Chapter Sixteen

Blythe

“Miss Rowley,” says Westley in surprise. “You fond of a good race?” He grins pleasantly as Lord Colchester and I climb the hill to where the gentlemen and their horses prance impatiently.

“Oh, am I ever,” I reply, my eyes finding Briggs’s immediately. “It would seem Mr. Goswick has the horse to beat, doesn’t he?” I arch a brow.

Clearing his throat, Briggs throws the reins over his horse. “Thank you, Miss Rowley. He is indeed a fine specimen, is he not?”

“He must be if he’s going to jump all the hurdles Lord Drummond has set out.”

Briggs’s gaze narrows upon me, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and I cross my arms over my chest. “You must trust me, Miss Rowley,” he says in a low voice.

“I feel as though I’m missing something here,” says Lord Drummond from behind me.

I present my most sincere smile. “Not a thing, my lord. I’m just looking forward to observing.”

“Good for you, Miss Rowley,” says Briggs, hoisting himself up in one rather fluid motion into his saddle. “You can find a lovely prospect from just over the hill, up past the gardens, and then make a right.”

I glance over my shoulder to ascertain where he means. “The only thing in that direction is the house,” I reply.

“Exactly.” He trots to the starting point along with the rest of the participants.

With a huff, I follow Lord Colchester to where the spectators are waiting for the race to begin just a few paces away and ease myself in between Charlotte and Sabrina.

“Done with your game of pall-mall, Char?” I ask, flicking a bug from her shoulder.

“I went looking for you, actually,” she says, acting as casually as possible. “And imagine my surprise when I found you promenading along the lake with Lord Colchester. Things are progressing nicely, I see.”

I shrug. “It was a pleasant albeit brief walk.”

The horses before us stomp in frustration, ready to get moving, but their riders are still debating.

Lord Drummond huffs. “I thought we were settled on the wager.”

“Fifty pounds?” Briggs repeats.

“Make it one hundred,” calls a gentleman farther away from me.

Briggs takes a deep breath but finally nods. “Done.”

The numbers make me dizzy. One hundred pounds could fix the roof of Awendown House several times over. It could launch my business with Julian, but instead we’re scraping around, searching for investors. Rather, Julian is searching for investors. Meanwhile, I’m pretending to flirt with an earl, wearing dresses I cannot afford, and trying to make a match between a wealthy though reserved girl and a gentleman who refuses to stop throwing away his money.

“Gentlemen,” Westley begins. “The race will take you down this eastern slope, along the fence that separates the north pasture, through the glen, over the brook, and finally, you will return here where Miss Barlow, Miss Rowley, and Miss Dixon will determine the winner.”

Lord Drummond chuckles. “If Miss Rowley is the judge in the matter, then I think it’s fair to presume Goswick is the loser.”

“I have faith in Miss Rowley’s sense of honor,” says Briggs without looking at me.

“I wish I could say the same of you,” I mutter. “I think it probably best that I excuse myself from the judging. I would hate for my bias to tarnish the integrity of this great race.”

“As you wish, Miss Rowley,” says Lord Drummond. He turns back to Westley. “Mr. Parker, when you’re ready.”

“Ready,” says Westley. “Steady. Go!”

The horses take off, neck and neck, all riders leaning forward, as though driving the momentum of their animals. They’re soon at a great distance and then disappear into a thick section of forest. I scoff and turn from the race.

“You seem rather vexed over a horse race, cousin,” says Charlotte mildly. “Are you morally opposed?”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “But it’s so typical of Mr. Goswick’s poor judgment to gamble.”

“But not typical of Mr. Parker or Lord Drummond?”

Damn. It would be perfectly acceptable of Briggs Goswick to participate in a race and gamble if his finances were in a better state. I usually confide in Charlotte about nearly everything, but I bite my tongue this time. My chest tightens at the thought of betraying Briggs’s trust. Even if he’s stupid enough to attempt to jump his horse.

As Lord Drummond and his black gelding surge from the glen, Charlotte jumps up and down and applauds them. “Well done!”

