Something in West’s voice pierced Silas’s preoccupation with Caro. Some hint of…not quite fondness. Perhaps masculine interest. Helena was an attractive woman and West flirted with anything in skirts. But now Silas looked closely, the predatory spark in West’s eyes made him distinctly uneasy.
He frowned at his friend, suddenly recalling a slip that at the time, he’d disregarded in his extremity. When he’d blundered into West’s house breathing fire and vowing destruction, the first woman his friend had mentioned hadn’t been Caroline Beaumont, but Helena.
Had rakish Vernon Grange set his sights on Helena Wade? And if he had, how did Silas feel about it? More importantly, how would Helena feel about it?
Silas looked at his sister and had to admit he had no idea.
Coolly she withdrew her hand. “I’d imagined more guests, my lord.”
The gathering at this fête champêtre was smaller than Silas had expected, too, almost…intimate. West, Helena, Silas, a couple of West’s raffish friends, and the freshly arrived Caroline and Fenella. Did today mark the beginning of West’s pursuit? Devil take the man, if he hurt Helena, Silas would turn him into compost.
West shrugged. “The numbers are sufficient to my entertainment.” He regarded Helena searchingly. “And hopefully yours. You didn’t ride?”
“No.” She directed a flash of annoyance at Silas. He knew she’d planned to use the carriage trip to Richmond to quiz him about Caroline.
“I have a spare horse,” West said.
Across the lush green field, Caro stepped out of her curricle and headed in their direction. Then she noticed Silas standing beside Helena and veered away. After yesterday’s indiscretions, she must have decided evasion was the best policy.
“The perfect host,” Silas said sardonically as he put aside questions about West’s romantic ambitions. He had his hands full catching Caro. Unraveling his sister’s intrigues would have to wait.
“I can’t ride astride,” Helena said. “Even in Richmond that would cause talk. But thank you for offering.”
West smiled at her and the unabashed affection in his face heightened Silas’s suspicions. “When you were an impudent schoolgirl in plaits and a muddy pinafore, you used to ride astride.”
She didn’t smile back. “I used to do many things. But wisdom has a grim habit of following on from reckless decisions.”
West’s amusement faded. “Not always.”
“No, not always.” Fleetingly the late Lord Crewe’s ghost hovered over the three of them. Like West, he’d been a man of charm and daring—and cruel selfishness that had left Helena forever scarred.
Silas watched West shake off the dark memories and become once again the urbane gentleman who had graced a thousand elegant drawing rooms. “What a shame that you won’t ride when I planned this picnic purely for the pleasure of seeing you flying across the grass on the back of a fine horse.”
Helena looked astonished. Like
ly she’d imagined he’d put this party together for Caro’s sake. “Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s been a fancy of mine since I saw you restricted to a trot in Hyde Park. The experience was most uncongenial for an observer. You looked like someone was strangling you. Slowly.”
West was right. She only ever came truly alive galloping hell for leather over an open field. “I’ve missed seeing you on a horse, Hel,” Silas said.
Helena frowned. She wouldn’t like West’s attention centering on her. Especially when his conclusions were so accurate. She liked to play her cards close to her chest. “Town isn’t the place to ride neck or nothing. I’ll soon be back at Cranham.”
West raised a hand toward the grooms holding the horses. “Such a pity.”
“That I’m leaving London?”
“No, that you don’t want a good gallop when I went to such trouble to bring you a suitable mount—and a suitable saddle.”
A groom led a spectacular white mare toward them. Silas noted the Arab’s proud carriage, the gleaming sidesaddle, and also the way Helena’s hand curled at her side as if it already held a crop. Whatever her doubts about the man offering the favor, Silas could see that she itched to throw herself onto the lovely horse.
“What a beauty,” Silas said. Like Helena, he’d been set on his first pony when he was toddling.
The groom passed the reins to West, bowed and left. The horse’s ears flickered and her great dark eyes shone. She bent her noble head to nudge Helena as if inviting her to climb into the saddle.
West’s thin, expressive mouth stretched into a sardonic smile. “If you deny me now, Helena, I’ll think that you don’t like me.“
“I don’t,” she said shortly, cupping one hand under the horse’s jaw and giving her a scratch.