“Cunning wench,” he murmured, admiration warming his voice. “But then, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” His grip relaxed, one hand boldly gathering her skirts upward, his fingers finding the silk of her stocking. He traced a tantalizing path along her calf, stopping just behind her knee to draw maddening circles against the sensitive skin there.
Eleanor covered his wandering hand with her own, arresting its journey before her resolve crumbled entirely. “The enjoyment would be short-lived if we were to squander all possibilities in one evening,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
His large hands returned to her hips, adjusting her position with confident familiarity that both thrilled and alarmed her. “I know countless ways to entertain you, Duchess,” he promised, his voice a rough caress against her senses. “You need not concern yourself with limited possibilities.”
In the dim lamplight filtering through the carriage curtains, his eyes had darkened to obsidian, reflecting a desire that matched the insistent heat building within her. For a breathless moment, Eleanor hesitated, her mind racing with the forbidden images his words conjured.
But she hadn’t survived this long in a man’s world by surrendering to momentary impulses. With a discipline that cost her dearly, Eleanor slid from his lap and resumed her seat on the opposite bench, smoothing her rumpled skirts with trembling fingers.
She felt his gaze upon her like a physical touch but refused to meet it, though she could sense the amused appreciation in his expression. Neither spoke as they adjusted their clothing, the silence filled with the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the uneven cadence of their breathing.
The Morning Ride Disaster
Eleanor adjusted herriding habit, ensuring every button was properly fastened and every fold perfectly arranged. The morning air was crisp with autumn’s promise, and her mare Duchess—named long before her current matrimonial circumstances—stamped impatiently in the stable yard.
“Your Grace,” Peters, the head groom, said with obvious discomfort, “perhaps you’d prefer to wait for His Grace to accompany you? Or at least take one of the lads along?”
“Absolutely not,” Eleanor replied firmly, accepting the reins. “I’ve been riding these paths for years without incident. I hardly need masculine supervision now.”
What she didn’t mention was that this particular ride was as much about taking time away from her husband as it was about exercise. Since Damien’s arrival, she’d felt increasingly confined by his presence, his opinions, his insufferable habit of rearranging her carefully ordered life. A solitary gallop across Hampstead Heath would give her the objectivity she needed to deal with the interloper.
She mounted gracefully and set off at a brisk trot, breathing deeply of the freedom that came with being entirely alone. No servants hovering, no husband watching her every move withthose penetrating green eyes, no need to maintain the careful composure that had become her armor.
The path to the heath wound through a small wood before opening onto the expansive grassland where she could give Duchess her head. Eleanor had made this journey countless times, knew every turn and rise by heart. Which was why the sound of hoofbeats behind her came as such an unpleasant surprise.
She turned in her saddle to see a familiar figure on horseback maintaining a careful distance—close enough to keep her in sight, far enough to maintain the pretense that this was mere coincidence.
“The audacity,” she muttered, urging Duchess into a faster pace. If her inconvenient husband thought he could follow her like some sort of nursemaid, he was about to learn otherwise.
What followed could charitably be called a chase, though Eleanor preferred to think of it as a strategic retreat. She knew these paths better than Damien possibly could, and she intended to use that advantage to lose him entirely. A sharp turn through a grove of oak trees, a narrow track that skirted a small pond, then up the hill toward the old shepherd’s hut where she could—
The geese appeared without warning.
Later, Eleanor would maintain that the flock had been lying in ambush, waiting for the perfect moment to launch their assault. They emerged from the tall grass beside the path like feathered demons, wings spread wide, necks extended in aggressive displays that would have intimidated a dragon.
Duchess, a sensible mare with a healthy respect for creatures that hissed and flapped with such violent intent, reared back with a startled whinny. Eleanor, caught off-guard by the sudden movement, felt her seat slip as she fought to regain control.
“Easy, girl,” she called, but Duchess was having none of it. The geese, emboldened by their apparent victory, advanced withmilitary precision, their leader—a particularly large gander with murder in his black eyes—honking what could only be described as battle cries.
Behind her, Eleanor heard Damien’s mount approaching at a gallop, followed by a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush as he encountered the same feathered militia.
“What in God’s name—” His voice cut off as his horse, apparently sharing Duchess’s opinion of aggressive waterfowl, sidestepped dramatically into the marshy ground beside the path.
Eleanor might have laughed at the sight of her dignified husband trying to control a dancing horse while geese attacked from multiple directions, but Duchess chose that moment to attempt an escape route that led directly through a particularly muddy section of the path.
What happened next occurred with the sort of inevitability that marked truly spectacular disasters. Duchess, in her eagerness to escape the geese, plunged into mud that proved considerably deeper than expected. Eleanor, already unbalanced from the initial goose assault, found herself sliding sideways just as Damien’s mount, seeking solid ground, collided with them both.
The resulting tangle of horses, riders, mud, and indignant geese created a scene that would have challenged the finest comic playwright. Eleanor landed in the marsh with a splash that soaked her riding habit completely, while Damien managed a more controlled dismount that still left him knee-deep in brackish water.
The geese, apparently satisfied with their territorial victory, departed with triumphant honking, leaving behind two bedraggled humans and two equally disheveled horses.
“Well,” Damien said after a moment of stunned silence, pushing his hair back from his mud-streaked face, “that could have gone better.”
Eleanor stared at him from her seated position in the marsh, water dripping from her once-perfect riding habit, and felt laughter bubble up from somewhere deep in her chest. It started as a chuckle, then grew into full-throated mirth that echoed across the heath.
“You followed me,” she accused between gasps, “and got defeated by poultry.”
“I prefer to think of it as a tactical retreat in the face of superior numbers,” Damien replied with dignity somewhat undermined by the mud decorating his cravat. He extended a hand to help her rise. “Though I admit the enemy showed startling coordination.”