. "‘The joys of the country my Jewel for me.'"

When the song ended, they shared a laugh.

"Your voice has a pleasant tone, Jimmy," she said. "Are you a singer?"

"No, Mrs. Prendergast, and thank ye. 'Ave ye come to go ridin'?"

"I have."

"He said ye would."

"Who said?" she asked, suspecting she already knew the answer.

"I did." Quin emerged from the boxes. "I imagined you'd be up and ready to ride at dawn."

Heat suffused her face. "I rarely rise this late in the morning, but—"

"Think on it no more. You're forgiven." She drank in his powerful presence, striving to collect herself. "The past several days have been taxing. I knew this would be the first place you desired to be. A horse is ready for you, if you still want to ride."

She smiled despite herself. Surely, he did not intend for her to ride the estate alone. Riding alone was a sign of severe independence and scorned, something she'd never been bothered to care about before. On an estate this size that might not be a problem. But she knew nothing about the North Downs... yet. "I will not be riding Careless?"

"Not while I am with you," he teased.

At that moment, Hatt brought out a solid-looking mare with a glorious brown coat and saddled with a smaller, lighter saddle. The design proved not to hinder speed and flexibility and promised the rider would feel as one with the horse. Her pulse skittered and a welcome surge of excitement flowed through her as she approached the mount and stroked the bridge of its nose. "She's marvelous! What is her name?"

"Crab."

She burst out laughing before realizing how her reaction might affect the horse. "Whatever for?"

He cocked his brow at an odd angle and handed her a riding crop. "You haven't seen her walk yet."

"Her name is an unusual surprise."

"Why?" he asked from behind her, his warm breath sending shivers to places that made her knees go weak. "It's just a name."

"Is it? People expect race horses to have majestic names."

"She's not a racehorse," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Indeed." Crab nuzzled her shoulder as she pondered her husband's measure. "Do not listen to him," she told the mare. "I am sure you are light of foot and effortless at a run." She turned to her husband, wishing to elaborate on what she said. "In all seriousness, I am surprised that you do not expect me to ride sidesaddle."

"What can I say? I'm a modern man."

"You trust me?"

"When it comes to horses? Yes. But trust must come from both sides. And as we are not in High Society, who is to say what is right and what is wrong?"

The change in him perplexed her. She never knew when he was going to be hot or cold. Though his happy attitude and his permission to ride astride helped salve some of her restless night. "You sent for Bellerophon and now this. I don't know what to say."

"The day is young. I am sure you will find your tongue." He brushed his hand across her back, sending a delicious sensation down her spine as he helped her mount. Then, stepping lithely into the saddle, he reined Careless away from the stables. "Are you ready to see Rolleston-on-Dove?"

"Yes." She gave him a willing nod. "Happily so."

They set off, keeping apace. Quin guided her along the boundaries of their land, pointing out benchmarks in the landscape. Interludes of silence complemented their ride, comforting pauses connecting them more than ever before. He was an excellent horseman, years of experience exhibited in the management of the reins and the way Careless obeyed his commands. Crab, too, proved to be clever and controlled. And when Quin finally suggested they race, her heart leapt, and she bolted ahead with glee, wasting no time directing Crab to the top of a hill on the rise.

Quin outraced her, however. Careless easily caught up to Crab, hooves striking the earth and kicking up grass as he raced up the hill overlooking the main estate. She lowered her body over Crab's neck and beat on. But before she could reach the hilltop, Quin and Careless had claimed victory, angling to the side in a glorious display of muscle and might.

She did not care about the loss. In truth, the race had been lively fun, though she hadn't been entirely honest in handling her mount, allowing Quin the edge. Mama always said a man did not enjoy being undone by a woman.

Aesop agreed. "‘Keep your place in life and your place will keep you.'"

Satisfied by her strategy, Augusta reined her mount to join him, feeling breathless and alive, and hardly able to explain the euphoria gripping her soul. Below them, on the plain, stood three well-cared for work horses, their bronze coats glistening in the sunlight as they grazed on an ample supply of grass undulating in the breeze.

"The view of Rolleston-on-Dove is spectacular." Quin had spoken of his desire to sire race horses and thus far, everything she'd seen of the estate made her believe he would make a good go of it.

Hope, like a flame punching a hole in the night, suddenly pulsed through every fiber of her being. For she dearly wanted to take part in his ambitions and help him succeed.

The air was pure, the beech and oak and bird song improving her mood. The cloudy blue sky promised much-needed rain. How soon the showers would fall and for how long was anybody's guess, but after being present for the Season, she was happy to be free of drab sooty skies, the noise, the stench, and frustrations of city life.

"Everything is as you said it would be, Quin."

"There's more," he said, giving her a wicked wink.