The other riders soon appear, but Briggs doesn’t follow. Even as Lord Drummond slows his horse to a trot and comes to the end of the race, he looks back over his shoulder and frowns as he watches the glen before us and then dismounts his animal. “Goswick was right behind me in the woods, then he veered away from the path. I assumed he was trying to cut me off elsewhere.”

At the start of the glen, where the riders first entered, Briggs appears, walking his horse by the reins, and behind him, the animal limps pitifully.

“Oh, dear,” says Charlotte.

Lord Drummond hands her the reins of his horse, and he takes off to meet Briggs. I gather my skirts and follow him.

“Miss Rowley, be careful!” Lord Colchester calls after me.

But I’m too filled with outrage to heed his advice. When we reach them in the middle of the field, I kneel down at the horse’s left side, probing his rear leg with gentle fingers. I try to see if he reacts with pain to the pressure, and sure enough, he whinnies when I press too hard.

“Are you some sort of horse expert?” Briggs asks.

I don’t even bother meeting his eyes. “We have horses at Awendown. I enjoy helping to care for them.”

“I think he’s torn something,” he says.

“You jumped him, didn’t you?” I accuse Briggs as Lord Drummond examines the horse’s leg, as well.

“I didn’t even get the—”

“You really are insufferable, Briggs Goswick. I told you at the start of summer that your horse wasn’t a jumper, and yet here you are, pushing him further than you ought to. All for what? Japes and larks? The money you so desperately desire?”

“Don’t,” says Briggs with more force than I anticipated.

I finally look up from the horse, Briggs’s face registering. He’s swollen and red, and before he can say another word, he stumbles backward, right into the arms of Lord Colchester.

“Whoa, there, Goswick,” he says. He braces Briggs with a hand on his back and his chest, and Briggs winces at his touch. “You don’t look well at all.”

“I didn’t jump the horse,” says Briggs. “Despite Miss Rowley’s most ardent low opinion of me. But he brushed past a tree, where there were insects, bees perhaps, and then…”

Guilt and worry battle for supremacy as I study the stings populating his face. “These aren’t bee stings. We need to get him back up to the house,” I say suddenly, my heart in my throat. “Quickly.”

…

After a flurry of movement and yelling for supplies and Briggs begging for privacy, I find myself alone with him in a room adjacent to the kitchen in Hemington Manor. For a moment, I stand before the fire in the hearth, wishing it were slightly less exuberant than its current state. The room is warm and close, and once the cook drops off the honey and vinegar I requested, then closes the door behind her, I’m forced to open the window beside Briggs.

“Look at me,” I say when his head droops to his chest. When he doesn’t obey, I place my forefinger under his chin, lifting it for a better view.

“God, leave me alone, Blythe,” he rasps.

I try not to let on what the sound of my given name coming from the perfect bow of his mouth does to me. Even if it is said in disdain. My name implies a closeness, a familiarity, that I haven’t allowed us since we were children. I’ve never let any man outside my family call me Blythe before, and I can’t seem to remind the one sitting in front of me of his manners.

“I will not leave you alone,” I inform him. “That’s the worst possible thing I could do. Instead, I’m going to—”

“Torture me?”

“Call it what you like.” I take the jar of vinegar and the clean cloth I’ve been provided with and begin dabbing at the swelling along his face. “Between that fading bruise and the welts, you really are looking your best this summer, Mr. Goswick.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take it as a compliment,” he mumbles. He attempts to sit up straighter, but I place a hand on his shoulder to keep him where he is. He winces. “This whole side of my body hurts.”

His jacket is nowhere to be found, and his waistcoat is half unbuttoned and half torn, a sliver of his chest visible and making my skin feel too tight. “What happened?” I ask quietly.

He’s hesitant to reply but finally takes a deep breath, stringing the words together. “I thought I had found a way around the jump. Believe it or not, your words resonated with me, and I wasn’t going to risk the horse’s wellbeing again. We took the shortcut, but Apollo scraped past some underbrush where I assume we disturbed a beehive, then I lost my balance, fell with one foot stuck in the stirrup, and was dragged a few hundred feet until I finally came loose.”

“Hornets,” I correct him.

