Lady of Pleasure (33 page)

Caroline inclined her head and offered, “It is indeed a splendid day to ride. A good-afternoon to you Lord Gifford. I hope you are well.”

“I am
very
well, thank you.” Shifting on his saddle, he scanned her appearance and gestured toward her with a gloved hand. “The sun may be shining, but I see nothing but you. By God, you look glorious.”

Ronan could certainly learn a few things from this man. It was as if Lord Gifford practiced his words before a mirror every day. She knew she had to tell him right now and right here on the path. Even if meant breaking that poor, genuine heart. Because it wasn’t fair to him.

Caroline tried to keep her voice steady to better impart what needed to be said. “I think it rather timely you are here on the path today, my lord. I have been meaning to speak to you about the letter you sent my brother almost three weeks ago.”

His grin faded along with the faint lines around his mouth. “The letter. Yes.” His rusty brows flickered. “I was hoping to hear from him about it.”

And here it was. “I intercepted the letter, my lord, and as such, you will not be hearing from my brother. I didn’t want him to know of your offer, and I ask you to forgive me for taking the upper hand in this.”

He stared and leaned toward her in his saddle. “Did I offend you by advancing too fast?”

Caroline drew her horse closer to Gifford’s, met his gaze, and admitted in a sincere tone, “No. It wasn’t anything you did. I simply didn’t want my brother to know as he would have insisted I accept your proposal and I cannot accept. I admire you as a gentleman and a father, my lord. I hear many a good thing about you. I also admire that you already proved how willing you were to go up against your own peers to court and marry me. Despite that, I confess that my affections are for another, and though they are unreturned, it would never allow me to submit to you in the manner you deserve. I, therefore, must decline your generous offer and ask that you forgive me for any hurt my refusal will cause you or your boys. For that is not my intention. I admire you too much to wish you any suffering.”

He glanced toward her mother and then back at her. He nodded, averted his gaze, and said, “I admit that it was difficult to swallow some of the things people have said about your family, but having met you, I realized something in my life was missing. I wanted more than what I usually find in my circle. My first wife and I got on very well but it was always formal. Never…genuine. Which is what I want.”
Caroline felt her heart squeeze. She had battled all her life knowing she was outside the circle and yet here was a man who was battling to get out of it. “I am sorry. I truly am.”

He smiled. “I know you are. And you needn’t be.” Still smiling, he added, “I wish you and your mother a good-day. I should go. I promised to take the boys to the river. I shouldn’t keep them waiting.” With a quick incline of his head, he kicked his booted heels into the side of his horse. He quietly rode off down the long path at a fast trot that announced he was riding out his disappointment for not only himself but his boys.

Caroline wanted to shed a tear for him. For she knew all too well what it was like to have one’s affections set a distance despite having done everything beautifully.

Her mother sighed. “Let us hope you did the right thing.”

Caroline knew she had. Gently tapping the side of her horse with her boot from her sidesaddle position, she eased her horse forward. Two months more of the Season and it was over. She could and would begin life for herself. Not others.

They rode in silence down the path, slowly directing their horses side by side toward the more crowded section of Rotten Row that still lay far, far ahead.

A sudden shout and the whinny of several horses on the riding path in that squinting distance before them summoned her focus. Through the throng of endless barouches and people on their horses, she glimpsed a lone gentleman sprinting his black stallion on the dirt path through the crowds in an untamed manner that simply wasn’t done on Rotten Row, let alone in a field.

The male rider ignored the repeated shouts flung at him to slow his pace. He leaned up and forward against the leather saddle of his black stallion and dodged and veered dangerously fast through barouches and horses alike with a precise, well-trained tilt of a well-muscled frame that was as thrilling to watch as it was to cringe.

She had never seen anything like it.

And as a Hawksford that was saying something.

Her mother let out a startled laugh and pertly tapped her riding crop against her own horse to move in his direction. “If that one is available,” the dowager drawled aloud, “I am taking him straight to the nearest inn and making a month of it. I’ll teach him the art of the whip. After all, a man who can ride a horse like that can—”

“
Mother
.” Caroline tried to keep the woman from saying more. They were surrounded by riders up and down the treed path of the park. “Is a man and your whip all you ever think about?”

“What else is there to think about?” The dowager smirked and wagged the crop tauntingly in her direction. “Ten pounds says he is as dashing as his ability to ride.”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “To ride like that, he probably fell off his horse enough times to eradicate any traces of a face. Only a deranged blade would forcefully ride through Rotten Row like that.”

“I know. And isn’t it daringly delicious?” The dowager lowered her crop and sweepingly rearranged her chartreuse riding habit against the side of her horse. “Here he comes. I’ll try to get him to stop. A month at the Spaniard Inn, here I go.”

Oh, now this, she had to see. Would the man even notice her mother’s preening? Directing her gaze back toward the gentleman on the far end of the path, who was now closing the stretching distance between them, Caroline intently watched the rider whose knee-high, leather boots kept rhythmically kicking into the sides of his horse to urge it to go even faster. He darted around a barouche, caused the gent within it to stand, and shout. Dirt sprayed as the man’s horse bounded faster and faster.

He was going to get himself killed.

A black top hat had been angled far forward and downward on the gentleman’s head to ensure it would stay in place given his feral speed, while still allowing enough of his dark gaze and shaven face to peer through as he maneuvered and raced his stallion through others around him. His well-fitted gray morning coat flapped freely and wildly behind him against the breeze as he intently urged his horse onward with a self-assured, obnoxious grin that Caroline could see from all the way from where
she
rode. He veered around a group of men on horses that yelled something at him, ignoring them.

The thudding of hooves trembled the ground.

