Chapter Fourteen

“H

ere they come! Dreamer and Cinsyr! Oh! Look! Look! She has him by a nose!” Eleanor so forgot herself in her excitement that she grabbed Miles’ upper arm and shook him as she jumped up and down. “Isn’t she splendid, Miles! Isn’t she simply splendid?” His rich laughter met her ears, and she felt him take her hand, but she didn’t dare take her eyes from the two horses streaking toward them, urged on at every step by the slight men on their backs.

Sleek coats and rippling muscles thundered by not six feet from where they stood; clods of turf the size of her palm flew at them, sliced from the earth by the Thoroughbreds’ churning hooves. Within moments the black tail and the chestnut tail disappeared in the heavy morning mist that obscured anything beyond a quarter mile. She could hear the faint voices of the exercise boys pulling up the filly and the young stallion with steady, “Whoa there, missy…whoa,” and “Easy there, lad… go easy.”

“Yes, she is glorious. They both are. Tell me about the black,” Miles said.

As she watched for the two horses to reappear, she gave Miles chapter and verse on the two-year-old Rutledge stallion that had made such a name for himself in the short time he’d been racing.

“Impressive record.”

“Yes. Cinsyr is one of the last of Absalom’s foals. We lost the old man this past fall to colic. He will be hard to replace, but I’m hoping one of his sons, Dare To Dream, will be Rutledge’s future.”

“Well, if Day Dreamer is any indication of the quality of his offspring, I believe he will stand to a full book. It would be useful to see if you could find more of those Old Codger mares.”

Eleanor nodded. “I’ve been trying. So far, I only know the whereabouts of two, the mare at Fairwood and one in Scotland, of all places. I’ve meant to ask you about a re-breeding.” She chattered happily with Miles about other possible crosses on Dare until a chestnut and black materialized out of the fog followed closely by Charles Fedder mounted on his familiar brown gelding.

From their equine perches, the two exercise boys were laughing and jabbering back and forth.

“Don’t get all top lofty, ya little toad. Cin woulda had ya in another eighth of a mile.”

“You’ve daft and blind, Henry. The lass led him by a head and was gaining ground afore we pulled up.”

Eleanor laughed along with them. “Well, I doubt we’ll match them again anytime soon. Fedder wanted to see them together to give Dreamer a challenge, see how she’d react to being pushed.” As she spoke, her gaze flew to her unsmiling trainer. “Well, Mr. Fedder?”

His gaze swung to the two exercise boys walking their charges in circles around their small group. “You lads get Cin and Dreamer cooled off and put away right. I’ll be by to check on them later.” He returned his attention to Eleanor and held up his stopwatch. “Time tells the tale, my lady.” She detected an air of satisfaction about his sober person. “I believe we should run her in the Welborn Cup as a prep race for the Derby.” His gaze settled on Miles. “If you concur, my lord. You’ve more experience with her than we do.”

“Two months more experience.” Miles laughed. “I still find it hard to believe you want her in the Derby where she’ll have to run against colts and not the Oaks where she’ll run against her sex.” Miles shrugged. “As a rule, at three years old, stallions have greater physical development than fillies, but Dreamer has given me no reason to think she couldn’t hold her own. Strength does not always equate to speed, and her times indicate she could win against colts. The distance at the Welborn Cup is good for her, and the field shouldn’t be too challenging.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “She could use the extra practice at the starter’s tape. If you are set on that, I see no reason to object.”

“I’ll see to it, then. My lord. My lady.” Fedder tipped his cap, and she and Miles watched him trot after the two youngsters, barking a continuing stream of instruction to their riders before she returned her attention to Miles and responded to his question.

“I am set on it. The Derby is more prestigious and for a filly to win against colts will capture the race world’s attention. Dare will have the highest quality mares for his book. Besides, she’s one of the rare females who could win the Epsom Derby. She deserves the opportunity to put her name in the history books.” Exuberance welled inside her, and she wrapped her arms around herself to contain her joy. Her gaze found and held that of her handsome husband. The upwelling of happiness expanded to include the facilitator of her joy. “Miles, thank you—again. It has been my most longstanding and heartfelt desire to win the Derby with a homebred filly.”

