And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (14 page)

“I assume so. I’m not that familiar with him, truth be told. Ah—there’s Lady Hamilton.”

Together they made their way through the crowd, waited in line to take leave of their hostess, then James handed Henrietta into her parents’ carriage, smiled and saluted her, then shut the door.

As the carriage pulled away, Henrietta sank back with a sigh.

She was still smiling in a wholly revealing way—and she still couldn’t think worth a damn.

Chapter Six

D
espite her best intentions, by the time she reached Rotten Row the following morning, Henrietta had still not managed to adequately dissect what had taken place between her and James the previous night enough to come to any conclusion.

That said, when it came to him and her, something inside her seemed to push to the fore and make decisions—decisions based wholly on her emotions—and, to her wary amazement, thus far those decisions appeared to have been sound. Indeed, they appeared to be bearing fruit, for there James was, waiting at the beginning of the tan track, resplendent in an exquisitely cut riding coat and mounted on a heavy gray, and the light in his eyes when he smiled as she cantered up simply made her heart soar.

She’d never before had her heart behave as it did around him.

“Good morning!” She drew her mare, prancing in expectation, in alongside his gray. “And what lovely weather we have for our run.”

James tipped his head, his lips curving appreciatively. “The sun isn’t the only thing that’s lovely enough to warm.”

A blush touching her cheeks, she chuckled and felt a spurt of exuberant happiness inside.

Leaving her groom to wait by the tan, they took their place in the queue at its head. When their turn came, they thundered down the track, her fleet-footed black mare a good match for his stronger, but heavier, gelding. After three runs, punctuated by waiting for other riders to clear the tan, they turned away, letting the horses amble as they headed back toward Upper Brook Street.

For a while, she concentrated on slowing her breathing, on settling and finding her mental feet in the aftermath of the exertion. James seemed content to do the same. The horses walked on, then Grosvenor Gate neared. They clopped through, crossed Park Lane, and turned north.

They’d said that they would talk, but in all honesty she wasn’t at all sure what they might say; it was too early, between them, for any declarations, and the moment . . . was perfect as it was, and she didn’t want to wrestle with the question of whether, in the aftermath of last night, she should nevertheless tell him of what she’d learned about the excellent Miss Fotherby. She didn’t want to bring up the subject of Miss Fotherby at all—but was that fair?

To Miss Fotherby, or to James?

They turned into Upper Brook Street, the clang of the horses’ hoofbeats striking the cobbles echoing hollowly between the tall façades—and, dragging in a breath, she decided she couldn’t
not
speak. If James no longer wished to pursue Miss Fotherby, or any other young lady, because he had shifted his sights to her, then he would have to tell her. They couldn’t keep avoiding the subject. . . .

It suddenly occurred to her that she wasn’t the only one who’d been avoiding the subject of Miss Fotherby.

She blinked, then glanced at James, riding easily alongside.

He was studying her mare. “Is that a horse from your cousin Demon’s stables?”

“Yes.” She paused, then, very willing to be distracted, went on, “Demon supplies all the family’s horses. I think he’d be insulted if we got a horse from anywhere else.”

James chuckled. “From what I recall of him, I can believe that. He always was a stickler over horseflesh.”

Henrietta studied James’s face, but all she could see was . . . the same enjoyment of the moment she felt.

Her horse screamed and reared.

Instinctively, Henrietta clamped her crooked knee tighter about her pommel; because she was riding sidesaddle and was a strong rider, she managed to keep her seat.

But instead of coming down and settling, the mare plunged forward—straight into a bone-shaking, wildly careening run.

Gasping, jostled and shaken, Henrietta hung on and fought for control. She hauled on the reins, but the normally placid mare was frantic—and was far stronger than she.

Upper Brook Street was in Mayfair. It was cobbled, with stone gutters and pavements; if Henrietta fell, she’d dash her brains out.

That was the prospect that flared in James’s mind as Henrietta’s horse dove and wove through the carts and drays delivering produce to the houses of the wealthy. He’d clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks before he’d even formed the intention of giving chase; within seconds he was thundering up in her wake, closing the gap to the black mare’s back.

And Henrietta.

