“Good night.” Francesca watched Lady Elizabeth leave, then beckoned to the maid to assist her with her gown.
Once she’d bathed, she felt much more relaxed, much more forgiving; she could hardly blame him for the rain, or its effects, after all. Leaning back in the tub, she instructed Millie in unpacking her trunks and laying out all she would need for the morrow. Her eyes round with awe, Millie carefully shook out the ivory silk wedding gown.
“Ooh, ma’am, it’s just beautiful!”
The gown had been reverently pressed and packed by the staff at Rawlings Hall; it only needed a good shake and a night hanging up to be absolutely perfect. “Leave it in the wardrobe. Everything else I need for tomorrow should be packed next.”
Millie emerged from the wardrobe and shut the door with a soft sigh. “A rare sight you’ll be in that, ma’am, pardon my saying so.” She returned to Francesca’s trunks. “I’ll just get out your wedding finery, and your nightgown and brushes, and we’ll move all the rest to the countess’s suite tomorrow morning, if that’s all right?”
Francesca nodded. A ripple of nervousness shivered over her skin. Tomorrow morning, she’d become his countess. His. The sensation behind the shiver intensified. She sat up and reached for the towel. Millie came running.
Later, wrapped in a bedgown, she sat by the fire and ate the simple but elegant dinner Millie had brought up on a tray. Then she dismissed the little maid, turned down the lamps, and thought about climbing into bed. I
nstead, she found herself drawn to the window, to the wide vista of the downs. The high, largely treeless plateau stretched away in gently rolling waves as far as her eyes could see. The sky was almost clear; the only remnants of yesterday’s storms were the tattered clouds that streamed before the wind.
The moon was rising, sending a wash of silvery light over the scene.
The downs possessed a wild beauty that called to her-she’d suspected that would be the case. A sense of freedom, of nature unfettered, unrestrained, rose from the barren landscape.
And tempted her.
Tonight would be her last night alone-the last night she would have only herself to answer to. Tomorrow would bring her a husband, and she already knew-or could guess-his feelings about her riding wild through the night.
She wasn’t sleepy. The long hours in the coach, hours of increasing tension, the disappointment, the anticlimax at finding him not here to greet her when she’d spent so many hours dreaming of how it would be-dreaming of the look in his eyes when next he saw her-had left her disaffected, more restless, more edgy than ever before.
Her riding habit was in her second trunk. She wrestled it free, then unearthed her riding boots, gloves and crop. The hat she could do without.
Ten minutes saw her dressed and booted, sliding through the huge house. She heard deep voices-she turned in the opposite direction. She found a secondary stair and took it down to the ground floor, then followed a corridor and found a parlor with French doors opening onto the terrace. Leaving the doors closed but unlocked, she headed for the stable block she’d glimpsed through the trees.
The trees were old oaks and beeches; they welcomed her into their shadows. She strode along, secure in the knowledge no one could see her from the house. The stable block proved to be interestingly large, two long stables and a coach barn built around a courtyard. She slipped into the nearest stable, and started down the aisle, gauging the nature of the horse in each box. She passed three hunters, even larger and more powerful than those she’d ridden at Rawlings Hall. Recalling Chillingworth’s comments, she continued on, looking to see if he had a smaller mount-
The door at the end of the aisle opened. Light bobbed, illuminating tack stored in the room beyond, then the light danced into the aisle as two stablelads, one carrying a lantern, stepped through and pulled the door shut.
Halfway along the aisle, Francesca had no chance of regaining the stable door. The light had yet to reach her. Slipping the latch of the stall she stood beside, she eased the door open, then whisked around it and pressed it closed, then reached over and lifted the latch into place.
A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her. The horse whose stall she’d invaded was well mannered, and not large. It had turned its head to view her, but with her vision affected by the lamplight, she could see little more. But there was plenty of room for her to slide down against the stall door and wait for the stablelads to pass by.
“There she is-a beauty, ain’t she?”
The light suddenly intensified; glancing up, Francesca saw the lamp appear just above her head. The stablelad rested it on the top of the stall door.
“Aye,” the second lad agreed. “Smashing.” The door shifted as two bodies leaned against it. Francesca held her breath and prayed they wouldn’t look over and down. They were talking about the horse. She looked, and for the first time, saw.
Her eyes widened; she only just managed to suppress an appreciative sigh. The horse was more than merely beautiful. There was power and grace in every line, a living testimony to superior breeding. This was precisely the sort of horse Chillingworth had spoken of-a fleet-footed Arabian mare. Her bay coat glowed richly in the lamp light, dark mane and tail a nice contrast. The horse’s eyes were large, dark, alert. Its ears were pricked.
Francesca prayed it wouldn’t come to investigate her-not until the stableboys moved on.
“Heard tell the master bought her for some lady.”
“Aye-that be right. The mare’s hardly up to his weight, after all.”
The other boy chortled. “Seems like the lady was.”
Francesca glanced up-to see the lamp disappear. The stablelads pushed away from the door; the light retreated. She waited until the dark returned, then rose and peeked over the stall door just in time to see the two lads step out of the stable, taking the lantern with them.
“Thank God!”
A soft nose butted her in the back. She turned, equally eager to make friends. “Oh, but you’re a gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” The mare’s long nose was velvet soft. Francesca ran her hands along the sleek coat, gauging by feel; her night vision had yet to return.