She looked away, somewhat embarrassed by what she planned to confess to him. “My father named me after a horse.” At Miles’ bark of amused disbelief, she looked back quickly and held up an admonishing finger while holding in check a smile of her own. “But! She was a very special horse, the only filly ever to win the Epsom Derby. Her name was Eleanor.” She hemmed and hawed. “I have never told that to anyone other than you for the very reasons writ large across your face.”

“I admit to initial shock that your mother agreed, but upon further thought... your father is horse mad and your mother adoring.” His grey eyes sparkled with humor as he shrugged. “Your secret is safe with me, Lady Eleanor.”

She linked her arm through his, thoroughly happy with the world at large, and sauntered toward the top of the rise, pulling Miles’ solid body along with her. Not even the thought of another night lying stiffly next to him, attentive to his every twitch, could ruin her mood. “Come along, Lord Miles, we have some two-year-olds to observe. It will be the first time for them to run in company and then it’s on to the broodmares and foals. After lunch, I believe Father expects you. I’ll change and leave the two of you to maunder on while I go into the village to speak with a man about drainage tiles. He wishes to establish a business making them in Stelton. Apparently, we ‘have good dirt.’ As his landlady, I must attend to estate affairs.” She crossed her eyes and made a face. “Such is the elegant life of a lady of leisure.”

His arm shook with silent laughter. “A lady of leisure? Indeed, I thought some young lad, the son of a gamekeeper perhaps, had wandered into our rooms this morning. Imagine my surprise when upon further inspection that youth turned out to be none other than my lady wife.”

“I find breeches and boots practical when out in the fields, and I vastly prefer riding astride. It is a more secure and balanced seat.”

“I was not voicing criticism, merely making an observation.”

She slowed and eyed him sideways. “So, you’ve no objection to my masculine attire?”

“None whatsoever. You needn’t wear a pretty frock for me to find you a desirable woman.”

She came to a halt and stared at the back of his head as he kept walking. He thought her desirable? She stumbled after him. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he’d stripped her of speech. Happily, by the time they reached the observation point for the two-year-olds, she’d recovered her wits and could tell him about each of the horses that worked out below.

Eleanor and her accompanying groom rode back into the courtyard of Rutledge Manor by the light of the moon set high in the sky. It seemed there was much more to drainage tiles than she had first assumed, and her appointment had run until considerably past dinner. As she’d been in the village closest to her home, she’d sent a message to advise Miles and her mother and father not to wait dinner on her.

Swinging her right leg off the horn of the sidesaddle and kicking off the left stirrup, she faced sideways and slid lightly off her horse. With a twitch of her long skirts, she handed Mouse off to Toby with a smile and a nod of thanks. “See you in the morning, Toby. Sleep well.”

“My lady.” Toby tipped his cap and walked off, leading both their mounts.

She stood in the courtyard, skirt in hand, and gazed at the entrance doors to the manor both eager and hesitant to enter her own home. He was there. No light shone from either the first or second floor, but she couldn’t ascribe too much to that as her apartments were in the rear. Drawing in a deep breath, Eleanor straightened her spine, put her shoulders back and climbed the steps to the oak doors. As if possessed of some higher magic, the door on the right opened for her, and she swept in.

“Thank you, Jeffers.” She paused. “Still on Lady of the Lake?”

“Yes, my lady. I must confess I find the poetry hard going. I prefer Ivanhoe.”

“So you said. Well, persevere.” With a smile, she proceeded to climb the stairs to the second floor and nodded to the night hallboy seated there. “Good evening, Rowland, has Lord Miles retired?”

