A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season Read Free Page A

of green and red. Her last memory was of the gentleman’s highly bred mount snorting in panic and its flailing hooves coming down towards her as she hit her head hard and slipped inexorably away into darkness.
     
    Peter Quinlan was accustomed to women throwing themselves at his feet. His lack of fortune had never been much of a deterrent to those bored ladies of the ton who had taken a fancy to him. After all, they had not wantedto marry him, only to amuse themselves. There had been the occasional young lady who had fancied herself a Viscountess, but Peter had never entertained the idea of marriage with any of them.
    On this occasion, however, he was obliged to acquit the young lady of any ulterior motive. He instinctively started forward as she fell out of the tree and Hector, taking fright, turned so sharply that he pirouetted as though he were in a circus.
    ‘Hell and the devil!’ Peter wrenched on the reins and the horse’s hooves thudded into the soft clay mud of the track a mere two inches from the girl’s head.
    Peter leaped from the saddle, soothed Hector with a few soft words and a stroke of the nose and abandoned him in somewhat cavalier fashion to go down on his knees on the track beside the girl’s unmoving figure.
    She was lying on her side in the mud, the gaudy banner tangled in the skirts of her green-velvet riding habit. Her hat had come off and her thick, dark hair was escaping its somewhat inexpertly applied pins and half-covered her face. The riding habit, soaked by the rain, clung to her figure like a second skin.
    Peter stripped off his gloves and brushed back the strands of hair from her face. It was thick, silky and a dark copper brown, and it curled confidingly about his fingers. Her skin was soft, coloured the pink and russet of an apple. She looked to be no more than one and twenty and she was extremely pretty. He suspected that this was none other than Miss Cassandra Ward, whose name appeared on the special licence even now in his wallet. Miss Ward, the radical old maid whom his father had warned him might be no better than a fashionable impure. To Peter’s relatively experienced eyes she looked extremely virginal. He felt astonished. He feltawed. And then—fatally for his financial ambitions—he felt guilty.
    Cassie was breathing gently but regularly. Peter sent up a silent prayer of thanks. He unwrapped the radical banner from about her and, after a moment’s thought, stuffed it down a rabbit hole in the bank by the side of the road. He lifted her gently in his arms. For a small woman she felt surprisingly resilient. She was not heavy, but she was no lightweight either. He hoped it was a sign of sturdy good health.
    The hamlet of Lynd was a mere hundred yards back down the road. Looping Hector’s reins over his arm, Peter strode along the track, mud streaking his riding breeches and the rain running in rivulets down his face. Cassie turned her head against his shoulder and snuggled closer to him with a pleasurable little murmur. Peter looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, the lashes wet and spiky against her cheek. Her generous mouth was tilted up in a faint smile. Whatever she was dreaming of must be very enjoyable indeed.
    Peter’s imaginings were also extremely enjoyable but highly improper. The soft pressure of her body in his arms was impossible to ignore. Her skirts had ridden up to reveal a pair of very slender ankles. Her petticoats foamed over his arm as he carried her. Peter bent his head so that his lips brushed the softness of her cheek. A fierce desire twisted within him. Her mouth was so lush and full, and so close to his own. He ought not to be thinking about kissing a lady when she had sustained a blow to the head and was unconscious in his arms, but…
    Hector snorted wetly in his ear.
    ‘Thank you, Hector,’ Peter said, his ardour abruptly dampened. ‘I needed that.’
    The village of Lynd looked deserted and the inn, appropriately named the Angel’s Arms, was