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Switching his gaze to Westcliff s set face, St. Vincent arched one brow and asked lightly, Shall I escort
the culprit back to the manor, my lord?
The earl nodded. Get her out of my sight, he muttered, before I m moved to say something I ll
regret.
Go ahead and say it, Lillian snapped.
Westcliff took a step toward her, his expression thunderous.
Hastily St. Vincent tucked Lillian behind him. West-cliff, your guests are waiting. And although I m
certain they re enjoying this fascinating drama, the horses are getting restless.
The earl seemed to undergo a brief but savage battle with his self-discipline before he managed to school
his features into impassivity. He jerked his head in the direction of the manor in a silent command for St.
Vincent to remove Lillian from the scene.
May I take her back on my horse? St. Vincent inquired politely.
No, came Westcliff s stony reply. She can damned well walk to the house.
St. Vincent motioned at once for a groom to take charge of the two abandoned horses. Giving his arm
to a fuming Lillian, he gazed down at her with a twinkle in his pale eyes. It s the dungeons for you, he
informed her. And I intend to personally apply the thumbscrews.
I would prefer torture tohis company any day, Lillian said, gathering up the long side of her skirt and
buttoning it to walking length.
As they walked away, Lillian s back stiffened at the sound of Westcliff s voice. You might stop by the
icehouse on the way back. She needs cooling.
Fighting to marshal his emotions into some semblance of order, Marcus stared after Lillian Bowman with
a gaze that should have singed the back of her riding jacket. He usually found it easy to step back from
any situation and assess it objectively. In the past few minutes, however, every vestige of self-control had
exploded.
As Lillian had ridden defiantly toward the jump, Marcus had seen her momentary loss of alignment,
potentially fatal on a sidesaddle, and the instant expectation that she would fall had sent him reeling. At
that speed, her spine or her neck could have snapped. And he had been powerless to do anything but
watch. He had been abruptly cold with dread, nauseated from it, and when the little idiot had managed to
land safely, the full sum of his fear had been transformed into blazing white fury. He had made no
conscious decision to approach her, but suddenly they were both on the ground, and her narrow
shoulders were in his hands, and all he wanted to do was crush her in his arms in a paroxysm of relief,
and kiss her, and then dismember her with his bare hands.
The fact that her safety meant so much to him was& not something that he wanted to think about.
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Scowling, Marcus went to the groom who held Brutus s reins, and took them from him. Lost in brooding
contemplation, he was only dimly aware that Simon Hunt had quietly advised the guests to proceed with
the jumping course without waiting for the earl to lead them.
Simon Hunt approached him on horseback, his face expressionless. Are you going to ride? he asked
calmly.
For answer, Marcus swung up into the saddle, clicking softly as Brutus shifted beneath him. That
woman is intolerable, he grumbled, his gaze daring Hunt to offer an opinion to the contrary.
Did you mean to goad her into taking the jump? Hunt asked.
I commanded her to do the exact opposite. You must have heard me.
Yes, I and everyone else heard you, Hunt said dryly. My question pertains to your tactics, Westcliff.
It s obvious that a woman like Miss Bowman requires a softer approach than outright command.
Moreover, I ve seen you at the negotiating table, and your powers of persuasion are unmatched by
anyone except perhaps Shaw. Had you chosen, you could have coaxed and flattered her to do your
bidding in less than a minute. Instead you used all the subtlety of a bludgeon in the attempt to prove
yourself her master.
I ve never noticed your gift for hyperbole before, Marcus muttered.
And now, Hunt continued evenly, you ve thrown her over to St. Vincent s sympathetic care. God
knows he ll probably rob her of her virtue before they even reach the manor.
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