She was still clinging, white-faced and desperate, as he drew alongside.

Grimly, he used his own mount’s weight to lean into the mare and force her to slow, but the panicked horse wasn’t going to halt, and the wider streets surrounding Grosvenor Square lay just ahead.

“Trust me!” Dropping his reins, he reached for Henrietta. “Free your foot from the stirrup, unlock your leg, and let go of the reins—now!”

She didn’t hesitate; if she had, he might not have had the balance to seize her, lift her, and haul her to him. To crush her in his arms and hold her tight while with his knees he slowed his gray.

Freed of her rider, reins flapping, the black mare flew on across the intersection and along the northern side of Grosvenor Square.

Belatedly, Henrietta’s groom came racing up; he’d been dawdling far in the rear. “I’ll get the mare!” he yelled and urged his own mount on.

James heard him through a buzzing in his ears. His arms were locked, convulsively tight. His lungs felt starved, and his pulse still pounded. Fear was a dull roar in his mind, even though the firm warmth of Henrietta in his arms, against his chest, assured him that she was safe. Still his.

Gulping in air, Henrietta clung to the solid pillar of male strength that was James, but as his horse halted, she drew her head from James’s chest and looked toward the Square, where both the mare and her groom had vanished.

One of her hands had come to rest, fingers spread, on James’s chest. Beneath her palm, she could feel his heart thumping heavily, running a race in rhythm with hers. There were other people around, shocked merchants and delivery boys who had witnessed the drama, but her senses had drawn in; nothing around them felt real.

She looked up—just as James looked down.

They stared, desperately searching each other’s eyes as if to reassure themselves she was indeed there, safe in his arms.

Then he swore beneath his breath, bent his head, and kissed her.

Hard. Voraciously.

Forget Miss Fotherby.

Henrietta closed a hand about his nape and kissed him back.

H
enrietta was still shaking when James helped her into her parents’ front hall.

The butler who had opened the door to them looked shocked.

“Miss Cynster’s horse bolted and she was nearly thrown.” As the butler hurried to close the door, James studied Henrietta’s face. “Her groom’s gone after the animal. Please summon Lady Cynster and Miss Henrietta’s maid.”

The butler snapped to attention. “At once, sir . . . ah, Mr. . . .”

Henrietta pulled herself together; falling apart in a crisis never helped. Dragging in a breath, she bludgeoned her brain into cooperating. “This is Mr. Glossup, Hudson. He’s a friend of Simon’s, which is why he probably seems familiar.”

“Ah, yes.” Hudson drew himself up and bowed regally to James.

“Mama will still be upstairs. If you would send word to her that there was an . . . ah, incident, and tell her I’m resting in the back parlor. No need to summon Hannah—I’m not about to faint.” She made the statement with gritty determination, yet even as the words left her lips she felt a wave of weakness wash over her again.

James, one hand clamped about her elbow, had been watching her face. Now he muttered something harsh, bent, and swept her up into his arms.

Instinctively clutching his lapel, she blinked in surprise but felt too weak to protest. From Hudson’s shocked face, she realized that spoke volumes.

“Where’s the back parlor?” James demanded.

She waved limply down the corridor. “That way.”

He carried her, trailing riding skirt and all—a feat she found quite impressive—down the corridor. Hudson came fussing behind; he opened the door and held it while James angled her into the room, then with swift strides carried her to the chaise before the windows and lowered her gently onto the comfortable cushions.

“Tea.” The request was the sum of her contribution to her own recovery, but tea always helped and was the prescribed remedy for overset nerves. And her nerves, she decided, were definitely overset—far more than they had been when she’d been tipped into the river.

This time death—horribly violent death—had felt much closer.

“At once, miss.” Hudson looked at James, who’d crouched by the chaise and—Henrietta belatedly realized—was chafing her hands. “I’ll summon her ladyship.”

Without looking at Hudson, without taking his gaze from her face, James nodded curtly.

Hudson left.

Henrietta tried a smile, but even she could tell it came out rather wan and weak. Drawing one of her hands from James’s clasp, she lightly touched his hair, gently brushing the rumpled locks into better order. “Thank you.” She met his eyes. “That was . . . frightening.”