But at this point, I doubt he cares what kind of insect assaulted him. “And here I am.”

He can’t meet my eyes, and I don’t want to chastise him again. “Well,” I say, dipping the cloth into the shallow bowl of vinegar, “you’re lucky I’m here, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t reply, just closes his eyes and allows me to apply the concoction to his swollen face.

“I have had my share of stings,” I tell him quietly. “And while they’re painful now, they subside rather quickly when treated properly.”

“What about broken ribs?” he manages to get out, sucking in a breath as he adjusts his position in his chair.

“Let me see,” I say. His eyes grow wide at the implication of my words, but I secure his chin in my hand and repeat myself. “Let me see.”

He sighs, closing his eyes once more as I switch from vinegar to honey. “You’re rather reckless with your reputation, aren’t you, Miss Rowley? Getting caught in the kitchens with the very same gentleman you kissed at a dinner party? And in a state of half undress?”

“Actually, he kissed me, but in any case, I’m tending to his wounds, not his heart.” I smirk. “Or any other body part that might be affected.”

“Miss Rowley, I’m blushing.”

“Please, spare me the droll rejoinders and take your shirt off.”

He begins unbuttoning what remains of his waistcoat, and I watch the way his deft fingers work. “I like a girl who gets straight to the point.”

“Lord, you are the most pompous person of my acquaintance, Briggs Goswick.”

He shifts out of his white linen shirt, revealing the planes of his chest, solid and defined, but along his torso is an angry scrape, bloody and bruised, and I try not to let him see the flush that starts at my neck and works its way up to my cheeks. A bead of sweat trickles down my back, and I’m fairly certain it has more to do with the heat pooling low in my belly rather than the fire.

“Cook,” I call. “I’ll need some boiling water and more vinegar and clean cloths.”

“That bad, is it?” he asks.

“Bad enough, to be sure.” I circle around him in the chair, pretending to check for more injuries, but in reality, I can’t stare at this wound and risk him seeing my expression. And I don’t entirely mind the view of the broad expanse of his bare shoulders that my new position offers me. His muscles ripple as he rolls them back with a sigh, and I imagine how solid he would feel under my hands. I force new conversation to distract from my vivid fancies. “You called me reckless before, but honestly, Mr. Goswick. You’re racing horses and betting money that you don’t have.”

Cook brings me my supplies and then hurries out of the room.

Briggs turns his head to catch a glimpse of me. “I thought it was a sure thing,” he finally replies. “Besides, what was I to say? That I’ve fallen so far that I don’t even have the money for a silly horse race? I know I’m proud, and perhaps I let it get the better of me.”

That explains the race, but there’s more to it than that. “Lord Colchester told me that your horse is new and wasn’t in any way a bargain.”

Briggs sighs.

“You said you had no money!” I say in a high-pitched whisper, returning to my place in front of him, both hands on my hips as I stare down my nose at him. “Didn’t you? Isn’t that why you’ve employed me to help you woo Miss Dixon?”

“Yes, of course,” he says.

“Then how do you explain the horse?”

Briggs grips the edge of the table beside him and regards me with an intensity I didn’t expect. “Because when I returned home to Mistlethrush for the first time in years to find my father’s body only hours in the grave, the horse that remained was his mare. Cleo. And she’s old, Miss Rowley. Too old to push any further, and I didn’t want to lose the animal he loved so dearly, too. I couldn’t risk her wellbeing. So she resides at Mistlethrush in the fields, cropping grass, and rolling in dirt, and taking naps, and that’s what I want for her. A pleasant end to her days.

“And so yes, with what little money remained in my father’s coffers, I had to buy myself a new horse. I’m sure the creature was expensive at one point, but the blacksmith informed me he had a terrible temper, and no one would look at him. Except me. So I bought him at half his cost, and believe it or not, he seems to have taken to me. I mean, eventually, somebody had to.”

I bite my lower lip and turn to observe the view out the window. If I look at Briggs Goswick for much longer, I might let the tears brimming in my eyes spill over. I can’t seem to admit that I was wrong. It would be more than that, I fear. Because misunderstanding Briggs Goswick has been a satisfactory barricade, I realize. God, don’t let it fail me now.