More? Nothing surpassed a comfortable stride, the awakening of her spirits, and the sheer bliss of being a part of something much larger than herself. "What could—"

"See for yourself." He pressed on his heels, reining back his mount.

Openly visible now beneath the shade of an oak tree was a blanket laden with a basket in community and solitude. Blinking back her astonishment, Augusta flashed Quin a broad smile. "You planned this?"

"I cannot take full credit."

"But the expense. Why, it must have taken an army of servants to provide such an extravagance." The process seemed unfathomable. They were at least a mile from the main house, which meant a picnic was no simple matter. It must have required a multitude of servants to transport everything by wagon, and possibly carry it over rough terrain, to reach the designated spot. While this endearment made her feel warm and fuzzy all over, somehow it felt frivolous and wrong, especially if it caused an inconvenience to others. "You did all this... for me?"

"Riding is good for health and happiness. Why do you act so surprised that a man desires to impress his new bride?"

"I—" She was shocked. First, she wasn't accustomed to being lavished with surprises. Second, she didn't know how to process his kindness. "I do not know what to say."

He shifted in the saddle, swift and lithe, leather and tack crushing under his weight as he dismounted. Tethering Careless to a low-hanging tree limb, he strode toward her with boyish charm, increasing her heart rate at the thought of him lifting her down to earth. "You don't have to say anything. I thought this might be a pleasurable pursuit, one that might allow us to talk uninterrupted."

The mention of pleasurable pursuits sent a thrilling dash to her toes. His kisses were never far out of mind.

Entirely too handsome in his greatcoat, jacket, waistcoat, pantaloons, and knee-high boots, he gave her no time to react as he reached up and slipped his hands around her waist. The slow, marvelous expedition back to terra firma was a heavenly distraction.

Safely removed from the saddle, she stepped far enough away from him to regain her wits. She adjusted her riding habit and carefully avoided his eyes and tempting lips altogether, because if he wished to kiss her, she knew she would not be able to resist him. And good gracious, how she yearned for his sensational lips.

Needing something, anything, other than kisses to preoccupy her mind, she approached the blanket. Pillows were strewn about for their comfort. She quickly shut out the picture of lying in Quin's arms beneath the radiant sun, and peered into the large basket. "Mrs. Banks thought of everything. I am all amazement. There are dishes, service ware, glasses, a bottle of wine, biscuits, cheese, a cold roast, one quarter loaf of bread, and several seed cakes." She searched him out. "Are we going to be stranded here for days?"

Quin's laughter suggested he, too, thought as much. He led Crab to the tree, tied off her reins, then sat down beside her. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

"To be stranded with you?" She shook her head, smiling, unable to tease him anymore. "I think not."

"Good. I enjoy your company."

His compliment warmed her blood. "It was an excellent idea," she said all agreement, the landscape and his proximity heightening her mood. "I should like to know you better without servants about."

"And I you." He sat down, stretched out his legs, then widened his arms. "So. What would you like to know? I am an open book."

"Silly man." She giggled. "That is impossible. Books have spines and are easier to read."

"You have a point." He regarded her speculatively. "Wasn't it Chaucer who wrote, ‘Familiarity breeds discontent'?"

"I thought it was Aesop." She suppressed a sigh before laughing. "No matter how much I fought against quoting Aesop in my childhood, Mama's, Thenie's, and Lottie's habits seem to have followed me to Kent."

"Memorizing ancient text is a good skill."

"Only if you do not hear it all the time," she said despite herself.

A gust of desire shook her as he smiled. "Your parents and sister regaled me with tales of your youth at the wedding." He toyed with a lock of her hair, making her desire to smack down his hand because of the thrill the act brought her. "I am fond of your encounter with a mummy at the British Museum. Did you really knock over a sarcophagus and cause such a ruckus before all and sundry?"

"They told you about that?" She gasped. "That was a long time ago," she said, trying not to find her voice. "I was too haughty for my own good back then, unimpressed with antiquities and frustrated by my uncle's despicable behavior."

"Despicable behavior? That sounds harsh. Why are you so hard on him?"

"Uncle Bertie is a good man," she admitted. "He's smart, witty, forgetful, and a professor of relics. Despite that, he practically abandoned my cousin's mother and, as a result, she died during Lottie's birth." He looked away, frowning. She plunged on, eager to get him to understand her position and not think her bird-witted. "Thenie tried to keep us from overhearing Lottie's cries every night, but the sound drifted to us just the same, preventing us from getting any sleep."

He grabbed her hand as if to comfort her. "That must have been difficult for Lady Grey, for you."

"Indeed, it was. My uncle's other offense to a young child was his claim that Egyptians mummified their dead."

He bopped the end of her nose with the tip of his finger. "They do."

