Chapter Two

Blythe

Damn him. His effortless good looks are irritating even when unconscious.

Suddenly, Briggs Goswick’s clear, green eyes pop open, staring up at the serenely blue sky above us.

“Are you all right?” I ask quietly, my hand on his shoulder.

“Damn that horse to hell,” he spits, sitting upright and then launching from the grass as though he had simply dismounted the animal rather than fly ass over head to the ground. Of course, I know better, and I can’t stop the smirk that has come to my lips. “No matter how many times we practice, it’s no use. He won’t jump.” He approaches the fence where the horse whinnies amiably and then throws his hands in the air.

“That’s because he’s a hunter. Not a jumper,” I inform him.

Briggs stands with his hands on his hips, still breathing quickly as he stares at me. “Excuse me,” he says quietly. His eyes soften, and he clears his throat. “I have been most ungentlemanly. I’m Mr. Briggs Goswick of Mistlethrush Hall.” He bows. “And you are?”

I must come up with the appropriate answer to this question. He clearly doesn’t recognize me, and I would prefer to avoid what will undoubtedly be our caustic reunion for as long as possible. “Well, if you would really like to apologize for your ungentlemanly behavior, you might realize that we haven’t been formally introduced.” I curtsy briefly and then make my way back to the tree where I left my book.

“Certainly, out here in nature, formal introductions aren’t quite as necessary,” he says, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s following me. Because of course he is. He gestures to the general outdoor area, then runs a hand through his annoyingly thick, shiny hair. “After all, you must be staying nearby. We will likely run into one another again before the summer comes to a close.”

“And when we do,” I say, bending down and retrieving my book and what’s left of my apple, “I will gladly have a mutual acquaintance introduce us. Besides, this can hardly be considered real nature; it’s a pasture.”

He stands right in front of me now, hands on his hips, grinning at my lack of cooperation. Because Briggs Goswick always gets his way, and rather than being dissuaded by my impertinence, he has the gall to seem entertained.

I shake myself from staring at the perfect bow of his mouth. “I must go.”

“Please don’t,” he says, reaching forward and touching my wrist. “I feel as though we’ve met before. Perhaps if you tell me with whom you’re staying, I could guess.” He grins again and then bites his lower lip. “I love a good game.”

The way he says this makes me blush, heat pooling low in my belly. That’s quite enough of that, then. “I really must be going,” I say, heading for the fence. Gathering my skirts with my free hand, I step onto the lower rung, then hoist one leg over. Before I can clear the top, however, Briggs appears at my side, and he supports my elbow. “Th-Thank you,” I say quietly, landing on the other side and pulling my chestnut hair over my shoulder and twisting it.

“Ah, now, I think I’ve discovered a way to learn your identity once and for all,” he says. “Look there. Mr. Fitzgibbons!” he calls.

Behind me, Mr. Fitzgibbons, my uncle’s gamekeeper, crosses the lower field. He waves when he sees Briggs. Lovely. It’s all over now.

“Mr. Fitzgibbons,” says Briggs once the man is in earshot. “Do you know this young lady?”

The gamekeeper regards me, someone he’s chased out of his horses’ stables since I was a little girl, his eyes darting between Briggs and me, ignoring the tiny shake of my head I try to hide and make obvious all at once. “I…cert’nly do, sir.”

“Would you mind introducing us, then? Because, you see, she is a lady, and I am nothing if not a gentleman.”

“Me?” Fitzgibbons asks, pointing at his own chest. “You wan’ me to introduce you?”

“If you would be so kind.”

Fitzgibbons shrugs, flummoxed but not unwilling. “Aye, sir, if’n it pleases ye. Mr. Briggs Goswick, this is Miss Blythe Rowley, niece of Mr. Barlow. She’s stayin’ at Wrexford Park.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgibbons,” says Briggs quietly, his grin never faltering and his eyes steady upon me. “That will be all.”

“G’day, Mr. Goswick. Miss Rowley.” He touches the brim of his hat.

I raise my chin in the air in an attempt to exude whatever dignity I have left.

“Well, pluck my feathers and shove me in the oven,” Briggs says, one hand on his hip and the other gripping his riding crop. “Miss Blythe Rowley, all grown up. And not altogether difficult to look at.”

I cluck my tongue. “Oh, good, there you are. I was afraid you had gained manners and grace in my absence. Happy to see you’re as reliable as ever.”

A smug smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I am most surely as gentlemanly as I’ve ever been—the gentleman I’ve been bred to be. You, on the other hand, are a most delightful surprise. Hardly any dirt encrusting your person, a pretty dress, your hair tamed and fashionable. You almost look like a lady.” He jumps the fence and circles behind me. “In fact, you sound like a lady, too. But does that a lady make?”

I arch an eyebrow, my cheeks heating at his slow perusal. Lord, please don’t let me be blushing. “You may look like a gentleman, and if I were so fooled by your appearance, I suppose you’d sound like one, too.”

He laughs.

“But you can’t ride a horse, obviously, and that’s a deal breaker, so I shall take my leave of you, Mr. Goswick.” I curtsy low and dramatically.

“So soon, Miss Rowley? But we were only just getting reacquainted.”

“I’m a busy girl,” I reply, tucking my book under my arm and taking a final bite of apple. “I’m needed back at Wrexford.”

“For how long will you be staying?” Briggs asks, appearing before me and trotting backward in order to keep up and be in my way all at once.

“Until the end of the week,” I reply.

“Not the summer?”

“Lord, no.”

“You don’t sound particularly enthusiastic.”

I pause. “Please don’t pretend to know my innermost thoughts, Mr. Goswick. It’s been quite some time since we met under less-than-ideal circumstances, and at least one of us has matured since then.”

“Sharp as ever, Miss Rowley.”

I skip down the slope of a hill, the clock copula adorning the arch at Wrexford coming into view. “You confuse rudeness with obligation. As I’ve told you, I’m needed back at Wrexford Park. There’s apparently a dinner being planned.”

“For me, naturally.”

“So it would seem.”

“So you’re planning my dinner? How very kind of you, Miss Rowley. I am honored.”

I pause at the boxwood hedges that separate the gardens from the fields, closing my eyes and allowing my shoulders to droop, even though I clench my teeth. “I am helping my cousin, who is planning your dinner.”

“As always, you thrive on being enigmatic.”

“Enigmatic!” I cry, that old familiar vexation bubbling in my chest again. Not five minutes in, and Briggs Goswick has already gotten on my last nerve. “I could not be any clearer, Mr. Goswick. I have told you time and again that my cousin needs me to help in preparation for your dinner. If you’ll excuse me.” I curtsy once again and leave him.

He’s silent as I take several paces, and at last, I think, I’ve left him behind me.

Not altogether the worst meeting with Briggs Goswick, actually. He was cocky, no doubt, but I’ve experienced worse.

Until he calls out, “Will you be serving pork, perhaps?”

Slowly, I turn, regarding him in the middle of the path, riding crop in one hand and hat in the other. He is so maddeningly handsome, I see red. I hurl the core of my apple, and it meets its target, right between his eyes.

“Ah,” says Briggs, offering me a slow blink. “Splendid. Right where we left off, then.”