Caroline lowered her chin against the silk sash of her riding bonnet as that face came into better view. Her startled gaze settled on a flushed, rugged face boasting a dashing grin she knew all too well. Her eyes widened.

Ronan.

Caroline brought her horse to a quick and complete halt in disbelief, her lips parting. The bastard. He appeared to be hosting a celebration of dirt kicking and grinning for the world to see.

As Ronan sped closer, their gazes momentarily collided, the short distance left between them now almost gone to a breath of less than ten feet. His dark eyes jumped to her face within the shade of the path. That brassy grin instantly disappeared and gave way to a taut line, as his brows flickered in acknowledgement beneath the rim of his hat.

An unexpected fluttering overtook her stomach. One she squelched and despised herself for feeling. After all, as she had been miserably plodding her horse along thinking about what spinster life was going to be like over these next fifty years, he’d been
grinning
the whole time and
bolting
around Rotten Row like he was twenty and loving it and his newfound freedom. The…
lout
.

With the left tug of his reins, Ronan averted his gaze and quickly and effortlessly veered his horse far left of them and thudded past, barreling onward with a sweeping gust of dust that rippled toward her and her mother.

He continued down the path without a look back.

She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She hated him. She’d never thought the one thing she had cherished since she was thirteen would ever rise to hate. But it did. Oh, but it did. She hated him for making her feel worthless. She hated him for making her feel as if she had nothing to offer.

Caroline snapped a reprimanding gaze to her mother and knew the woman was about to swallow her crop. “Did you still want to take that one to the Spaniard Inn for a month?” she bit out.

The dowager’s lips parted as her head and veil turned frantically to follow the direction of where Ronan and his horse had gone. “Dearest God,” her mother choked out, turning back toward her. “That was—”

“Yes, Mama,” Caroline grudgingly muttered. “I know who that was. Damn libertine. Apparently, he rides his horses the same way he rides his women.
Hard and fast
.” Bastard.

Caroline glanced over her shoulder to glare at the dust his trail had created and paused, realizing that Ronan had significantly slowed his black stallion enough to finally skid his horse against the dirt path and fully turn those grappling hooves back around. With the kick of determined booted heels and his gaze intently set on her and only her from beneath his angled top hat, he galloped toward them.

Her eyes widened as she scrambled to grab and re-arrange the leather reins in her hands which had somehow slipped from her gloved fingers. “We are leaving, Mama.
Ride
.” Caroline moved her horse into a darting gallop and wondered if she should altogether urge her horse into a whirring sprint to show Ronan she could easily outride his pompous arse any day.

The dowager repeatedly kicked the side of her horse and tried to keep up with Caroline’s horse. “If you expect us to outride him on sidesaddle, remember that I’m not as young as I used to be!” her mother called above the wind. “Slow down. Better to deal with him than with a broken neck on Rotten Row.
Now slow your horse
!”

Caroline didn’t want to face him. Not when a part of her had already accepted the right to move on. Her heart pounded in between breaths as penetrating thuds reverberated against the ground around them, announcing he was getting closer despite the speed of her horse. She wanted to go against her mother’s words and ride harder like she used to do on the fields in Bath whenever something upset her. But she damn well knew racing her horse with him speeding close in tow through the crowds of Rotten Row that lay ahead was not only stupid but dangerous for both of them.

Caroline instantly slowed her horse, lulling it down to a mere trot. She had already survived the worst: getting hurt. Now she only had to survive the best: never getting hurt again.

Ronan rounded her horse with his black stallion, the quick thud of hooves kicking up dirt from the path. With a twitch of the reins and the release of his riding boots from the sides of his horse, he slowed his pace to match, keeping his stallion perfectly parallel to hers with well-practiced ease.

She tightened her hands on the reins and refused to look at him.

They rode in silence down the long stretch before them that was taking them closer to the more crowded and conversational section of Rotten Row where people always gathered to visit with others.

Her mother kept glancing toward Ronan, but said nothing.

God help her and London if her mother now found him attractive.

Caroline blinked rapidly, her pulse roaring at knowing Ronan was still on his horse and on the path beside her. And apparently, he just wanted to make his presence known. After making her suffer, and him damn well knowing of it given how they had parted, here he was dashing around town grinning about it and then casually riding his horse next to her as if he had every right.

It was not only downright cruel but worthy of a fist.

Wishing she could reach out a hand and smack him for it, she opted to turn her head toward him and deliver him the cutting glare he deserved to take with him to the grave. He stared out before them, his square, shaven jaw set and tight. The stiff set of those broad shoulders hinted that he didn’t expect her to acknowledge him at all.

She desperately tried not to notice how debonair he looked riding about in what appeared to be a new, mahogany-wool morning coat and an embroidered waistcoat with brass buttons that meticulously encased his shoulders and chest. His cravat was starched and knotted into a Trone d’Amour style that only the best valets knew how to do. And his black riding boots had been brushed and polished to a smooth, perfect shine. As always.

His attention to his appearance had never bothered her. Until now.

Because it was obvious it was the only thing he paid attention to.

After almost two and a half weeks of silence, whilst she struggled to look at herself in the mirror, he had no trouble looking at himself at all.

Ronan glanced toward her, aware that she was glaring at him. He inclined his head, heatedly capturing her gaze. “I was just thinking about you earlier.” His voice was thick and unsteady.

Caroline narrowed her gaze all the more, refusing to give him the pleasure of anything but pain. “Were you? I will try not to be insulted knowing you were riding your horse in the
opposite
direction of where you could have called on me: my home. Now leave. Because I am not interested in entertaining this or you. I have already moved on. And I suggest you do, too.”