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It was, as she had previously observed, simple enough to attract male attention with eye-catching apparel emphasising the bosom, and she had hitherto never been interested in flaunting her shapeliest physical assets.

But neither, she now realised, had she made any effort to flatter them, to put her best foot forward, so to speak.

She still was unsure as to whether the colonel could meet her standards in a mate—and she disapproved completely of his constant baiting of the lovely Mr Darcy.

However, any man who knew his Shakespeare so well could not be too far off the mark.

And besides, if she could initiate such a thrilling response from him in this hideous orange gown, just think what she might be capable of inspiring if he only knew what was hidden beneath its shapeless folds.

Perhaps, even, incentive enough to cease underestimating her.

“The fact is, he would be a fortunate man, indeed, to win my hand,” she said aloud to the empty room, her usual confidence restored.

“Although, I am not sure what it says about my character that he was able to earn my approval by means of decidedly proficient lovemaking skills. Nary a female Drosophila would dare overlook him , to be certain—no matter his colouring.”

Fitzwilliam hurried out of the house, grateful for its relative quiet—which meant he was able to reach the stables without meeting Darcy or Saye.

He was far too shaken to cope with either.

It was wet, although not particularly chilly, and regardless, Zeus was a warrior—who would be thrilled for the exercise had it been snowing—and was accustomed to his daily run.

A snow storm would be ideal , he thought, wishing the weather could cool his ardour.

How could he be attracted to a woman so opposite to his usual inclinations?

He had always preferred a daintier sort, women fashioned after the lines of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

And yet, it was not Elizabeth who had haunted his dreams these last nights.

How would it be to have a companion who confronted him, excited him, dared him to explain himself, and refused to allow him precedence simply because he was an earl’s son?

At the same time, he was unsure of those same qualities; it was not quite comfortable to be thus challenged.

Miss Bentley had asked him why he provoked his cousin so, and he was beginning to fear it had less to do with unrequited affections than he had hitherto believed. The conclusion did not paint him in a very good light.

Bah! I need only clear my head with a long ride and put Miss Bentley and her artless, wildly pounding heart from my mind!

But he had only just brought the stallion into the yard when he nearly knocked over the last person he expected to find at such a spot on such an inclement day.

“Oh—sorry Blanders…um, Anderson. Did not expect to meet you here.” Fitzwilliam raised a brow when he noticed the mount Anderson led.

“Botheration, it appears as though a mistake has been ma de—they’ve given you Thunder.

Bad tempered beast. Let me see to getting you one of Saye’s more suitable hacks. It will only take a moment.”

But Anderson held up one hand. “Thank you. There is really no need.”

Fitzwilliam was dubious but in no mood to argue. The man would likely see more of the muddy ground than the estate’s surroundings; however, it was his own business. He shrugged. “Well then, I shall leave you to it.” In one easy motion, he mounted, waving off the waiting stable boy.

“Colonel,” the other man called, looking back over his shoulder from his saddle. “First to the south gate buys a round?”

It was madness to encourage him, yet perhaps it was as well to stay with the fool.

If he was determined to race Thunder, it would be best to keep an eye out and, as would probably be necessary, know where to bring the litter to cart his broken body home.

Besides, Zeus would love it, and the south gate was miles away, at the end of a good enough road; even Blanderson might live to tell the tale.

“On your signal,” he said with a shrug.

Blanderson tipped his hat—and was off like a shot from a pistol.

Surprised, it took Fitzwilliam a moment or two to urge Zeus into his fastest paces, racing through the wind and rain, the landscape speeding past until they were practically flying.

As he did, he received a still greater surprise—the man was mad.

Truly, ferociously, unapologetically insane.

He did not take the well-travelled road—or rather, he did, but only to the extent that it matched his purpose, the straightest, shortest conceivable route to the postern.

If shrubs or hedges or once, even, a bloody tree surrounded by boulders interfered with that course, he leapt, he twisted, he swivelled, he all but somersaulted over or around it.

After a few more astonished seconds, Fitzwilliam no longer truly cared which of them won.

It was the thrill of it. Saye and Darcy were both expert horsemen but also cared for the style, the grace, the elegance of the thing—and neither preferred horses like Zeus, bred for brute strength as well as speed.

Racing them was never a neck-or-nothing, vicious battle of endurance as well as speed—a reckless, filthy adventure.

In the end, the only reason Fitzwilliam won was because Zeus was, at his heart, a warhorse.

On the home stretch, racing neck and neck for the gate, Zeus managed an aggressive battle manoeuvre with his teeth; to avoid total disaster, Anderson was forced to dodge.

Zeus took to the air as if he were winged, soaring over the high gate seconds before Thunder.

Fitzwilliam glanced over—the other man, covered in muck, hatless, was congratulating the steed as if he had won at Ascot. Thunder, well known in the stables for his ill temper and perverse disposition, was leaning against Anderson’s shoulder as if he were a motherless puppy.

Fitzwilliam shook his head, dismounting Zeus to lead him into a walk. “I had no idea Thunder had it in him.”

Anderson looked over with a wry expression. “Some animals might be misjudged and underestimated, even in the best stables.”

Indeed.

“Touché,” Fitzwilliam replied. “One thing is certain—I swear never to call you ‘Blanderson’ again, so long as I live.”

Anderson grinned, his teeth showing white against his muddy face. “I don’t suppose that horse of yours is for sale?”

“I would as soon sell my right arm,” Fitzwilliam said, grinning back. “Saye bought him for me, a birthday gift some five years past. For that alone, I would gladly die for the man.”

Anderson nodded, wiping his face with a large handkerchief. “What do you say we go on to the Pig what was more, he was feeling mellow enough to answer it.

