Page 4

Hyde Park lay in a rare stillness, with its vast emerald sweep hushed beneath a veil of spring mist. The tender scent of budding hawthorn and damp earth lingered in the air, sweet, green, and unheeded.

Eleanor rode fast, allowing the wind to drag strands of hair from beneath her bonnet. The reins cut taut across her gloves as she urged the mare onward, refusing to look back. Hooves struck the gravel path with a rhythmic force that mirrored her own heartbeat: sharp, steady, angry.

It did not matter where she went, only that she moved. That she outran the chill finality in her father’s voice.

There had been no question posed to her, only a declaration, laid like a stone at her feet. A transaction cloaked in silk and respectability.

She was to smile, to curtsy, to accept. And she would because she must. Because Charlotte’s prospects depended upon it. Because her mother’s eyes had already filled with grateful, exhausted tears.

The path curved beneath the shadows of young elms, their leaves trembling in the breeze. A rook cawed high above, black wings slicing across the pale sky. Just past the Serpentine, the quiet fractured.

A stout pug barrelled from the underbrush with all the grace of a charging cannonball, barking with absurd delight. Its jowls flapped, tail curled tight as a pastry. Before Eleanor could react, the creature darted directly into her path.

“Whoa, gently, gently!” Eleanor tried to calm down the animal underneath her, but she failed to do so.

Her mare shrieked and reared, hooves slicing the air, scattering a spray of gravel that struck Eleanor’s riding skirt like hail.

She leaned forward instinctively, gripping the reins with every ounce of strength, her breath snared tight in her lungs.

For one terrible second, she thought she might fall.

But the moment passed. The mare dropped back to earth, quivering but still. Eleanor’s heart beat wildly beneath her habit, a cacophony against her ribs.

Dust clung to her gloves, her cheeks were flushed, and somewhere in the middle of the path, the pug stood triumphant. It was panting, snorting, and most enraging, quite pleased with itself.

“Percival!” came a voice, low and unhurried. “You’ve caused yet another diplomatic incident, haven’t you?”

Eleanor turned sharply in the saddle.

A gentleman emerged from beneath the budding branches, tall and loose-limbed, dressed with a studied carelessness that bespoke both wealth and disinterest in fashion’s stricter demands. His hat was tucked under one arm, curls wind-tossed, a riding crop hanging idly from his gloved fingers.

His coat was of fine blue wool, the exact shade of a bruised sky, and his smile, when he offered it, was equal parts apology and amusement. And devilishly handsome, too.

He was entirely too handsome for someone who had nearly caused her to be unseated from her horse. Her wish, quite irrationally, was to throw something at him. His eyes, grey as storm clouds over the Channel, studied her with infuriating calm.

She dismounted in a swift, efficient motion, the tension in her limbs sharpening with every step. Kneeling, she checked her mare’s legs, running gloved hands along the tendons and joints. No sign of strain, no unevenness. Still, the animal trembled faintly beneath her touch.

“You might’ve killed her,” Eleanor said, rising with fire in her eyes. “Your dog ran straight under my horse.”

The man raised a brow. “I did call out.”

“Oh, forgive me,” she snapped. “I must have missed your lazy warning over the sound of my horse panicking.”

He approached, slow and unhurried, the pug now trotting at his heels as if nothing were amiss. “Percival occasionally forgets he is not the sovereign of Hyde Park.”

“Then you ought to remind him. With a leash.”

“Ah,” he said lightly. “You’re one of those riders.”

Her mouth fell open. “Those—?”

“Precise. Exacting. Unforgiving.” He tilted his head, the trace of a smirk playing at his lips. “I admire it, though I imagine it makes for a rather solitary ride.”

Her spine stiffened. “I came here to be alone. Your creature had other plans.”

He studied her a moment, storm-grey eyes unsettling in their steady amusement. “Your mare is fine,” he said finally, with that same maddening calm. “You’re fine. Percival is unrepentant, as ever. No harm done.”

She couldn’t believe he was so unapologetic about what had happened. “That is hardly the point.”

“No,” he agreed, “but it is the outcome.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Do you always dismiss fault this easily?”

“I find people tend to assign it without needing my help.”

She let out a short, incredulous breath. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, not without charm.

He held her gaze, unflinching, until the silence between them turned taut. Eleanor glanced away first, cursing the warmth that had begun to rise in her chest. He was affecting her in a way she didn’t like, for it was that vexing heat of having met a man she could not discompose.

The nerve of him.

Devilishly handsome, yes. Unforgivably so, even. But so calm, so composed, so utterly self-assured that it made her skin prickle. He wore confidence like a second coat, brushed smooth and perfectly tailored. Even that ridiculous dog obeyed him as if the park belonged to the both of them.

“Is your mare truly unharmed?” he asked suddenly, taking her off guard slightly.