"I know that now, Quin. However, I could not help but be repulsed at first," she said. "You see, we attended an Egyptian exhibit, where Uncle Bertie later worked on the Rosetta Stone, and one look at that dusty, smelly corpse for the first time caused me to panic. I sought a quick escape, tripped on my skirts, and landed headlong into the casket."

"I suppose you found out firsthand what a mummy feels like."

She quaked at the memory, unable to put words to the nauseating experience.

"And the sarcophagus fell over?"

"With me in it."

He cupped her cheek, creating a surge of excitement that shot through her. "Was the relic damaged?"

"Thankfully not."

"Were you damaged?"

"No. Though something good came out of the experience. I learned an important lesson. ‘The injury we do and the one we suffer are not weighed in the same scales.'"

"Aesop again," he said, lowering his hand to the small of her back.

"You see my dilemma?" She closed her eyes, melting beneath his explorations, fighting to concentrate on the topic. "My uncle is a flawed man. A good man, yes. A talented scholar, and... Oh, what am I doing? He is completely irrelevant to our lives, isn't he?"

"I'm not so sure," he said, rising to gaze deeply into her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

He lifted her hand and ran his thumb deliciously over her palm. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"I have always found the best place to start is at the beginning."

His face broke into a half-smile. "At the start and the end of every journey, people cross thresholds."

She stared at him, disappointed that she did not understand what he was trying to say. "What thresholds?"

"You marrying me."

"You are talking nonsense, Quin."

"You say that now." He leaned back, his mood darkening. "There are things you do not know about me that will matter very much to you when you learn the truth."

"Then we shall face whatever it is, together." She lifted his hand and placed hers inside it. "See this ring? We are bound now, before God. Nothing can take that away from us. Nothing." She raised her chin proudly. "I know you overcame a horrific childhood. When I criticized my uncle, my only intention was to share that no child should lose their mother or father." She worked her lower lip, unsure how to approach the delicate subject of what was left of his family. "Tell me more about your family. Is there truly no one left other than Mrs. Pigeon?"

The sky turned strangely dark. He glanced up, then leaned in, his mouth just a hair's breadth away. "You are my family now."

She held his gaze, longing for him, and aching for his touch. "But... your cousin."

"Yes?" He wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck, drawing her in.

Her heart hammered foolishly. "She... speaks so highly of you."

"Does she?" He pulled back suddenly and looked away, his face a stony mask. Puzzled by the change in him, she sank back to reality. "There is something you must know."

"What is so important?" Couldn't it wait until they returned to the manor house?

"It's about Bess." Something disturbing replaced his smoldering look.

"Who's Bess?"

"My cousin." He toyed with a blade of grass.

"Your cousin?"

"I've wanted to tell you the truth from the start, but my rank made it difficult, and you were all so eager to meet a member of my family."

"But I thought your cousin was Mrs. Pigeon. Do you have another?"

"No." Warning bells whispered in her head, then careened a carillon. What was he trying to tell her? "My cousin's name is not Mrs. Pigeon. She is related by birth to my mother, Mary Dove." She shook her head, trying to comprehend. There was no help for it. He was going to have to tell her the truth. "My cousin's real name is Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon."

The widow's weeds. The bird-like name. With a pang of instant regret, she suddenly realized he wasn't telling a Banbury tale. "Mrs. Pigeon—"

"That is not her name," he corrected her.

"Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the Black Widow of Whitehall is your cousin?" She rose to her feet, flustered and fuming. "Do you mean to tell me that she created the list of eligible bachelors for me and Delphi, and that she added your name to the list and attended our family dinner?"

"Yes, but only after I—"

"Does Papa know?" Her stomach churned as she sought to erect a wall of defense around her. She began to pace, splaying her hands wide. "How many people know?"

"Now, can you understand why I hid her identity from you? If you'd known—"

A droplet of rain plummeted to her forehead, the cold sensation jarring. Another raindrop fell, followed by more in rapid succession. She let out a cry, and Quin immediately jumped to his feet.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Mount your horse," he ordered. "We must beat the storm."

She cared nothing about her bonnet, her clothing, the infiltrating cold or the basket and all its contents drowning in the rain. What concerned her most was his lies, the disruption of the closeness she had hoped to share.

"Let me go!" she cried beating on his back as he lifted her effortlessly into the saddle. "You have ruined everything!"

"We must make haste before the ground turns hazardous and the horses lose their footing."

"I don't care!" She was no longer Quin's to order about.

He reached for the reins. "I will never forgive myself if something happens to you."

She yanked them back. "You should have thought about that when you lied to me, when you paraded an imposter in front of my family. They trusted you!" Her voice broke, rain spewing from her mouth.

She flicked the reins, shouted "Gee!," and then urged Crab into a run, heedless of the storm, the lightning and thunder. The only thing she could think about was getting as far away from Quin as she could.

But she didn't know where she was in relation to the house. How was she to find her way home?