Chapter Eight

Y sella awoke the next morning to the sound of cheerful humming. Martha was drawing the curtains to let bright sunlight spill into the room and a fire already blazed in the grate. "Good morning, Miss."

Ysella sat up and Martha brought her the warm shawl she'd discarded the night before. Glad of the thick fabric, Ysella drew it close around her shoulders to keep the warmth in. Fire or no fire, her bedroom did not feel cozy.

A moment passed before it dawned upon her that the humming she'd heard indicated good spirits. And good spirits could mean nothing else. "Martha!" she called out as the maid bustled about the room, tidying what didn't need tidying. "Morvoren—how is she?"

Martha turned her round face towards her mistress, a smile splitting it almost from side to side and revealing a few gaps in her dentition. "The fever's broken, Miss Ysella! Doctor Busick's been here all night with her ladyship, and he says the crisis is past. Her ladyship's over the worst."

Forgetful of the chill, Ysella bounced out of bed, the shawl dropping to the floor. "Good heavens. That's wonderful news. Might I go and see her today, do you think? I need to get dressed. Whatever is the time? Where are my clothes?"

"The dowager said I was to let you sleep in. She said you were right tired after the journey and all the gallivanting you've been doing in Town. So I did. But then his lordship told me to get you up because he wants to celebrate and he needs you to help him. It's gone eleven, Miss."

"Gone eleven! Then I'll have missed breakfast and I am starving !" Ysella's stomach rumbled as if in agreement, and she giggled. "Quick, where are my clothes? Not that dress. This house is like an ice box. I'll have the brown one with the long sleeves. Not the prettiest of gowns, but by far the warmest."

Within a very short space of time, Ysella was skipping along the corridor to her brother's rooms, her heart suddenly as light as air. Morvoren had turned the corner. Her poor little baby boy was not going to grow up without his mother like Sam had. All was right in the world.

Kit must have heard her coming. He stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Ysella threw her arms around him, holding him tight. "Oh, Kitto! I'm so happy for you. Can I see her? Just for a moment?"

He held her close, his face against her hair, his heart beating against hers. His body shook. With gentle care, Ysella extricated herself from his hold. He was crying.

"Oh, Kitto, don't. I can't bear it if you cry." She took his face in her hands, the stubble rough under her touch. "She's going to get better now. You don't need to cry."

He shook his head, the tears streaming down his face. "I can't help it. When she was so ill, I forced myself not to give in to tears. I thought if I cried, then she'd surely die. It would seal her fate, because I'd be accepting what was going to happen to her." He managed a feeble laugh. "Make no mistake. These are tears of joy, not sorrow. And now I don't seem to be able to stop them." He wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks. "It's ridiculous, I know. But if I'd lost her… well, then I'd have been lost too. I couldn't have borne it."

Ysella hugged him again, his head on her shoulder. "You can cry with me if you need to." This seemed to be the thing to do, because he hung onto her like a drowning man for several minutes. Indeed, until Mama emerged from the sick room.

Ysella and Kit separated, and Mama put a gentle hand on his back. "Do you want to come in and see Morvoren?" she asked Ysella. "Just for a minute or two, as she's so very tired. But she asked for you as soon as she heard you were here." She smiled at Kit. "And you, my darling boy, can go and eat something, then try and get some sleep. Loveday and I will attend to anything Morvoren needs this morning. You've done more than enough. Time to look after yourself."

With a rueful grin, as of a man put upon by his womenfolk, Kit departed, and Ysella followed Mama into the bedroom. The curtains had been drawn back to let in the sunlight of a spring day at last without rain, and the room was no longer as stifling hot as it had been just a few short hours ago. Morvoren lay propped up on at least half a dozen pillows, as pale and wan as before, but at least now without the sheen of sweat on her skin.

Ysella ran to the bed and plumped herself down on Loveday's low stool. Reaching out with both hands, she took one of Morvoren's in hers and clung onto it. How thin it felt in her own strong grip. So unlike the Morvoren she knew and loved.

Morvoren's dry, cracked lips curved into a smile. "Ysella. I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you." Her words emerged as croaky as a frog. "I'm so sorry I've spoiled your season."

Ysella shook her head. "Nonsense. That doesn't matter a fig." Only that wasn't quite true, was it? An image of Oliver in his scarlet regimentals leapt into her head, only to be pushed away. The image didn't want to go.

Morvoren licked her lips. "Have you been having fun?"

The urge to be honest and disclose to Morvoren that she'd fallen in love with someone burgeoned, but Ysella held her tongue. No heart-to-hearts with Mama and Loveday so close. Maybe tomorrow? She yearned to share her excitement with someone, and Morvoren would be by far the best person. She understood all about love.