Finally, I manage to say, “Could you lift your arm, please, so I can see your scrape more clearly?”

Briggs braces himself with one arm over the back of his chair and the other reaching out and gripping the windowsill beside us. He lifts it just enough so that I can adequately clean the wound.

“Does this hurt?” I ask, kneeling at his lap and applying vinegar to clean the blood.

“Yes,” he says, but I can hardly tell if he winces.

“I’ll be quick about it.”

“No, be thorough.”

I nod, deciding I can be both.

“Blythe?” Briggs asks quietly.

I offer him a quiet, “Hm?” as I work.

He takes a quick, stuttered breath. “I’m sorry for what happened last night.”

This, I’ll admit, drags my attention away from his wound. Briggs Goswick has never uttered those words to me before. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he replies. “I’ve had enough time to think on it, but I can’t seem to figure out the motivation behind my actions. Perhaps I wanted to spare you from an unwelcome admirer. Or maybe there’s a part of me that just…that just wanted the attention for myself.”

We’re silent for a good while, and the sound of his breath, the flash of his throat when he swallows, makes my head spin. Some old, throbbing wound I’ve buried wonders if this is just another trick. He’s hurt me before, pretending that he’s singled me out, and there’s a chance he would hurt me again. But somehow, I’m capable of yanking my thoughts from that spiral. He looks too pathetic for pranks right now, anyway. “Thank you,” I finally say. Anything to break this trance.

He grunts, probably with the pain, but maybe with confusion. “For what?”

“Telling me about your father’s horse.”

He breathes deeply, steadily, and when I attempt to read his face, I find him studying me, his green eyes soft and thoughtful. “What does it matter?” he murmurs.

What does it matter? I wonder. But the words eventually supply themselves. “I…find that I’ve grown tired of thinking ill of you. That view of you no longer suits me.” I sit up straighter on my knees, my hand resting on his thigh.

“Does this view suit you better?” he asks, head tilted ever so slightly to the side and his knees parting to allow me nearer. Our faces are close, so close I can see the divot on the bridge of his nose—a scar from some childhood indiscretion, I’m sure. But my eyes rove downward to his full lips, and so help me, my mind gets away from me. He licks them once, then parts them, and I imagine the warm brush of them against the fluttering pulse in my neck, then the soft caress of them along my jaw. The press of them against my mouth, his breath becoming mine.

“It does,” I breathe, my eyes taking in all of him and my whole body buzzing, the sensation spreading slowly the more familiar his mouth becomes. I grasp what I can of his leg, my nails surely scraping flesh through the fabric, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

His hand that gripped the windowsill tentatively hovers near my cheek, his fingertips gently brushing away a stray lock of hair, his eyes roaming my features. “Blythe,” he says again, whispers my name like a secret.

My eyes flick to his, and I lurch backward and to my feet in an almost fluid motion, my senses suddenly catching up to me. I was about to put myself in a more-than-precarious predicament, and I’ve had enough of that this summer. “Well,” I say, pacing the length of the room and brushing my skirts with both hands, “I think that’s about all I can help you with this afternoon, Mr. Goswick.”

Briggs still leans forward, focused on me, a smirk twitching at his mouth. “Thank you, Miss Rowley.” He lifts his arms, the whole length of his abdomen stretching and flexing as he pushes his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. “I could not have imagined a more attentive caretaker.”

“Of course,” I say, my voice breathier than I’d have preferred. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than anyone else would have done in my position.”

He pops his head through the top of his shirt. “Of course.”

“Of course.” I gesture toward the exit. “I should go. Before people wonder where I am.”

“But Blythe, I—”

“See you at supper!” I call over my shoulder, slamming the door shut behind me. I lean against it once it’s closed, my eyes screwed shut and my breath coming far too quickly. I place a hand over my heart, like that will somehow allow some semblance of normalcy. No, I tell myself. Absolutely not.

I allowed Briggs Goswick entrance to my heart before, and I will not make the same mistake twice. From now on, there will be nothing but cordial distance between us.