The question was delivered in such a tone that actually might have been mistaken for genuine concern, if not for the flicker of amusement in his eyes, as though they both knew she had managed it with flawless skill.

Eleanor lifted her chin. “Quite.”

“Good,” he said. And then, after a moment, he added another shocking question. “May I escort you back to the lane?”

“No,” she replied, swift and cool. That was the last thing she wanted. “That won’t be necessary.”

Something about his stillness shifted. It was imperceptible, but she saw it. The barest pause. And then his brows lifted.

“As you wish.”

It should have ended there. She should have nodded once, wheeled her mare about, and left him behind like disagreeable weather.

Instead, something wicked curled behind her ribs. A small, wholly unreasonable flame of rebellion.

“Evelina Anville,” she said suddenly before she could stop herself. “That is my name.”

He blinked once. Just once. Then nodded.

“Miss Anville,” he repeated, with a slight, unreadable smile. “A pleasure.”

He did not offer his own name. Which, Eleanor thought with a fresh swell of indignation, was simply rude.

She stared at him, waiting. Still nothing.

He gave the faintest bow, then turned and rode away without another word, the pug loping alongside as though they were actors exiting a stage with impeccable timing.

Eleanor stood rooted for a moment longer, cheeks hot despite the morning chill.

He had not corrected her false name. He had not seemed surprised by it. And worst of all, she could not tell whether he was being a gentleman or whether he had seen through her lie entirely and decided to play along.

She swung into the saddle with more force than was necessary, lips pressed into a thin line. The park, so peaceful only an hour before, now buzzed with a new, maddening energy.

“Miss Anville,” she muttered under her breath, giving the reins a sharp flick. “Utterly ridiculous. I should have come up with a better name.”

Eleanor urged her mare into a brisk trot as if she might outpace the lingering sting of the encounter. The trees blurred past, their new green leaves shimmering in the soft light, but her mind would not quiet.

Her heart still thudded with the ragged rhythm of vexation and, most infuriating of all, interest. She did not want to be intrigued by a man whose smirk had the arrogance of a Napoleonic general and who had absolutely no idea what an apology was.

She was halfway down the lane when the sound of hooves came again. She did not turn.

“You’ve a determined steed, Miss Anville,” came the smooth baritone, far too near. “I had to canter to catch up.”

Eleanor sighed without breaking pace. “Then you clearly weren’t meant to catch up.”

“I took it as a challenge.”

She glanced sideways. He was keeping perfect stride beside her, his expression maddeningly mild, as though they were old acquaintances enjoying a leisurely morning ride. Percival bounded ahead, blissfully unaware of the tension he had caused.

“You’re following me,” she said flatly.

“I am escorting you,” he replied. “With a great deal of restraint, given I was rather thoroughly dismissed not five minutes ago.”

“I thought you had more important things to attend to.”

“I did. Then I remembered I had offended a lady, been refused the honour of escorting her, and never gave my name in return.”

“You still haven’t,” she said, casting him a glare. “Which is remarkably discourteous.”

“Is it?” he mused, brows lifted. “I assumed, since you offered me a false name, that we were dispensing with formalities.”

Her breath caught.

He smiled. Not smugly, but with the unbearable warmth of someone very pleased with himself.

“Evelina Anville?” he drawled. “I am insulted that you think me illiterate, Miss Anville.”

Fine, so you read, she huffed to herself.

Then, she gave him a withering look. “I actually think you many things, My Lord. Insufferable, for instance, is among the top three.”

“And yet you’re still riding beside me.”

“I tried not to.”

“Ah,” he said as if that were an admission of the highest order.

She urged her mare forward with a huff, but he matched her without effort. Blast him. He made no move to explain how he’d seen through her deception, and she would not ask.

“I suppose you think this is terribly amusing.”

“I do, yes,” he said, utterly sincere. “You’re rather magnificent when you’re irked.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You mean to flatter me while I’m angry?”

“I mean to irritate you just enough to keep your attention.”

Her mouth opened, then shut again. She could not tell whether she was more affronted by the strategy or by its effectiveness. His gaze held hers. Steady, amused, and entirely unrepentant.

“You are the most arrogant man I have ever met,” she muttered.

“That’s a dangerous claim, Miss Anville. I might take it as a challenge too.”

“Be sure to bring Percival next time,” she shot back, “so he can throw himself beneath my horse and spare me the effort of speaking to you again.”

He grinned. “I knew you liked him.”

She threw up her hands. “You’re impossible!”

He tipped his hat, eyes glinting. “Yes. But not easily ignored.”

And with that, he turned down a branching path with the same casual grace as before, Percival trotting loyally behind.

Eleanor sat very still, watching him disappear.

She would not smile. She would absolutely not smile.

Her mare snorted as if sensing the war being waged inside her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Eleanor muttered. “He’s vile.”

But even as she said it, she could not help the faint, reluctant curl tugging at the edge of her lips.