"It's been wonderful," Ysella said, choosing her words with care. "After I was presented, I had so many invitations to soirées and picnics and dances and routs. And Lord Flint organized an enormous ball to honor the new Lady Flint—and guess what, she's as big as a house, just as you said you were. Who'd have thought it? He's hoping for a boy this time, of course, but I'll wager it'll be another girl. How cross that will make him. I shall laugh, and I daresay others will too. Mama took me to the ball, and I danced with so many handsome young gentlemen. Such a press. The whole world had come, it seemed."

Morvoren was looking at her as though she suspected there might be more to her experiences in London than she was letting on.

Ysella chided herself. Maybe she was prattling on just a little too fast. Despite Morvoren's weakened condition, it seemed her astute nature had not vanished.

Ysella gave her sister-in-law the sweetest of smiles.

"That's enough for now, Ysella," Mama said, her voice stern. "Morvoren needs to sleep a while before taking some beef broth to build her strength. You need to let her have some peace from your chatter. You can visit again tomorrow."

Morvoren squeezed Ysella's hand. "Perhaps you might visit the nursery and see how my son is? Before tomorrow? And let me know? Your mama says I'm still too weak to see him."

Mama harrumphed in a way that was remarkably similar to the way Martha harrumphed when displeased.

Ysella squeezed Morvoren's hand in return. "I saw him yesterday, and he is thriving. But I shall go again today and then again tomorrow morning before coming to see you. I promise."

She bent and planted a kiss on Morvoren's thin cheek. "Until tomorrow, Sister."

Back out in the corridor, Ysella skipped her way down to the nursery on feet as light as air. Morvoren was getting better, and the sun was at last shining through windows where the shutters had been drawn back. Everything was fine in the world. The right way up again at last. She would confide in Morvoren about Oliver tomorrow, if Loveday and Mama could be got rid of. The thought left a warm coil in her stomach. Nothing would be better than telling Morvoren how handsome Oliver was and how he'd declared his passion for her and how she cherished the hope that he would soon ask for her hand in marriage. She could even dismiss the nagging doubt that he wouldn't come down to Marlborough as he'd promised, and that right now he was still enjoying the season by dancing attendance on some other young lady. No, that could not happen.

But what to do now? Mama was busy with Morvoren, Kit had retired to his old room to take some much-needed sleep, and no one else was about. Her whole body itched for action. What about a ride? With the sun shining down on the damp world, she was in the mood for a helter-skelter gallop.

She repaired to her own room and summoned Martha.

Half an hour later, she emerged from the servants' hall corridor into the stableyard in her dark-green riding habit. All was quiet. The stable staff must be eating their midday meal. Good. Since she'd first learned from Morvoren, she'd become adept at saddling her own horse, Lochinvar. And she fancied a ride out all by herself, not with some groom trailing after her. She wasn't planning on leaving the estate, after all, so what harm could there be?

She went into the large tack room, the aroma of well-cared for leather and horse assaulting her nostrils. A smell she'd liked from being the smallest of girls with the first tiny pony Papa had presented her with. She inhaled deeply—what a heady perfume. With a longing glance at the regular saddles used for riding astride, she lifted down her own side-saddle with some difficulty as it was heavy, and Lochinvar's bridle, then took the side door into the stable building.

Bypassing the first looseboxes, she headed for Lochinvar's stable, and, seeing her coming, he let out a low whicker. Setting down her load, she put her finger to her lips. "Sshh! I don't want them hearing us."

It took her only a moment to slip a headstall on and tie him up. His gleaming chestnut coat required no grooming, but she picked the loose straw out of his long tail. Not being a tall girl, she had to fetch a bucket to stand on for saddling up, but he stood patiently while she worked. With a heave, she managed to get the side-saddle onto his back, then fastened his girth. The bridle went on more easily, because he'd been trained from colthood to lower his head for the bit. She tightened the girth a second time, something Morvoren had taught her, and led him out into the yard, his shod hooves making far too much noise on the cobbles. Ysella sent a wary glance towards the servants' door, but no one came.

Luckily, a high mounting block stood to one side, otherwise she would have found mounting up impossible. Positioning Lochinvar with care, she climbed up the steps and slipped onto the saddle. Her right leg hooked around the pommel, and her left foot slid into her one stirrup. She gathered up her reins and with a click of her tongue, trotted Lochinvar out of the courtyard, certain no one had seen her go, or a groom would have been dispatched to accompany her.

As Lochinvar had been standing idle in his loose box, what she should have done, and what had been hammered home to her by Mama from her earliest childhood, was walk to begin with. But that would have involved staying within sight of the Abbey's many windows for far too long. So, instead, she urged her eager horse into a canter until she reached the track that ran through the woods, where she let him slow to a walk. "Sorry, Lochy," she muttered, almost to herself.

