Taffeta & Hotspur

“Robin Hood is a legend.” His voice was grim as he continued, “The Luddites are a fact of life, and another fact is they will be crushed if they continue in their present course.”

Taffy was frustrated, and she allowed it to show. Men just did not think women should involve themselves in politics, and she was heartily sick of this attitude.

“Well, as a peer of the realm, I for one, plan to do something about it when I get to London,” declared Seth with feeling.

“Aye,” agreed Nigel. “We’ll take them on, won’t we, Seth?

Soup plates were placed in front of them, and Lady Watson, with a pleasant smile, said, “Now, enough talk of politics. Cook has prepared a wonderful potato and leek soup, and we must not allow it to get cold…”

Chapter Two

It was late afternoon, and Lady Taffy was sparring for wind. Thurston Tarrant, the rakehell Hotspur, was the man in her visions—no doubt about it whatsoever.

This is, of course, impossible, she told herself. Her dream vision had to be off somehow—could be off? Now and then, she managed to change a vision, not often, but it did change. Oh, this was all wrong.

She had come home in a great irritation of nerves, changed into her green riding habit, plopped a matching top hat on her head, grimaced at her reflection, and thrown it off. How could she have been dreaming about such a cad of a man? He was a rogue of rogues. He was a heartbreaker … why had she seen him naked and … why had she been naked? What a stupid question. She set this aside. It had to have been some strange quirk of the mind. She wasn’t getting the entire story from the small snippet of a premonition—that was it, it had to be.

What she needed was a good run to dissipate her confusion and put her back in order. But the thing was, she was in a state of agitation because never before had she met such a man as Thurston Tarrant.

/> Her brother had said he was the very devil with the ladies. Oh yes, the rakehell Hotspur could certainly have no place in her life. What she wanted when she fell in loved was not a rakehell, but a man who would love only her—faithfully. This one, this Hotspur, would be faithful to no one woman.

Her brother had said there wasn’t a woman who didn’t want him, eh? Well, she could see Tarrant thoroughly believed in his own myth. Hotspur, indeed! And then her mind’s eye recalled his perfect naked body reaching for her in her dream. She recalled how she felt in her vision, hot and ready and willing. It brought on a wave of heat in the present, and her blood surged through her body. This had to stop. The vision was a mistake … an error … a false dream that meant nothing.

He was an arrogant, rude, and puffed up in his own consequence sort, and he had been impudent enough to think she was interested in him. Well, at least she had managed quite neatly put any such notions he might have had on that score deeply into the earth.

She had exchanged dagger for dagger, hit for hit, during lunch and then again just as she quit his company. But the truth was it had not been pleasant, and she had not enjoyed a moment of the cold war he had engaged her in during their afternoon.

Lady Taffeta had been cosseted and adored all her life. What little she could remember of her mother had been dear and loving. Her father had openly adored her. Seth and Nigel were wont to tease her, but never had they, or any of their friends, treated her with such disdain. More than that, their friends had recently been quite gallant and flirtatious, a circumstance she had been learning to appreciate.

This Hotspur had the audacity to think she had set her cap for him, so she had spent the entire luncheon trying to convince him of the reverse—vision be damned! The effort had left her breathless with chagrin. These agitating thoughts had taken her stomping toward the stables where she had tacked up her chestnut gelding without benefit of her groom’s help.

She led her favorite riding horse outside and mounted him with ease. Her loose hair blew freely about her face as the wind picked up. She walked her gelding onto the bridle path and then put him into an easy trot, telling him all the while she was very happy he was in a chipper mood for she was not.

His ears pricked to her voice as he listened, and she reached over and patted his neck affectionately, “There, never mind me.”

She wanted to keep to the fields and wooded trails, and in order to accomplish this, she was forced to skirt the lands dividing Watson Halls from Grantham. The gate was closed. With a silent oath, she set her pace, went into position with her heels well down, and her body neatly poised. Her gelding’s ears flickered alertly as he looked ahead at the jump.

“I know, Red Moose. You don’t like the high jumps … truth, I don’t much either, but the gate is closed, and I don’t feel much like getting down and up. Let’s just take it. Right then … here we go.”

She knew her horse loved her and he told her so then with a soft sound, something between a snort and a whinny. She laughed and encouraged, “I love you, Moose … come on … pick up the pace … and we’ll do fine. Just think of it as only a few feet higher than a log. Honestly, you could step over it … nothing to worry about Moosey.”

She legged him on, and he obediently went for the jump, changed his mind at the very last moment, and made as though to duck out and refuse. Taffy screamed irritably, “No sir, no… You know better.”

She went into position and drove him, but his sharp movements shifted her position in the saddle and sent her off balance. Her gelding did finally accede to her demand and took the gate flying, landing heavily on the other side, which sent her sideways in her saddle when he planted his fores on the ground.

She nearly lost her seat completely, and with no dignity whatsoever, she scrambled, grabbed his neck and mane, and managed to right herself. As she settled back into her saddle, she told him, “Odious brute, you almost lost me there.” Taffy however was so relieved she was still in the saddle, she released a nervous laugh and added ruefully, “You certainly are well named, Moose.”

“Damn if you didn’t make him do it. Didn’t think he would for a moment there…” She heard the chuckle of a male rider making his way along side of her. “I thought for a moment I might be picking you up off the ground. Well done, Lady Taffeta,” said the rakehell Hotspur.

She had been nearly surprised enough to lose her seat again, and blew out a whiff of air as she spun around and discovered of all people, the Hotspur seated on his horse, grinning broadly.

She knew what she must look like—a complete mess. As she started to speak, she discovered she was hindered by a long tress between her teeth. She removed her hair from her mouth, but the wind would not cooperate and blew it right back, and she wished she had at least pinned it back. However, she managed to draw herself up and regain her composure. She eyed him coldly and thought, Of all people to witness a clumsy jump—it had to be him. Grrr. She could have cried right then, but instead, she said with an edge of haughtiness, “My lord. I thank you, but I must admit it to have been my fault. I should have stopped Moose and brought him back in for a better line to the gate.”

“Agreed, but nevertheless, you made him take it, which he did like a rocket, and you managed to stay put when he landed badly.”

His grin made her want to throw mud at his face.

She grimaced. “He doesn’t like jumping; I don’t know why I made him…” She patted the horse’s neck and managed an amiable laugh. “Poor Moose, the big jumps frighten him.” She sighed. It was over and done. He had seen her at her worst. So be it. Brush herself off and move on. “What brings you out? I had thought you would be packed and off for London by now.”