An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 1.3.1. First Encounter

She had gotten caught in a downpour on her way back from the apothecary's on an errand for her aunt. The footman who'd accompanied her had run home to fetch her an umbrella.

Strathmere had come thundering across the field on his stallion like Sir Galahad going to battle. Reared in a family of males who excelled in athletics, and a competent horsewoman herself, Charlotte had been nonetheless so impressed by the sight that she had stepped up to her ankles in a mud puddle to get a better look at this masculine vision. Unfortunately she did not seem to seem to make a similar impression on him.

Before she could even shake out her cloak, he wheeled his horse to circle her in patent disapproval, his gray eyes as dark and hard as pewter. Charlotte found herself at uncharacteristic loss for words. From all appearances, he was not as easily impressed.

The steady patter of rain formed a veil between them, creating an illusion of a man who was not entirely part of the world.

All the interesting angles and planes of his strong face had arranged into an amused smirk as he surveyed her sodden state. Not perfectly handsome, but compelling. Probably the most unforgettable face Charlotte had ever seen, with a clefted chin and those dark slashing eyebrows drawn into an unfriendly scowl.

"Well, get on." He'd extended his leather-gloved hand, not asking, ordering. Not exactly rude but no one's knight in shining armor either. Charlotte had the impression that he was paying her only perfunctory attention, that she'd interrupted him in the middle of some important mission, and that he didn't appreciate the interference.

She glanced down at her mucky half boots in distaste, wistfully remembering all the routs and soirées she had left behind in London.

"Hurry up," he added, wiping his hand across his wet cheek.

"But I don't know—"

"Get on, young lady, before we are both soaked to the skin. This is the country, not the court."

Charlotte bristled, but the half smile lurking in his eyes took some of the sting out of his command. Having been raised with five roguish brothers had obliterated her most tender sensibilities. Frogs, spit, unsavory jokes. Charlotte and her older sister, Lizzie, had been inoculated against easy insult at an early age.

Still, one should maintain a certain decorum, rain or not, even if one happened to be a young marquess's daughter who was tottering on the thin line of social disgrace. Besides, this Sir Galahad was so full of himself, he could use a little reminder of what constituted good manners.

"At least introduce yourself, sir," she said, the rain cooling the inexplicable heat that rose to her cheeks.

He leaned across the pommel, his lips tightening in a smile. "I am the owner of the property into which you are sinking. Trespassing. In a thunderstorm. In a pretty silk dress. Now that that's out of the way, are you getting on or not?"

"Well, how can I refuse?" she muttered.

That said, she still hesitated, taking a closer look at his face through the curtain of cold raindrops. Preoccupied, self-possessed, with short black hair slicked back on his scalp and his gunmetal-gray eyes regarding her with a detached mockery that appeared to be regenerating into impatience. She glanced toward the stone hedge that enclosed the field. Her footman was nowhere in sight.

"Yes or no?" he asked briskly.

"Yes, but give me a chance—"

To shake the mud off her boots, which evidently didn't bother him; with one hand he pulled her up behind him, onto his well-trained mount. Charlotte's senses registered the scent of Galahad's wet woolen greatcoat, an appealing whiff of woodsy cologne, the intrusive warmth of his body stiffened, then leaned back into her with a casual arrogance that made her heart pound. All put together, he was a rather overpowering example of masculinity. She had to restrain the urge to huddle against his hard, muscular body.

She stared at the back of his head in a rather hopeful trepidation. Had she made another of her countless mistakes? Her impulsive tendencies were what had gotten her exiled to this uneventful social oasis in the first place. But Galahad was a neighbor. A noble one if she recalled her aunt's passing mention of the man.

Or had it been a warning? Charlotte had heard his name even before she had been to Sussex. Benedic's younger brother Sebastian had died last year alongside Charlotte's brother Bernard in the service of the East India Company, which they had joined in search of adventure and the prizes promised them on recruiting posters.

Instead, they had been killed by Gurkha rebels on a scouting mission in Nepal. She remembered her two older brothers speaking Viscount Strathmere with an admiration rarely displayed toward men of their own class. Apparently the viscount had been instrumental in arranging the memorial service for the two young friends.

In any event Charlotte was not at all concerned that her rescuer would do anything so outrageous as to ravish her on his horse, or to abduct her into slavery—until he took off at a gallop in the opposite direction of the familiar bridle path.

"I say . . ." she began to protest before the breath whooshed out of her lungs.

The woods sped past her vision in a gray-brown blur. The horse kicked up turfs of wet turf and sent them flying into the rain. Over a soggy meadow and down a dark humid tunnel of wet honeysuckle that slapped them as they thundered by. She could make neither heads nor tails of their surroundings, but this route did not look anything like the walk home.

She warapped her arms around Galahad's waist and raised her voice to a shout, her body jostled against his. She felt the muscles in his torso tighten. Did she imagine that he liked her clinging to him for dear life? "Excuse me? I do believe you are headed the wrong way!"

He grunted, or made some such dismissive gutteral sound that indicated she was a feather-brained female for daring to question his sense of direction. Charlotte's head began to swim with visions of being abducted by this dark, brooding stranger. Of being dragged down into the bowels of some hidden castle and kept a prisoner of his perverse demands.

Would he keep her naked on his bed, covering her with tender cruelty at night in Russian lynx pelts after he had left her fainting from his ravishment? Would he entice her back to consciousness with pearl and sweetmeats and potent brandy? Or, judging by his hell-bent speed on horseback, would they both be thrown to their deaths before any perversity could be undertaken?

Charlotte was contemplating the latter unpleasant possibility when, after flying through a tangled hazel grove, they emerged miraculously onto a clear field.

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