windows that flanked the front doors. Perhaps that was what made her seem, ever so faintly, to sparkle. Or perhaps it was that her riding habit, a severely cut deep forest green, suited her better than the pink-and-cream creation she had worn last night. Her hair was twisted up under a matching hat with no decoration other than a row of three large jet buttons. The same buttons adorned the riding jacket, running in two flattering rows from her collar to the points at her narrow waistline.
His step faltered so that he nearly missed a stair. She didn’t look so different, surely, even with the tailored habit and subdued hat, the sunshine picking out the light freckles scattered across her face, but…
He cleared his throat. “Good morning, Miss Allington.” His voice surprised him in its steadiness, because his stomach quivered and his pulse beat a swift rhythm in his throat. He felt, inexplicably, that he wanted to touch her. He wanted to take her gloved hand. He wanted to put his hand on her slender waist. Indeed…
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to taste the texture of that smooth, freckled cheek, breathe in the fragrance of her hair.
What artifice could have created this change in his reaction to her? What alchemy could be wrought by a different dress, a comely hat, the glow of June sunshine?
There was no time to ponder the question. She said, “Good morning, my lord,” and her smile, white and happy, flashed out. “I can hardly wait to see your horses. Thank you so much for the invitation!”
He managed, somehow, to take himself in hand. He gestured with his arm toward the doors. “We have a beautiful day, it seems.”
“Yes, it’s lovely! A perfect day for riding, don’t you think?” He reached the bottom of the staircase, and she turned to walk at his side toward the doors. Her head easily reached the top of his shoulder, something he rarely experienced in a girl. “I admit, though,” she said, “I ride in all weather. Unless the paths are too icy for Bits, of course.”
It was an unremarkable comment, but somehow one of the most charming things he had ever heard a young lady say. He glanced down at her and was stunned by the clarity of her eyes, glistening like sapphires. He just stopped himself from clearing his throat again. Such an irritating habit. He said, “I don’t mind weather, either. Rain or sun, I would rather be astride a horse than languishing behind a desk.”
The word astride should have recalled their argument, but somehow it did not. It seemed foolish now to have fallen out over something so trivial. His mother had been right, and now, to his great surprise, he found himself eager to give Annis Allington a chance. What had been shocking at dinner, and in Regent’s Park, now seemed wonderfully bold, delightfully daring. The girl who had seemed unfit for the company at Rosefield Hall now cast the elderly couples as staid and out of touch. Surely this tall, slender girl, with her modern ideas and outspoken ways, was a young woman perfectly suited to the coming new century.
He couldn’t guess how the change in his perception might have happened. He also couldn’t resist, as he escorted her down the broad front steps to the drive and around to their left, where the stable block and paddocks beckoned, putting his hand under her elbow.
She glanced up at him, her lips curving. “I’m in no danger of tripping, my lord.”
He dropped her arm, and his cheeks burned. “No, of course not. I can see that, Miss Allington.” They walked on, James lost in a cloud of bemusement.
What, he wondered, had happened to him? What did this overnight transformation of his feelings mean? It had brought with it, he was appalled to realize, a strange and shameful feeling in his groin.
It was as if he had been bewitched.
18
Annis
Annis was grateful for the distraction of the horses. She had woken that morning with the sick feeling in her belly once again. It was an odd, yearning ache, utterly unfamiliar to her. She felt hot, too, not feverish, but heated, with an excruciating awareness of every part of her body.
She couldn’t have described the feeling to Velma, nor would she have tried. It was embarrassing, somehow—not an illness, exactly, but an uneasy discomfort, as if she were hungry, although not for food. She hungered, it seemed, for…
Well. She wouldn’t name what she hungered for, even