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Chapter One

E lmsleigh House was about an hour south of London and, importantly for polo aficionados (something Eden Ennis wasn’t), midway between the two best polo clubs in the country, Cowdray and Beaufort.

Elmsleigh, apparently, didn’t host any of the top-tier polo matches but, in Eden Ennis’s exceedingly amateur opinion, it should.

Because, man, it was beautiful. The polo field, surrounded by oak trees, looked like an AI-generated photograph.

Or one straight out of a glossy society magazine.

Eden took in the Georgian manor house, elegant and refined, sitting behind the polo field.

It wasn’t excessively big, but with its old, honeyed stone walls and thick, possessive ivy creeping up and over a good portion of the facade, it was still impressive.

To the right of the house, and on a slight rise, was a long block of stables, a more recent addition built in the same stone and style of the house.

In the fields beyond the house and stables, gleaming thoroughbreds munched on what she presumed was premium-quality grass.

This was a billionaire’s country estate, where his exceptional polo team was headquartered and trained, a place where his elite friends came to stay and play.

Eden rocked on her heels, enjoying the hot sun on her bare shoulders.

It was a perfect English spring day, one they hadn’t experienced for a while, warm and rich and, she presumed, perfect for a game of polo.

She pulled in a deep breath, unused to the combination of horses, freshly cut grass, leather, and more than a whiff of money.

It wasn’t just a polo field– it was a whole damn vibe.

Although this event was advertised as a friendly Saturday afternoon practice match between two teams as a warm-up to the upcoming polo season, everything about the setting and the sport suggested luxury, a sense of timelessness imbued with a dash of fuck-it attitude only the very rich could pull off.

Turning her attention back to the field, Eden watched as two teams of riders– eight in all– on magnificent horses trotted onto the pitch.

Six of the eight riders were men, and all wore white pants tucked into black, knee-high riding boots.

One team wore navy shirts, the other white with red patches.

Every one of the riders looked as comfortable on their horse as Eden did on her couch watching K-dramas.

An elbow connected with her arm. ‘Here we go.’

An older man, dressed in ancient green, faded cords tucked in gumboots, and a stylish linen shirt, stood to her right. The low brim of a battered cap and sunglasses covered his tanned, stubbled face.

‘Are you a virgin?’

She blinked. What? The man half-snorted, half-chuckled, his eyes not leaving the field. ‘A polo virgin? Have you watched a game before?’

That would be a solid no. Also, since it had been years since she last had sex– four? five?– it was possible she was a born-again virgin too. ‘Can you tell?’ she asked wryly.

He rubbed his hands together, his attention on the field.

‘It will only be a friendly polo match and, because they are getting the horses back into training after a long break, it’ll be a bit slow.

You won’t see the speed, but you’ll still see the skill involved.

These are some of the best riders in the country. ’

They certainly looked fit and muscled. She couldn’t see their faces, but with bodies like that…

who cared? Her eyes settled on a man in the centre, attracted by his barely contained ferocity.

Unlike the others, he sat perfectly still in the saddle, his hands loose on the reins of his equally calm horse.

He appeared taller and bigger than everyone else, and…

mmm, harder . More focused, six feet plus of power and intensity.

A whip on the edge of cracking…

‘Who’s number three?’ she asked, lifting a hand to shade her eyes.

She hadn’t been able to find her sunglasses when she left her flat this morning, and now she was regretting not taking the time to track them down.

The sun was making her eyes water. She sneezed and received a ‘bless you’ from her new companion.

‘Number three is Jed Harris, a nine handicap.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Ten is the highest, and there are only fourteen players in the world who have a ten handicap. Right, here we go.’

Eden jumped at the smack of the mallet against the ball, and her mouth dropped as horses flew down the field, looking like they possessed invisible wings, their muscles rippling under glossy coats.

She lifted her hand to her mouth, entranced by the spectacle of eight horses and riders chasing what looked to be a too-small ball.

The riders were all focus and finesse, and, yeah, exceptionally talented.

You had to be when you were balancing on a speeding horse while swinging a stick.

Every move they made was smooth, considered and totally, utterly badass .

