The next morning, Frederick and Stacie renewed their habit of riding out early and enjoying a good gallop down Rotten Row.
Reveling in the exhilaration, they reached the Kensington end of the tan and, smiling, side by side, wheeled right, toward the trees.
A shot rang out. Grass erupted between their horses as a ball plowed into the turf.
Both horses reared; his heart in his mouth, Frederick ruthlessly brought his gray’s hooves thudding down and, to his immense relief, saw Stacie wrestle her mare back under control, too.
Her eyes, huge, met his.
“Go!” Forcefully, he waved her past him. “Ride!”
She dug in her heels and did. He wheeled behind her, putting his horse and body between her and where he thought the gunman had been, and rode hard after her.
They both stayed low, quickly putting distance between the gunman and themselves.
A group of three riders who had followed them down the tan stared as they thundered past on the grass. Frederick didn’t bother warning the trio; they weren’t in any danger, but Stacie was.
She slowed as she reached the more populated area toward the beginning of Rotten Row. He caught up with her and glanced back at the now-distant trees and decided it was safe enough to slow to a canter.
When, her face pale, she looked questioningly at him, he nodded grimly ahead. “Home.”
There was nothing he could do—or could have done—to identify much less catch the shooter, who would, doubtless, be long gone by now. And regardless of the reason behind the attacks, he was perfectly certain he and Stacie didn’t need the ton’s attention rabidly refocused on them.
They cantered to the Grosvenor Gate, then walked their horses across Park Lane and into Upper Grosvenor Street. After drawing rein before the steps of Albury House, Frederick dismounted, handed his reins to his waiting groom, and went to lift Stacie down. She’d largely recovered her outward composure, but as he closed his hands about her waist, he felt how tense she was—felt the faint tremors that continued to course through her.
He set her on her feet and firmly clasped his hand about one of hers. He glanced at the grooms holding both horses’ reins. “We won’t need the horses again today.” Then he urged Stacie up the steps and into the safety of the house.
Even with the door closed and all threats held at bay, the clamor of his emotions didn’t noticeably ease. Struggling to rein in his rising temper, he followed Stacie into his study. She’d apparently chosen the room without thought, but in this house, it was an excellent place to seek refuge; his mother and Emily rarely came there.
Stacie walked to the wide windows overlooking the side courtyard and halted before them. She crossed her arms, hugged her elbows, and looked out, he assumed unseeingly.
He closed the door and, more slowly, walked across to halt by her side. He’d organized to have men trail her in a protective capacity if she left the house alone, but it hadn’t occurred to him to have guards following while she was with him and they were riding. “I’m sorry—that must have been frightening.”
She glanced at him—frowned at him. “It was hardly your fault.”
He didn’t reply. Something inside him insisted that it was his fault, that it was his duty to keep her safe regardless of how random or unpredictable the attack.
She made a disbelieving sound. “You may be a nobleman and used to getting your own way in everything, but you can’t control”—she gestured toward the park—“men hiding in bushes with pistols!”
He studied her and realized there was a flush in her cheeks and her eyes glittered. “You’re angry.”
“Of course, I’m angry! I was enjoying a ride with my husband, and they ruined it! I’m furious! How dare they shoot at us?”
That was precisely how he felt; she’d managed to put his rage into words while he was still grappling with the fury itself. He stood ramrod straight beside her, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, and battled the urge to pace like a madman—he who never paced. He didn’t feel like himself—like the self he knew—yet this was him as he now was, now that he’d fallen in love with her and she’d come under attack yet again.
Each time, the effect grew worse—stronger, more powerful, harder to contain and restrain.
He wanted to pace and rage about the room, but the target he wanted to vent his temper on wasn’t there.
She gave vent to an angry, frustrated sound, released her elbows, swung around, and paced down the room. She flung up her hands. “There has to be something we can do.” She turned, kicked the heavy skirts of her riding habit around, and came storming back toward him. “Someone is doing this.” She met his eyes as she halted. “Who?”
When he didn’t immediately answer, she swung violently around and paced away again, then turned—viciously kicking her skirts again—and with her lips and chin set and fire in her eyes, came striding back to him.
Having her pace—watching her temper play out—was oddly soothing, almost as if, through watching her, his temper found release, too.
Release enough for the ability to think to return.
He frowned and finally offered, “I can’t think why anyone would be doing this—attacking you like this.”