“Not my place to approve or disapprove. My father was pleased enough that fastidious Darcy finally settled upon someone, and he gave it the family’s sanction.”

Anderson raised a brow.

Annoying fellow!

“ Of course I approve. Darcy is like a brother to me, and Miss Bennet is…well, she is as pretty as she is clever. She will make a fine mistress for Pemberley—as a matter of fact, it is the perfect setting for her.”

The other man nodded. “I have noticed she is good for Darcy.”

“Too good,” Fitzwilliam snorted. Anderson only watched him.

He had never before noticed the shrewdness of Anderson’s expression. It made him irritable. “Darcy did not even see her goodness until he had nearly destroyed any of her finer feelings towards him. He is too accustomed to gaining what he wants.”

“It appears she has forgiven him.”

“She is all that is good,” Fitzwilliam said sulkily. “I have an obligation, as his elder cousin and nearly his closest relation in the world, to needle him a bit, to see that he does not grow smug.”

“Ah. You have only his welfare at heart.”

Sarcasm, now . It was none of Anderson’s business, nor Miss Bentley’s.

Everyone in the world, it seemed, was eager to assist Darcy with his dearest concerns.

He refused to comment, but his companion did not seem to mind, stretching out comfortably as if he had not a care in the world.

Perhaps he did not; recalling Georgette’s prevarication at dinner on the first night, a suspicion took root in his mind that, perhaps, his cousin and Anderson were not merely friends.

Perhaps Georgette had made up her mind to have him.

He had to admit, Anderson was a better man than he had first appeared.

Anyone who rode that well could not fail to handle his mother’s cousin, Hawkridge.

If so, it would make Anderson yet another man more fortunate in love than he.

He could not resist saying so, for even if Georgette’s feelings were not engaged, his companion seemed entirely too complacent .

“Easy enough for those who are unacquainted with unrequited affections to judge.” He snapped his mouth shut, having said too much.

But Anderson, unlike his brother and cousin, did not pounce on the opportunity to mock. He only smiled sympathetically. “However, I predict that time, in your case, will remove the thorn from your side.”

Fitzwilliam grunted. “Fail to see how you can know a thing.”

“Yet it is quite obvious. No one could like, or even accustom themselves to watching the love of one’s life marry another. Especially to so close a relative, so near in age, and, except for his purse, no more worthy than yourself of the prize.”

“No one could,” Fitzwilliam agreed reluctantly, for his thoughts on love were increasingly confused.

“Naturally. Of course, the resentment will become obvious to your cousin, and, eventually, to his bride. They will soon grow uncomfortable in your presence, and, as tactfully as possible, distance themselves, so as to avoid antagonising the family peace. Before you know it, you will only have to put up with them for an annual visit, Easter or some such.” He waved his hand, as if his little solution—losing Darcy’s respect and friendship—answered everything.

“I do not say she is the love of my life—only that she never had the opportunity to become such. I never had the opportunity, the means to court her, to discover whether she might be.”

“Bloody unfair,” Anderson agreed. “Bad enough to be the younger brother, without being forced to watch your cousin’s victories as well.”

“I do not begrudge either of them,” Fitzwilliam protested. But he knew, even as he said it, that he did. That he had. Not Saye—he had found his peace years ago with that. Evidently, however, he had never done the same with Darcy.

Anderson said nothing—a talent of his. The silence stretched.

“When I returned from Spain,” Fitzwilliam said at last, haltingly, “I was…not in a good way. There were things I witnessed there that—well, never mind it. I could not, at first, confide in Saye. Felt him too far removed, and too refined, I supposed, to ever understand it. Thought the same of Darcy, but he took me to his hunting lodge, to the peace and the quiet. Never even loaded his gun or so much as looked at a bird. We fished a little, and he just…waited. Asked a few questions, was never shocked by my answers, only…waited for more. I hated sleeping, avoided going to bed—the dreams, you know. So he waited up too. Just sat and dozed by the fire in the hearth-chair opposite, for weeks, I think. Never left me alone with it. Listened. Encouraged me to speak to Saye, too—good advice, that—Saye is not nearly so fastidious as he appears.” He cleared his throat.

“A good man, is Darcy. The best of men, really. ”

Anderson nodded again, his eyes kind. “Almost makes it worse, does it not?”

Fitzwilliam burst out laughing. “Indeed,” he agreed.

There was no more conversation; for the first time in months, it seemed, there was nothing except peace in the room. He might even have dozed. But at last, sighing, he heaved himself up. “I suppose Zeus is ready for his own stable. I should be going back.”

“Besides, who knows what adventures your brother has in store for us,” Anderson replied, standing as well. “We shall be thought cowardly if we hide much longer.”

At the door, Fitzwilliam paused. “Did you—did you plan this? The race? Attempting to talk sense into a hard-headed soldier?”

Anderson shrugged. “Everyone knows of your daily ride, and I thought I might liven it a bit.” He paused, as if debating whether to say more. “Miss Hawkridge has been concerned for you of late. I thought it might ease her mind if we spoke, man to man.”

His remark vastly increased Fitzwilliam’s suspicions, and he was on the verge of challenging him, but Anderson had not finished.

“And you know, good man he may be, but Darcy seems somewhat tightly wound. Perhaps a little jealous, even, of any moment Miss Bennet cannot be with him. If you ever decide to give him a bit of advice, perhaps remind him that these days, before we must devote ourselves to the business of matrimony and heirs and life and all the rest, can be precious ones. He and Miss Bennet need only look to each other’s enjoyment and pleasure.

The future will take care of itself and bring its own troubles.

Rejoicing in every moment we are allowed is the only duty of today. ”

And then he grinned. “On the other hand, if you wish for a bit of innocent revenge, allow him to carry on as he is.”

Laughing, they walked out of the inn together.