The Ormonde Abbey estate covered over five thousand acres in a shape a little like a crescent moon, but the majority of those acres were farms let out to tenants. Some large, some small. The estate woodland, used for pheasant rearing and shooting, wasn't in a block, but stretched out between the farms with tracks through it linking them together. A few handy jumps littered the woods, built by the gardeners at Kit's request. A request that had ultimately come from Ysella, who loved to hunt and therefore to jump.

The amount of pocking in the mud around the jumps suggested to Ysella that Kit had been out here jumping them himself not too long ago, but it didn't deter her from popping over them with Lochinvar. He loved to jump as well, and, as they landed, snatched at his bit in an effort to get his head. Ysella reined him in. Too many low branches in the woods for a flat-out gallop, which was what both she and her horse were longing for. But, if she rode down towards the village, an inviting long track ran back towards home. It curved around to the west with an uphill incline that would be perfect for a gallop. She set off through the woods in that direction.

The thatched rooftops of the village came into view down in the hollow, woodsmoke curling up from their chimneys to hang in the air, the smell of it a sharp tang on the breeze. As she drew closer, she spotted the bent figures of some of the women at work in their stone-walled gardens. They must be digging their vegetable patches ready for planting. Ysella, who knew next to nothing about vegetable gardening, tipped her hat to them in greeting. They straightened up, most of them bobbing wobbly curtsies.

One of the oldest, who Ysella recognized as the Widow Elkins, set her hands on her hips and called out. "The young Lady Ormonde. Be she all righty, Miss Ysella?"

So even down here they'd heard. Ysella drew rein in front of her, and the other women approached, wiping dirty hands on aprons, all agog to hear the news. "The fever has broken," Ysella announced, proud of being able to bring them good news about Morvoren. "Doctor Busick expects her to recover."

The Widow Elkins' lined face creased even further in a toothless smile. "Mind'n tell her we was askin' after her, if'n you don't mind, Miss Ysella." The other women nodded, echoing her words in a muttered chorus. "Tell her she been missed."

A little cheer went up, and, with a nod and a smile, Morvoren turned Lochinvar between the houses towards the entrance to the long track home. The sound of trotting hooves interrupted her. She turned her head. A handsome bay was approaching down the dirt road, astride it a gentleman, whose identity, even though no longer clad in scarlet regimentals, she could not mistake.

"Oliver!" She tightened her hold on Lochinvar who had been anticipating his gallop as much as she had, and Oliver brought his sweating horse up beside her, his face wreathed in smiles.

"Ysella! I could hardly dare to hope that if I rode this way I might find you also out on a horse. This is wonderful. Meant. Fate must be smiling on us."

She gazed at him in awe. Even without his regimentals and with his wavy hair concealed by a dashing top hat, he was a vision to behold. Even more handsome than her memory had allowed her to recall. And he'd kept his promise. Her doubts had been unfounded. He'd followed her down from London to Wiltshire and come looking for her. Her stomach did a delightful leap, and her cheeks flushed with heat.

"I'm so pleased to see you, and I have good news. My sister-in-law is recovering and is on the mend. I only found out this morning. It felt as though a great load had been lifted from my soul, so I decided that what I needed was a gallop in the fresh air. So here I am. And the sun is smiling on me."

Oliver peered up the track, which was narrow and ran between two thorny hedges. "Is that your intended galloping track?"

She nodded. "Absolutely." Her lips curved into a smile she couldn't hold in. "Do you fancy a gallop as well?"

Oliver's eyes twinkled in a way that set Ysella's heart to pounding. "A race," he said, grinning. "But a race is nothing without a wager."

He was going to have a hard job beating Lochinvar, so why not? Mama would be horrified at her making a wager like this with a gentleman, but then, Mama would be horrified that she was out without a groom, as well. And that she was all alone with said gentleman. But what Mama couldn't see, Mama couldn't rail at, and besides, she was probably far too busy with Morvoren to notice anything Ysella got up to. She nodded, lifting her chin, her dander up. "A wager indeed, then. What are the stakes?"

Oliver's eyes smoldered. "A kiss."

More heat rushed to Ysella's cheeks. Far more than she would have liked. How forward of any young man to demand a kiss in return for a race victory. Well, how forward of him to suggest the race in the first place. Oliver seemed intent on proving himself an altogether very forward young man indeed. But wasn't that rather nice? At least she had an idea what he wanted, and if it happened to coincide with something she wanted… like a kiss… which of course she did want. Although, of course, he'd not yet mentioned marriage even once, only, rather deliciously, that he had to have her. But that didn't matter. Wasn't marriage what all young admirers came to in the end?