“Yes, ma’am. Shall I ring down for Miss Conway?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

She slipped into the sitting room and closed the door quietly behind her. The door to the bedchamber that she now shared with Miles stood ajar. A faint gold glow outlined it in the door casing. He was still up.  A light rap alerted her to Sally’s entrance. Her personal maid bobbed an abbreviated curtsy and moved to her. “My lady?”

“Help me out of this riding habit and into my nightdress.”

As she went through her nightly routine of washing her face and brushing her teeth, combing out her waist-length hair and re-braiding it, changing into bedclothes of shapeless, opaque, white muslin, with none of the allure of those Lady Florence had selected for her, Eleanor studied the bedchamber door. Had he left it open with a light burning as some sort of invitation? Or was a lamp left lit simply out of consideration for her?

The first part of this day, the part spent with Miles, had been immense fun. It was difficult to inject enthusiasm into drainage tiles, but her morning had been splendid. Part of her enjoyment was due to her optimism about Day Dreamer, but she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t credit her husband with being a personable, charming companion...who said he found her desirable as a woman.

His casual utterance provoked emotions that had lain dormant in her breast for the latter half of the day—unwieldy, churning emotions that she refused to put a name to. Somehow she had to get through the coming months without becoming ensnared in feelings. She slumped in her chair with her hands in her lap, shoulders rounded, and glared at herself in the dressing table mirror. She could not summon any optimism for a hopeful outcome. Lord Miles Everleigh was an excessively handsome gentleman—she’d never erase from her mind the stunning glory of him in the bath—and he possessed an amiable and chivalrous manner. The Dowager Duchess had it rightly. No female that drew breath could resist him.

Her intellectual curiosity about what happened between men and women already warred with her desire to protect her heart. Could she have amorous congress with Miles and remain unentangled? What if the result produced children? Lady Florence had instructed her in ways to prevent such an outcome but also advised her that such efforts were notoriously unreliable. If she gave herself to Miles, she feared she would cede to him the power to disorder her world, yet his proximity every night would prove difficult to resist. A quiet scoff left her lips. She was the most ridiculous of creatures, an infatuated woman. She briskly rose to her feet and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Infatuation or no, it is not necessary to turn oneself into a mawkish, peagoose.

As she entered the bedchamber, her eyes went to the form of her husband asleep in a wing chair lit by the fading glow of the fireplace. A bed table lamp with the wick turned low provided the only additional light. Miles looked at ease in her father’s old velvet dressing gown and slippers. Even in sartorial disarray, she could have stood and gorged upon his features for endless minutes. A weighty tome lay open on his lap. Interested to know the topic of his reading, she peered over his shoulder and scanned the pages. Poor man. A soft giggle shook her shoulders. She clapped a hand to her mouth immediately. Lady Miles Everleigh never giggled.

He stirred, coming awake, and straightened in the chair to regard her through warm, sleepy eyes. “Eleanor…good, you have returned. Now I can seek my bed without worry. So, tell me, tomorrow, will you be able to school me in all the varieties of drainage tile?”

He had worried for her? “Apparently, as I am a female, my understanding must be deficient, and thus, I will need to return to Mr. Abram’s ovens for further edification. I insist that you accompany me next time. The scintillating topic of which types of earth make the best clay—accompanied by examples of said earth—is not to be missed, though my favorite pair of tan riding gloves is quite ruined.”

He responded to her quip with a light chuckle and closed the book on his lap with a snap, laying it on a petite side table next to the chair. He rose, and his gaze slid to her as he crossed to the bed, disrobed to his nightshirt and got under the covers, settling back into the fluffy white pillows with a groan of appreciation. “I, on the other hand, have spent the last four hours acquainting myself with the pages of The English Landed Estate—Its Administration and Management. Shall I educate you on the various advantages of chicken guano versus bullock manure and the dispersion rate of each per acre of turnips?”

Struggling to maintain a serious demeanor, Eleanor joined him in the great bed, lying on her back to stare at the ceiling, her arms straight at her sides. “Father is a great proponent of bullock manure. Perhaps the Hurst farm would benefit from your study. They grow turnips.” She almost managed her suggestion without snickering.