Eden watched Number Three, Jed something, sprinting toward the goal– this was slow?

seriously?– the ball rolling next to his horse’s hooves.

She winced when a rider from the opposing team thundered toward him at a right angle.

Shit, they were both going too fast; they were going to collide!

Number Three braked and spun his horse around in a pirouette, the manoeuvre so quick it raised a collective wheeze, and then a cheer, from the crowd.

‘It’s so fast,’ Eden stuttered, unable to pull her eyes from the action. Or, to be honest, off Number Three. He was magnetic .

‘They are currently in slow motion,’ her new friend told her. ‘In professional matches, the average speed of the ponies is sixty miles per hour. It’s called chess at speed. Each player thinks three steps ahead while trying to dodge attacks from their rivals.’

Number Three managed to outwit his opponent and galloped down the field, the crowd cheering him on.

With an easy, elegant thwack, the ball sailed through the goalposts, and the crowd erupted.

Eden jumped up and down, holding on to her new friend’s arm.

She wasn’t a sporty girl, didn’t know a damn thing about polo, had never met a horse before, but this was wild and magical.

And unexpectedly exhilarating.

Then she spoiled the moment by sneezing and sneezing again. She took the old, but clean cotton handkerchief her new friend offered her and winced. ‘I’d have to post it back to you.’

He shrugged and patted the area of his jacket above his heart. ‘I have another, and I have dozens at home. Allergies?’

‘I have no idea,’ she replied, after thanking him. She placed the handkerchief under her eyes to soak up the moisture, and then blew her nose. ‘Maybe it’s the fresh air, I’m used to car fumes and smog.’

‘There’s nothing like a day out in the country to clear your lungs,’ he said.

‘Nothing like it,’ Eden nodded. She couldn’t remember when last, if ever, she’d visited any place this rural.

When she travelled, she headed to European cities, Copenhagen, Berlin, Prague, Dublin– she understood them and knew how they worked.

The country, with its woods and fields, narrow roads and high hedgerows? Not so much. Or at all.

Eden turned her attention back to the match, quickly realising danger was a polo player’s constant companion.

One wrong move, one mistimed swing, and the rider could find themselves on their arse on the ground or have a limb smacked by a mallet.

Yet, she somehow understood, on a visceral level, that danger, for both the players and the spectators watching, was what made the sport addictive.

Each ride toward the goal was a heart-pounding race, every quick turn, an opportunity for a daring steal, and every shot, a way to swing the game in your team’s favour.

It was thrilling. And utterly delicious.

If this was the players taking it easy, then a proper match would be a fantastic spectacle.

A whistle blew and a few beats later the horses slowed to a walk, and the riders relaxed. Eden raised her eyebrows and spread out her hands, hugely disappointed. ‘That’s it? It’s over so soon?’

The man looked at his expensive watch. ‘They only play for seven minutes, but a normal match is played at double the speed.’

Thank God for her new friend, else she would be floundering to understand the game.

Eden watched as grooms led new horses onto the field.

A young man walked to sexy Number Three and guided the new horse, the colour of heavy caramel, to stand next to his horse, both facing forward.

Without fuss, and with a great deal of skill, he hopped from one horse to another, and without looking, slid his boots into the stirrups.

‘Why are they all changing horses?’ Eden asked.

‘Ponies, we call them ponies,’ her companion replied. ‘It’s for their welfare. Polo is a demanding sport, played at high speed, and they don’t want to overwork their animals.’ He sent her a sweet smile and waved at someone in the crowd. ‘I must go, there’s my girl.’

Eden watched him weave his way through the clumps of spectators to stop by a middle-aged woman dressed in jeans, a tight t-shirt and wellington boots, a jaunty straw hat perched on her grey curls.

A tall, slim blonde wearing a short white mini dress and wedges, thick straight hair pulled back into a ponytail, stood next to her.

She was exceptionally pretty, and Eden suspected he was proud of his stunning daughter…

Eden’s eyes widened when he reached up to place an open-mouth kiss on the younger woman’s mouth and slid a possessive arm around her oh-so-tiny waist.

Right. Serve her right for making snap judgements.