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Lady Catherine laughed, practiced and perfect. “Perhaps not, but Lords Pratt and Abingdon came tearing through, and that was enough to draw me.” She grinned, making Brook lean toward liking her. “Though they seem to have vanished, so perhaps I ought to go back to the house and wait for Lord Worthing to arrive instead. I must say, cousin, your aunt has succeeded in gathering England’s finest to come and meet you.”

Brook smiled again and looped the reins lazily through her fingers. “It has been a bit overwhelming, I confess. Though I’m glad to have met you two. You live near, do you not?”

“An hour or so away, depending on the roads. It was during a visit to our parents that your mother met your father, you know.” Catherine’s green eyes looked sharp as flint as she scanned the area. “Mother used to tell stories of Lady Whitby’s fame in London—she apparently came to our home for some quiet after her first Season. Well, I suppose she wasn’t Lady Whitby then. Though even after she wed your father, the men still hounded her, it seems. Quite inspiring.”

Because Catherine laughed, Brook smiled. Though she remembered too well the trouble it caused Maman to be hounded by men, and she couldn’t imagine finding it amusing.

Lady Catherine leaned across the distance between their
mounts, her eyes sparkling. “Can I tell you a secret? Uncle Henry never got over her—he has been hiding in India all these years, mourning first her marriage to Whitby and then her death.”

Rushworth shifted in his saddle, his brows pulling down half a degree. “Kitty. You oughtn’t to gossip about Uncle.”

His sister waved that off with a laugh that sounded like silver bells. “If Uncle doesn’t want to be gossiped about, then he should have taken more care. Everyone knew he was in love with Elizabeth. Mother said some even whispered that they . . . But of course that’s nonsense. Your mother would never betray your father, even if he
was
away so often during their first years of marriage.”

Brook looked for evidence of cattiness in Catherine’s tone but found none. Still, it pierced to think of people whispering so about her parents. Her father had lost enough.
Thunder
roaring, lightning sizzling. Darkness all around.
Brook shook her head against the impressions of the dream. Called to mind the words she’d read in Thessalonians that morning. “
Ye are all
the children of light, and the children of the day: we are not of the night, nor of darkness.
”

“I’m sorry, cousin.” Catherine’s horse shifted and pranced, ending up nose-to-nose with Tempesta. The horses greeted each other with friendly nickers. The lady offered a smile, soft and regretful. “Cris is right, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I ought to know better than to repeat anything our mother told us, God rest her soul. She was a jealous creature, and she remembered Cousin Elizabeth through that lens.”

“Catherine,” her brother said again.

The lady huffed out a breath and sent her gaze heavenward. “Am I not allowed to say
anything
, Cris? It’s no secret that Mother was jealous!”

Rushworth pressed his lips together but said no more.

Brook conjured up a smile. “My father told me it was through Pratt’s family that he met my mother.”

Frustration with her brother apparently forgotten, Catherine beamed and turned her horse around again, motioning them all forward with a nod of her stylish top hat. “Oh, you’ll find that the peerage is rather small, really. The late Lord Pratt was always close with both our father and uncle. The story goes that when Cousin Elizabeth came for a visit, she tired of our mother’s less-than-warm company.” Here she darted a look at her brother, though Rushworth made no response. “Lord Pratt came to visit Father one day and mentioned that he had a cousin about her age at Whitby Park—your aunt. So Elizabeth came here to call, she met your father, and Uncle Henry never forgave Lord Pratt for it.” The last part she delivered on a laugh, tossing back her head. “Mother always said that had Henry not just got back to India when Pratt was killed, he would have been investigated for it.”

Brook’s brows furrowed. “Pratt’s father was killed? Accidentally, you mean?”

“I’m afraid not.” Rushworth’s tone was several shades more somber than his sister’s had been. “He was shot in a back alley of Whitby.”

Catherine nodded, her eyes alight despite the serious turn of her mouth. “I was no more than two at the time, but Cris says he remembers a bit of it—the whole region was in an uproar over two such high-profile losses so close together. It was only a fortnight or so after your mother.”

Brook directed Tempesta around a fallen log jutting out and then reined her in when the sound of pounding hooves and braying dogs reached her ears. A moment later the hounds tore by, Justin and Pratt hot on their heels, neither so much as noting the trio of horses still within the tree line. Brook had to smile.