He threw her a conspiratorial grin. “An evening spent reading about the beneficial properties of manure does not match with my boyhood dreams of owning a private estate.” Miles reached and extinguished the bedside lamp and returned to lie on his back with his hands behind his head.

“You don’t grow turnips at Fairwood?” she teased. The dim light from the dying fire cast soft illumination throughout the chamber. Eleanor thought it… romantic …and promptly shied away from the thought.

“I don’t really know …I must make a note to ask Weldon.” He rolled to his side, propped his head up on an elbow and studied her.

In their intimate situation, each time he inhaled or exhaled, his every subtle movement, the woody smell of the soap he used, the glint as the dim light caught his eyes …in short, each detail of his person, aggravated her feeling of vulnerability, and the easy sense of comradery their banter had established became something else, something more fraught with expectancy. She bore the growing silent tension as long as she could.

“Why do you look at me so? What is it you want?”

“Mmm… that is a dangerous question with a variety of answers. I’ll offer you a simple one. I should like it very much if you would kiss me again.” His smile gleamed white in the dim light.

“Will you forever repeat my words to me?” She had spoken those exact words to Miles on her wedding night. She also remembered ensuing the kiss. The memory spurred her onto precarious ground. “If you wish.”

She rolled to her side and faced him. He did not move, merely waited—and watched. The distance between them lessened as she leaned toward him, closed her eyes and placed her lips fully on his. A rigid part of her softened in submission when he cupped her cheek and then wrapped an arm around her waist to bring her with him as he rolled over and laid her flat on her back. He took command of what she had initiated and deepened their kiss, breaking off only to use his lips to place butterfly-soft kisses on her cheekbones, her temples, under her jaw and down her neck before returning to her mouth. His arm left her waist, and his hand rose to the nape of her neck. Using both hands, he directed the position and attitude of her head with gentle pressure, moving her face to accommodate the infinite variety of kisses he bestowed on her. Pleasure followed pleasure until sensation drowned her, dragged her down into a world of melting bliss, a timeless world she could dwell in forever.

“Put your hands on me, Eleanor. Touch me,” he ordered and recaptured her mouth.

She didn’t fully understand what he wanted. Either her response was too slow, or he understood her confusion, for one at a time, each of his hands wrapped hers where they still fisted the bedding and placed them on his shoulders. Her palms opened on the smooth silkiness of his lawn nightshirt and then broadened to awareness of the warmth coming from the hard muscles working underneath. His kisses intensified as her hands, like two explorers on a quest of discovery, charted the unfamiliar territory of his shoulders, the hard column of his neck and sifted through the feathery softness of his hair. So lost was she to his seduction, that she stretched her length fully beneath him to revel in the press of his weight on her and held him with arms that wrapped his back. A languid warmth spread from her mouth to her breasts and lower to parts of her for which she knew no proper name. More. Her body demanded more of this bewitchment, for what he was doing to her was surely magic.

“Please,” she begged in a whisper. “Please.”

His dark form hovered above her. “Please what?” he murmured.

“I want more. Please …I’m…I’m willing.”

A dark image looming in profile, he stilled completely and then pulled away to brace himself on his side and regard her. She wished the light was better so she could read the details of his face. A shudder ran through her when his forefinger traced the outline of her lips ever so gently.

He breathed a long sigh. “No... no, I’m not convinced you are. I would not like to be accused of forcing you.” With her body in aching rebellion at the cessation of his kisses, he rolled over, pulling the coverlet with him, and presented her with his back. 

“Sleep well, Eleanor. I look forward to more of your kisses.”

What! What did he mean he wasn’t convinced? Had she not participated fully? This man continued to say and do things that confounded her, halted all the rational turnings of her mind and reduced her to a state of wordless confusion. Bewilderment colored her thoughts, but foremost among them was one clear question. What must she do to convince him?