Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

Side saddles were death traps. He would not allow her to hunt in a side saddle. She could pose on one while an artist painted her, but that was all. She would ride astride or she would ride bareback.

She lifted her skirts from the wet morning grass and walked slowly about the edge of the still water to the far side, careful not to tread on the long, silken water reeds. They were beautiful, those reeds. The thought of trampling them was anathema to her.

What a blessed relief to escape from all those black-garbed visitors, with their long, unsmiling faces, nodding and bowing and reciting in low, doleful voices their mechanical phrases of sympathy. She marveled at how graciously her mother moved among them in her black rustling widow’s weeds, all in the latest style, of course, seemingly tireless, her charm and smile perhaps a bit brittle, but there and well in place. Lady Ann always knew exactly what was expected and executed every duty to perfection. Only Suzanne Talgarth, Arabella’s best friend from her earliest childhood, had pulled her aside, said nothing at all, and hugged her close.

Arabella paused a moment to listen to the baleful croaking of a lone frog, hidden from her view in the thick reeds. As she bent down with a graceful swish of her black skirts, she chanced to spot a patch of black, quite at variance with the myriad shades of green, in a cluster of reeds but a few feet away from her. She forgot the frog, and with a frown furrowing her brow, moved slowly and quietly forward.

She carefully parted a throng of reeds and found herself staring down at a sleeping man, stretched out his full length on his back, his arms pillowed behind his head. He wore no coat, only black breeches, black top boots, and a white frilled lawn shirt that was loose and open about his neck. She looked more closely at his face, calm and expressionless in sleep, and started back with a swallowed cry of surprise. It was as though she were looking at herself in a mirror, so alike were their features. His curling raven hair was cut close above his smooth brow.

Distinctive black brows flared upward in a proud arch, then sloped gently toward the temples. His mouth was full, as was hers, and his high cheekbones accentuated his straight Roman nose. His chin was firm, stubborn. She was certain that his nostrils flared when he was angry. She had dimples. She wondered when he smiled if he had dimples, too. No, he looked too stern a man to have something so whimsical. Naturally, the dimples did not suit her either. She had never even entertained the notion that she was beautiful, but looking at him, she thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

“You cannot be real,” she whispered, still staring down at the man, wondering, yet knowing who he must be. Then as the reason for his presence hit her, she cursed. “You damned bastard!” She was yelling now, so furious she was shaking with it. “You miserable scrap of filth! Wake up and get off my land before I shoot you! I might still whip you to within an inch of your miserable life!” She stopped then because she didn’t have her pistol with her. It didn’t matter. She still had her riding crop. She brought it up.

The man’s heavily fringed black lashes parted slowly, and she found herself gazing into her own upward-tilted gray eyes. His were just a bit darker than hers, as were her father’s. Dear God, but he was beautiful, more so than her father.

“My word,” the man said slowly, his voice as smooth as a stone at the bottom of a creek. He did not move, but narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun to take in the flushed and furious face above him.

“I declare, it is a lady I see. Look at those white hands, never done a day’s work in her life. Yes, doubtless it is a lady. But where, I wonder, is the tavern wench who spoke such foul curses at me? She wants to shoot me? She wants to whip me? Certainly, this is a dramatic situation better suited for Drury Lane.”

He spoke well, like a gentleman. No matter. She continued to search his face, unmoved. There was a deep cleft in his chin that she did not have, and he was tanned, with a pirate’s dark face. She had always hated pirates. No, she wouldn’t let this man anger her. She asked, her voice as arrogant as her father’s had ever been, “Just who the devil are you?” Still he did not shift his position, just lay there, stretched out at her feet, as indolent as a lizard on a sunny rock. But he was grinning at her now, showing strong white teeth. She saw then that his gray eyes were flecked with pale gold lights. It was an odd distraction. Neither she nor her father had that. She was glad. She decided it looked common, those pale gold lights.

“Do you always talk like a slut off the back streets?” he asked in a calm easy voice, bringing himself up to rest on his elbows. Those eyes of his were deep and clear, and there was an intelligence in them that she recognized and hated.

“The way I choose to talk to an insolent ruffian lazing about on Deverill land cannot be questioned by the likes of you.” She brought her riding crop up from her side and slapped the leather thongs lightly against her black-gloved hand.

“Ah, am I now to be whipped?”

“It is very possible. I asked you a question, but your reason for not answering now occurs to me.” She stared at him thoughtfully and felt a sickening tightness in her chest. But she’d been taught