"Very well," she said, heart hammering at her own daring. She'd raced Kit and Morvoren countless times, and usually won as she had Lochinvar, but this was different. "For a kiss." She narrowed her eyes. "If you win, you may steal your kiss. If I win, you will go away empty-handed."

He nodded. "May the best man win."

"Woman," Ysella retorted, and leaning forward on Lochinvar, set her heel and whip to his sides. He leapt forward like a coiled spring unleashed, and by her side Oliver applied heels and whip to his own bay's flanks. The horses thundered up the narrow track, Lochinvar just in front of the bay, his neck stretched out, just like one of the hunting pictures in the hall at Ormonde.

Crouched as far forward as she could go, Ysella glanced to her right, where Oliver was lashing the bay with his whip. Did she want to win that badly? Or did she want him to kiss her? Part of her, the competitive side of her that never liked to lose, fought against the side of her that longed for the touch of Oliver's lips on hers.

Lochinvar began to slow. The going was heavy after all the rain, and all uphill. Perhaps the bay was a fitter mount. After all, Ysella had been in London for two months, so perhaps all he'd been having was a gentle hack with one of the grooms. At this rate she was going to lose without even trying.

The bay surged ahead, the end of the track in sight. Oliver pulled his horse up and Ysella brought Lochinvar to a halt beside him, his chestnut flanks heaving and flecked with foam.

"I think I win," Oliver said, his eyes hot with… what? Triumph? Desire? Were her own eyes as hot? Because she did want him to kiss her. Oh yes, she did. Without a doubt. Definitely. It would be her first ever kiss with a real man. Her heart, that had raced with the effort of the contest, showed no sign of slowing.

Oliver pushed the bay so close that his leg rubbed against Lochinvar's sweaty side, his eyes locked on hers. He leaned towards her, his face only a foot or so from hers. "Are you ready to surrender my prize?" His voice had taken on a husky depth. The tip of his tongue slid around his lips, as though hungry to taste hers, and a shiver ran through her from head to toe.

Her heart thundered faster still, her stomach did a convoluted back flip, and her breath came fast and urgently. She was really going to be kissed. At last. The chaste one Archibald Hatherleigh had stolen when she was twelve didn't count. This was the real thing. A kiss from a handsome man. A kiss from the man she loved. The man who loved her. Didn't he?

She leaned towards Oliver as though drawn by a magnet. His face moved towards hers. So close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. She closed her eyes. Her fingers tightened on the reins as his lips touched hers. How cool and dry they felt at first. He pressed his closed mouth against hers for a couple of seconds that seemed to last forever. Was this how being kissed should feel? Memories of much the same kind of kiss from Archibald rose to her mind. Was this what all the fuss was about?

Then something wet slid between her lips, forcing them apart. Something moist and demanding. His tongue. She started with shock, but his hand came up behind her head and stopped her retreat. Her lips opened under his pressure, her teeth parted, his tongue invaded her mouth. Did this mean he was giving her a baby? Not if Morvoren was right. She'd just have to hope she was.

But… was this kissing? Was this what Kit and Morvoren did? What every couple did? Probably, if Morvoren was to be believed. This quite delicious and daring entry of a part of another person's body into one's own. This invasion of her mouth. A glorious shiver of ecstasy trickled down her back to her stomach, and then lower. Good heavens! What was that delicious feeling? Her own tongue met Oliver's, unbidden, as though two wrestlers sparred, and his mouth pressed ever harder, demanding more. His other hand—was he no longer holding his bay's reins?—moved to her breast.

This time she did start back so hard he couldn't hold her. His roaming hand fell to his horse's neck and he laughed. Was that an even greater look of triumph in his eyes?

She gave a little nervous laugh in return, frightened by how much she'd liked what he'd been doing, even when he'd touched her breast. She felt very grownup, but at the same time flustered and confused.

He gathered up his reins. "I'd best be getting back to my hostelry. As I said I would, I'm staying at the Castle in Marlborough. It turns out to be a very fine establishment. Perhaps I can call at Ormonde Abbey tomorrow? If you'd like that?"

Like that? Of course she would. Common sense prevented this reply though. Instead, she gathered up her own reins and inclined her head towards him. The man who had just put his tongue down her throat in that wicked fashion and provoked a reaction she didn't understand. "That would be most pleasant, Oliver. I'm sure my brother the Viscount will be pleased to meet you." They sounded like two casual acquaintances, not two people who'd just shared the most intimate of moments. Should she be disappointed?

With a knowing smile, he turned the bay away from her, and set off back down the track in a steady trot. Ysella watched him go, until at last a bend in the track concealed him. She'd better return home herself, before someone noticed her absence and reported it to Mama.