Page 5 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

“Complicate?” She seemed surprised by his dismissive words. “I am nothing if uncomplicated. But don’t you ever tire of the predictable, my lord?”

“I find predictability far preferable to chaos,” he replied. Predictability. Order. Silence.

She threw him a sidelong glance. “Truly? Doesn’t life get boring that way?”

It did. That was one of the reasons he had traveled all the way to London to begin with. Not the main reason, but one of them. He mainly came here to find his locket and then to find a wife. To add some color to his gray existence, to bring excitement to his carefully ordered life.

He turned to look her dead in the eyes, his expression grave. “Do I strike you as anything but boring?”

Her gaze traveled down his face, and he could have sworn she lingered on his lips as she licked hers. Then she met his gaze once more. “I think beneath your icy exterior, there is a wealth of excitement.”

What did she want from him? It was evident that she had ulterior motives for every interaction she had. But Rivendale was too pained to contemplate what they were. “You’d be wrong.”

He urged his horse forward once more, but she immediately matched his pace. “If you are so determined to escape me,” she said, her voice teasing, “why not earn your freedom? Race me. To the bend and back.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped. “I don’t race foolish ladies who have no regard for their necks on damp ground.”

Her smile turned wicked as she tightened her grip on the reins. “Then today is your lucky day, my lord. Because as we have already established, I am no lady.”

“Miss Monroe—” he began, but she nudged her horse into a gallop, waving at him as she sped away.

“Damn and blast!” he cursed, watching her race off with a mixture of fury and helpless admiration. The woman rode as if she had been born in the saddle, her body moving with her mount as though they were one creature.

Reckless. Damnably reckless.

He should let her go. Let her race alone and return home as he had planned. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He didn’t gallop after her, but he followed at a measured pace, tracking her every movement. That bend she’d mentioned was rather steep. She could easily fall.

She didn’t.

She rounded the corner with reckless abandon, her horse’s hooves thundering against the packed earth as she charged directly toward him. She laughed, barreling down on him at full gallop, with a wild gleam in her eyes.

Surely, she’d stop now.

Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

His hands tightened instinctively on the reins as he realized she had no intention of slowing or giving him proper berth.

Five yards. Three.

She swept past him in a blur of motion, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from her mount and catch the breathless sound of her delighted laughter as it rang out behind her.

The spray of loose pebbles kicked up by her horse’s hooves pelted against his legs and Knight’s flanks, though perhaps it was simply her brazen proximity that set his stallion on edge.

Knight snorted and tossed his head, his ears pinned back in alarm, before letting out a sharp whinny and rearing up on his hind legs. The sudden movement caught Rivendale off guard, and before he could regain proper control, Knight bolted forward.

It all happened so fast that Rivendale barely had time to pull on his reins or tighten his knees, let alone remember that his right leg wasn’t secured.

His muscles rebelled against him, not following his commands, and the next thing he knew, he was flying through the air before hitting the ground with brutal, unforgiving force.

She’d done it.

That stubborn, infuriating woman had knocked the fucking breath right out of him.

* * *

I killed him!

The thought screamed through Melissande’s mind as she watched Rivendale’s powerful body hit the earth with a sickening thud that echoed in her very bones. For one terrifying heartbeat, he lay completely still.

“No, no, no!” The words tore from her throat as she threw herself from her mare’s back, not caring about grace or propriety or the way her riding habit caught and tore on the saddle.

Her boots hit the damp ground running, and she was beside him in an instant, her hands hovering over his motionless form as terror clawed at her chest.

His face was turned away from her, but she could see a smear of mud on his cheek and the way his dark hair had fallen across his forehead. His breathing— thank God, he was breathing —came in harsh, labored gasps that spoke of pain.

“Rivendale!” she gasped, her voice high and thin with panic. “Oh God, please don’t be hurt, please!”

When he lifted his head, his face was clenched in agony, and fury blazed in his dark eyes.

He growled something through his teeth, his voice rough with pain and something dangerously close to rage.

“What?” she asked, leaning in closer.

“Bring me the fucking cane from my saddle,” he roared, each word bitten off with a vicious force.

She flinched and froze for a moment in defiance. How dare he curse at her like this?

But she quickly shook off her stubbornness. He was in pain, and she was to blame.

Rising on unsteady legs, she stumbled toward his stallion, which was pawing nervously at the ground a few feet away. Her hands shook as she frantically searched the saddle, running her fingers along the leather until they found a walking stick secured to one side.

She grabbed it and turned back to where he lay, finding him struggling to push himself upright. She rushed to his side and thrust the cane toward him.

He snatched it from her grasp with such force that she stumbled forward, almost ending up beside him on the ground.

He hated her.

“You don’t have to be so harsh,” she mumbled. “It was an accident.”

She offered her hand, but he ignored it and, with painstaking slowness, got to his feet, using his cane for leverage.

“Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth.

She froze, her hands falling to her sides as she watched him gain his feet with agonizing slowness.

His right leg, she realized with growing horror, remained strangely stiff throughout the process.

It didn’t bend properly or support his weight the way his left leg did.

Instead, he seemed to drag it, positioning it through conscious effort rather than natural movement.

Oh, God. Had he broken his leg?

She watched as he hobbled the few steps to his horse, the cane taking much of his weight.

He reached his horse and, to her amazement, mounted fluidly. He hauled himself into the saddle with an economy of movement that spoke of formidable upper body strength. His left leg found the stirrup easily, naturally, while his right…

She watched as he carefully guided his right leg into position with his hands, adjusting it manually until it rested properly.

She’d crippled him!

Oh, God! What in the world was I thinking?

She had been thinking about the wager, about proving herself as the most scandalous woman in London, about showing the ton that Melissande Monroe was not a woman to be trifled with. She had been thinking about scandal, victory, and the sweet taste of triumph over those who underestimated her.

She hadn’t been thinking about him at all. Hadn’t considered what her actions might cost the man who had become an unwilling participant in her games.

Standing there in the damp grass, watching his retreating figure grow smaller in the distance, Melissande felt something she had never experienced in her adult life.

Regret.