Running footsteps sounded in the hall.

Letting her hand fall, Henrietta looked toward the door.

James rose; squeezing her hand briefly, he reluctantly released it and stepped to the chaise’s head.

The door burst open and Mary tumbled in, a maid, presumably Hannah, on her heels.

Mary’s wide, cornflower blue eyes took in the scene in one sweeping glance, then she focused on Henrietta. “Are you all right?”

Henrietta’s smile wobbled even as she said, “Yes, it was just”—she waved in weak dismissal—“a trifle oversetting.”

From the looks on Mary’s and Hannah’s faces, James deduced that Henrietta saying she was a trifle overset was the equivalent of her admitting to being halfway to death’s door; the pair swooped, enveloping Henrietta in effusive, if not smothering, feminine concern. Mary patted her hand and asked questions. Hannah shook out a knitted shawl and spread it over Henrietta’s legs, then the tea tray arrived and, barely pausing for breath, Mary poured.

James stood beside the chaise, fielding Mary’s questions, relieving Henrietta of that, at least. He watched all the fussing, listened to the chorus of exclamations, and saw Henrietta gradually relax.

Then the door opened and Henrietta’s mother swept in. After a swift survey of her daughters, Louise’s gaze rose to his face. James inclined his head. Louise smiled briefly in acknowledgment. “Mr. Glossup. I understand we must thank you again for rescuing Henrietta.” Her expression turned wryly understanding. “You seem to be making a habit of it.”

James glanced at Henrietta, caught her eye. “I’m just glad I was near enough to help.” A chill touched his soul as he realized that, once again, being close enough to rescue her had been pure luck.

“So tell me—what happened?” Louise sat in an armchair, waved James to another, accepted a cup of tea from Mary, then fixed her gaze on Henrietta. “It’s not like you to lose control of your mount.”

Henrietta frowned. “I don’t know what happened. Marie suddenly reared—I didn’t see or hear anything that might have caused it.” She glanced at James. “Did you?”

He shook his head. “And my mount didn’t react.”

Henrietta nodded. “True. But Marie screamed as if she was in pain and reared, and then she just shot off.” Setting her cup on her saucer, Henrietta visibly quelled a shiver. “That would have been frightening enough in the country, but there I would have been confident I would have been able to ride it out. But in the streets here . . .”

James looked into his cup and decided no one needed to hear just how close to a fatal fall she’d come. With the barrows, drays, and carts cluttering the street, if a carriage had come the other way . . . raising his cup, he sipped, and glanced again at Henrietta, reassuring himself that she was indeed there, was indeed hale and whole, albeit a trifle overset.

Color was gradually returning to her cheeks, and her gaze was alert as she listened to her mother and sister debate her state.

James tuned in to their comments as Louise and Mary exchanged projections as to Henrietta’s recovery, much to Henrietta’s fond annoyance, but Louise was adamant in decreeing that Henrietta rest for the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon. In wholehearted agreement, James held his peace. If he could have, he would have wrapped her in the proverbial wool and sequestered her away somewhere out of everyone’s reach, at least until he learned enough to soothe the protectiveness currently prowling, anxious and concerned, just beneath his skin. But, it seemed, he could rely on Louise and Mary to act in his stead.

Hannah, who had lingered, suggested a warm bath, as Henrietta wasn’t going out again that morning. Henrietta agreed, and James approved; she was, apparently, taking the need to rest and recuperate seriously.

“And we can pack for the house party this morning, as well,” Henrietta called to Hannah as the maid headed for the door.

“Yes, miss.” Hannah bobbed and opened the door. “I’ll get a footman to fetch your bag and bandbox from the box room.”

James stared at the closing door, then looked back—first at Louise and Mary, sipping their tea apparently unconcerned—then at Henrietta. “You’re not still going to Ellsmere Grange?”

Eyes widening, Henrietta looked at him. “Yes, of course I am.” She looked faintly puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because you’ve just had a too-close brush with death?
James bit back the words; trapping her gaze, he said instead, “Under the circumstances, I imagine you might be better served by resting, at least until you’re sure you’ve fully recovered from the shock.”