Catherine sighed, her gaze on the backs of the men. “Pratt
was nine when it all happened. He still speaks, sometimes, of how he misses his father.”

Despite her dislike for him, pity stirred at that. “It is no easy thing, losing one’s parent so young. What of his mother?”

“She was ill for years—consumption—before passing away a year or so ago.” Catherine sighed again and reached up to touch the hollow beneath her throat. “Sometimes I think he would rather let the grief drown him than be comforted by those who still love him.”

“That would be Kitty.” Rushworth’s tone was amused . . . or perhaps mocking. Brook wasn’t quite sure.

But Catherine sent him an easy, teasing glare. “I’ll be Lady Pratt within the year, Crispin, mark my words.” Then she grinned and turned her horse back toward the house. “Unless I toss him over for one of the future dukes available. Lady Regan seems to have thoroughly snared Worthing, but they aren’t engaged yet, so there is still hope. Although I must say Lord Abingdon is every bit as handsome. Unless you’ve a claim to him, cousin?”

“Only of friendship.” It took a bit more effort than it should have to smile back at Catherine this time. Which made little sense. Brook had long ago banished the childhood dream of finding a happily-ever-after with him, but all these questions made her realize she wasn’t sure what she would actually do when he declared his intentions for some young lady . . . perhaps even one of those here.

Her cousin held out an arm through the space between them. “I am so glad you’re home, Brook. It will be a delight to get to know you, to have another young lady nearby.”

Brook stretched out, too, to clasp the elegant fingers in her own. Regan and Melissa would soon return to London, after all. It would be good to make other friends. “Likewise, Kitty.”

Catherine smiled and nodded at Brook’s wrist before releasing her. “What a lovely bracelet. Rubies, is it? And diamonds?”

“Mm.” She settled her hands on the pommel again and touched a gloved finger to the gems. “It was my mother’s.”

“I thought it must be. Another contention of
my
mother.” Catherine sent her eyes heavenward. “She was all the time claiming that Elizabeth inherited jewels that ought to have gone to Father. Though I daresay most of them are from the Brook side, not the Rushworth.”

She paused as if waiting confirmation, but Brook had to shrug. “I am afraid my father doesn’t remember the history of many other than the ones
he
gave her.”

“Ah, it’s no matter.” Catherine pulled her mount to a halt and cast her gaze northward. “I think I’ll have a look at Delmore while we’re out here. Will either of you join me?”

“I suppose I shall.” Rushworth said it on a sigh, though. “My lady?”

Brook shook her head. Though the boy-Pratt may have deserved pity, the man still made her uneasy, and she had no desire to go gawk at his home—Whitby had pointed it out once, and that was enough. “I think I’ll go find my father. But I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Kitty. My lord.”

The siblings nodded and said their farewells, and Brook aimed Tempesta back toward the stables, the thought of their neighbor irritating her more with every hoof-fall. How could Catherine be in love with him? She surely saw beyond his handsome face, saw the way he looked at all the young ladies as if they were naught but pounds sterling and playthings. He was exactly the kind of man Maman had fumed about, the kind who thought women were good for nothing but satisfying men. The kind of person who valued nothing but himself. He was an arrogant, self-absorbed reprobate, and he didn’t deserve the happiness Catherine would try to bring him.

And how could a man who had a lady like her cousin waiting keep looking at Brook as he did? Irritation sizzling its way to
anger, Brook dismounted at the stables and handed the reins to blank-faced Francis. It wasn’t that Pratt liked her, that she knew. It was as Whitby had said that first morning—he wanted what was theirs.

A piercing whinny at the end of the aisle drew her.

She shouldn’t approach Oscuro now, when her blood was high. Horses were too sensitive to mood. Still, she strode down the hay-strewn aisle until she stood before his stall.

Oscuro snorted and kicked at the door.

His leads were snapped on, anchoring him between the posts—they must be preparing to groom him. Brook stepped forward and opened the gate.

He snorted again and tried to toss his head, whinnied low and pleading.

