And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

She was still smiling in a wholly revealing way—and she still couldn’t think worth a damn.

Chapter Six

Despite her best intentions, by the time she reached Rotten Row the following morning, Henrietta had still not managed to adequately dissect what had taken place between her and James the previous night enough to come to any conclusion.

That said, when it came to him and her, something inside her seemed to push to the fore and make decisions—decisions based wholly on her emotions—and, to her wary amazement, thus far those decisions appeared to have been sound. Indeed, they appeared to be bearing fruit, for there James was, waiting at the beginning of the tan track, resplendent in an exquisitely cut riding coat and mounted on a heavy gray, and the light in his eyes when he smiled as she cantered up simply made her heart soar.

She’d never before had her heart behave as it did around him.

“Good morning!” She drew her mare, prancing in expectation, in alongside his gray. “And what lovely weather we have for our run.”

James tipped his head, his lips curving appreciatively. “The sun isn’t the only thing that’s lovely enough to warm.”

A blush touching her cheeks, she chuckled and felt a spurt of exuberant happiness inside.

Leaving her groom to wait by the tan, they took their place in the queue at its head. When their turn came, they thundered down the track, her fleet-footed black mare a good match for his stronger, but heavier, gelding. After three runs, punctuated by waiting for other riders to clear the tan, they turned away, letting the horses amble as they headed back toward Upper Brook Street.

For a while, she concentrated on slowing her breathing, on settling and finding her mental feet in the aftermath of the exertion. James seemed content to do the same. The horses walked on, then Grosvenor Gate neared. They clopped through, crossed Park Lane, and turned north.

They’d said that they would talk, but in all honesty she wasn’t at all sure what they might say; it was too early, between them, for any declarations, and the moment . . . was perfect as it was, and she didn’t want to wrestle with the question of whether, in the aftermath of last night, she should nevertheless tell him of what she’d learned about the excellent Miss Fotherby. She didn’t want to bring up the subject of Miss Fotherby at all—but was that fair?

To Miss Fotherby, or to James?

They turned into Upper Brook Street, the clang of the horses’ hoofbeats striking the cobbles echoing hollowly between the tall façades—and, dragging in a breath, she decided she couldn’t not speak. If James no longer wished to pursue Miss Fotherby, or any other young lady, because he had shifted his sights to her, then he would have to tell her. They couldn’t keep avoiding the subject. . . .

It suddenly occurred to

her that she wasn’t the only one who’d been avoiding the subject of Miss Fotherby.

She blinked, then glanced at James, riding easily alongside.

He was studying her mare. “Is that a horse from your cousin Demon’s stables?”

“Yes.” She paused, then, very willing to be distracted, went on, “Demon supplies all the family’s horses. I think he’d be insulted if we got a horse from anywhere else.”

James chuckled. “From what I recall of him, I can believe that. He always was a stickler over horseflesh.”

Henrietta studied James’s face, but all she could see was . . . the same enjoyment of the moment she felt.

Her horse screamed and reared.

Instinctively, Henrietta clamped her crooked knee tighter about her pommel; because she was riding sidesaddle and was a strong rider, she managed to keep her seat.

But instead of coming down and settling, the mare plunged forward—straight into a bone-shaking, wildly careening run.

Gasping, jostled and shaken, Henrietta hung on and fought for control. She hauled on the reins, but the normally placid mare was frantic—and was far stronger than she.

Upper Brook Street was in Mayfair. It was cobbled, with stone gutters and pavements; if Henrietta fell, she’d dash her brains out.

That was the prospect that flared in James’s mind as Henrietta’s horse dove and wove through the carts and drays delivering produce to the houses of the wealthy. He’d clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks before he’d even formed the intention of giving chase; within seconds he was thundering up in her wake, closing the gap to the black mare’s back.

And Henrietta.

She was still clinging, white-faced and desperate, as he drew alongside.

Grimly, he used his own mount’s weight to lean into the mare and force her to slow, but the panicked horse wasn’t going to halt, and the wider streets surrounding Grosvenor Square lay just ahead.

“Trust me!” Dropping his reins, he reached for Henrietta. “Free your foot from the stirrup, unlock your leg, and let go of the reins—now!”