“
Je sais
. I know.” She offered her hand as she did every day. Sometimes he tried to nip. Sometimes he ignored her. Today his nostrils flared, and he turned as much as he could to look at her. She moved to his side to make it easier. “You will run soon,
mon ami
. Fast as the wind, free as the birds.” Slowly, slowly she reached for his nose.

The first stroke felt like victory. The second like fate. “You will see. There are boundaries—there always are. But you can find your place within them. Learn how to live within a fence but let your spirit soar.” She rubbed up his nose, down, and then along his cheek. “Your sister has learned . . . but you’re not like your sister, are you? I understand that too. You can look like another and be totally different. And do you know what?”

She leaned closer, slid her other hand down his graceful neck. “That is as it should be. I don’t want to make you Tempesta. I want to help you be the champion you were born to be. Fast as the wind. Free as the birds.”

The hand on his nose had stilled, and he nudged it.

Sunshine scattered the last of the clouds the nightmare had gathered over her. She obliged Oscuro with another stroke.

Her father eased up beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach, but his presence didn’t startle her, nor did it earn any acknowledgment from the horse. “Progress.” Pride colored his tone. He reached, not to try to pet the horse, but to pat her shoulder. “I thought you were on the hunt.”

“I was. I spoke for a while with Lady Catherine and thought I’d come find you.”

“Ah, the Rushworths.” His arms went to their usual position, hands clasped behind his back. “I hear Monaco is pleasant this time of year. We could plan a little trip—that left tomorrow.”

She grinned, gave Oscuro one more rub, and stepped aside for the grooms who approached with brushes and hoof pick. It must be Whitby’s dislike of Henry Rushworth that made him wary of the whole family. “Perhaps in the spring. Once I have Oscuro ready for the races and have convinced you to buy a roadster.”

He touched a hand to her elbow to usher her toward the exit. “Hmm. That may aid us in escaping the dreaded Season, but it doesn’t help with this infernal house party.”

The door came into view, and through it, the gleaming silver paint of Justin’s Rolls-Royce. She grinned. “We could liberate Justin’s car. Look at it, sitting there gloomy and ignored.”

Whitby chuckled and led the way out into the sunshine, his eyes on the trees in the distance and the horses emerging from it. “Perhaps later. I think we had better not miss this show—there are Regan and Lord Thate.”

Brook paused once the sunshine could envelope her and lifted her brows at her father. “You know.”

“Ram spoke to me this morning.” He nodded toward the garden where the married ladies had congregated, Aunt Mary presiding. “He fully approves the match. Mary will not.”

“And you?”

His eyes smiled, though his lips only hinted at it. “He makes her laugh, shakes her from the comfortable. She reminds him there is life beyond the racetrack. They will suit well.”

She linked her arm through his. “Well said.”

“And well done, it seems.” He nearly grinned as he watched the goings-on in the distance. Thate all but leaping from his horse at the garden’s edge, reaching for Regan, and swinging her down and around.

Even from the distance, she could see Aunt Mary go still and could well imagine the wariness in her eyes as the new couple approached her. Thate gestured. Regan clasped his arm.

Whitby chuckled. “One . . . two . . . three.”

Aunt Mary crumpled to the ground.

Heaving a happy sigh, he nodded. “There. All is as it should be. She will come around, and your cousin will be thrown the most obnoxiously extravagant wedding this side of Buckingham. Let us pray she does the planning at her London house and doesn’t drag all the nonsense here.”

Brook laughed and then turned to the driveway when a plume of dust appeared. “Our tardy guests?”

Her father nodded when a car came around the bend. “It must be. Thate acted not a moment too soon.”

Though she half-expected him to lead her away in all haste, to let someone else greet the newcomers, Whitby instead lingered outside the stables amidst all the other parked cars and carriages. “You were talking with the Rushworths, then?”

“Mm. Kitty was telling me of how my mother came to meet you. Well, that she came here to call on Aunt Mary.”

Brook would never tire of seeing the way his eyes went soft and warm at the mention of his Lizzie. Of the way his lips twitched. “Mary was out that day. I had seen your mother before, in London that Season—though only from a distance.
She was always surrounded by crowds of adoring beaux, and I . . . I thought it all ridiculous, honestly. All that hubbub over one lovely face.”