Tessa's Touch

TESSA'S TOUCH

Brenda Hiatt

Electronic edition

Copyright 2004 by Brenda Hiatt Barber

Originally published as
Taming Tessa
by Avon Books, an imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Though some actual
historical places, persons and events are depicted in this work, the primary
characters and their stories are fictional. Any resemblance between those
characters and actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would
like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy
for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* *
*

DEDICATION

For Bethany and
Dawn, who used to tame unicorns for me.

TESSA'S TOUCH

by Brenda Hiatt

CHAPTER 1

Leicestershire,
England—October, 1816

"Easy, fellow, it's only an owl's
shadow," Lord Anthony Northrup said as the horse he was leading along the
deserted road shied yet again.

Already he was beginning to regret the favor
he'd done young Ballard by purchasing this skittish hunter from him, but he was
careful to keep his irritation from his voice so as not to upset the beast
further. Justifiably famous for his skill in handling difficult horses, Anthony
had been sure he could handle this chestnut better than the inexperienced Mr.
Ballard.

Perhaps leading it back tonight hadn't been the
best plan, however. His own mount was a placid, well-trained beast, unlikely to
react to the nervousness of the new horse, but he'd underestimated the
chestnut's spookiness. He'd be glad when he finally reached his hunting lodge
with both animals.

For several minutes he continued without incident,
riding Cinder, his gray gelding, at a slow trot through the gathering dusk with
the new chestnut following on the lead. The road from Melton Mowbray was
mercifully empty at the moment, but Anthony knew that was unlikely to last with
so many men arriving in the Shires for the start of foxhunting season.

Sure enough, a moment later he heard hooves
approaching from behind at a quick trot. He glanced back and saw horse and
rider silhouetted against the rolling fields that were fading from green to
gray in the twilight. Slowing Cinder to a walk, he maneuvered both horses
closer to the verge to give the other rider ample room to pass, in hopes of
avoiding an incident with the skittish chestnut.

His hopes were dashed when a rabbit suddenly
erupted from the hedge bordering the road, right under the chestnut's nose.
Predictably, the horse spooked and reared, then lunged forward, dragging the
lead rein across Cinder's neck. Anthony's gelding shied away from the sudden
contact, dancing sideways even as the chestnut reared again, nearly pulling
Anthony from the saddle.

One of the chestnut's descending forelegs
caught on the lead rein, wrenching it from Anthony's grasp. Cursing, he vaulted
to the ground to make a grab for the lead before the horse could bolt, but he
was too late. The chestnut swung away from him, then galloped away up the road,
the lead whipping behind.

With another curse, Anthony turned back to
Cinder but before he could remount to give chase, the other rider swept past
him at a gallop, already in pursuit of the chestnut. Vaulting into the saddle,
Anthony followed. He hadn't seen the fellow's face, but assumed it must be
someone he knew, to spring so quickly to his assistance.

He and Cinder galloped only a furlong or so
before reaching their quarry, for the chestnut had somehow managed to tangle
his reins in the thick hedge that lined the road. Unfortunately, the horse was
in full panic, bucking and kicking at the hedge, tangling the reins even more
tightly as he whinnied with rising hysteria.

The other rider dismounted and took a couple of
cautious steps toward the frightened beast. Judging by his stature, Anthony
realized he could be no more than a lad.

"You'd best stay clear," Anthony
said, dismounting as well. "He's in the devil's own temper and could do
you an injury."

"Nonsense," came the reply.

Anthony stared, for the voice was undeniably
feminine, despite the fact that the rider had been riding astride and wore
breeches. Before he could process this remarkable anomaly, she took another
step toward the panicked chestnut, leaving her roan mare standing quietly.

"Come then," she said soothingly,
"what seems to be the trouble?"

To Anthony's amazement, the horse instantly
stopped kicking and stood, trembling, with its ears pitched forward.

The woman continued to approach the
still-jittery chestnut. "There, now. It's not so bad, is it? Look at what
you've done to yourself," she said to the horse in a singsong lilt that
seemed to hold the beast's complete attention.

A moment later she had the lead in one hand and
with the other deftly untangled the reins from the hedge. When she laid one
small hand on the horse's neck, it gave a great shudder, then stopped
trembling. Ducking its head, it turned to nuzzle her ear.

Smiling, she patted the chestnut's nose and
Anthony just caught her whisper of, "I miss you, too, Zephyr." Then
she turned and said aloud, "I don't think he'll give you any more trouble,
sir," and handed him the lead.

Anthony had been watching in amazement, but now
he thought he understood why the horse had responded to her. "Thank you.
You seem to have—"

He paused, for the rising moon gave him his
first good look at her face—and a lovely face it was, framed by a few
honey-brown curls that had escaped her riding cap. The breeches outlined a fine
pair of legs, causing his thoughts to veer down a totally different path.

"Horses like me," she said simply,
clearly not realizing he'd heard her whispered comment to the chestnut.

Her dark eyes met his and a spark of sympathy,
of connection, passed between them. Anthony felt something deep inside him stir
in response. Lust, of course. He was long familiar with that feeling. Anything
beyond that was doubtless only the result of the moonlit setting and the
unusual events just past.

"So it would appear," he finally
replied. Shaking off his bemusement, Anthony managed a grin. "And I can't
say that I blame them, Miss—?"

To his disappointment, she did not supply a
name. "I'll be on my way, then," was all she said. With a fluid
motion, she was back in her saddle and a moment later was cantering away down
the road at a pace he had no hope of matching with two horses to manage.

He watched her appreciatively until she was too
far away to discern clearly, then turned to remount Cinder and continue his
brief journey, still bemused by the mystery of the beauty in breeches. Her
accent had not been that of some local farmer's daughter. Was she perhaps the
pampered mistress of some gent here for the hunting season?

Anthony received a generous allowance from his
father, the Duke of Marland, as well as a quarterly stipend from the Army,
where he'd attained the rank of major during the recent wars. Maybe the
breech-clad beauty could be lured away from her protector. But no—if she was
familiar with the horse, it was more likely she lived somewhere in the area.
Besides, her manner hadn't been at all flirtatious —nothing like that of a
Cyprian.

Busy with such thoughts, he didn't realize
until he reached his hunting box that she'd been right about the chestnut. He'd
given no further trouble. What had she called him? Zephyr? Ballard hadn't
mentioned the horse's name, but he had no doubt that was it. He'd ask Ballard
about it tomorrow.

Handing both horses over to a waiting groom, he
warned him about the new gelding's skittishness. The man looked skeptical,
given the chestnut's current placidity.

Anthony just shrugged, then turned to the
house, one of the larger hunting boxes in the area, boasting six large bedrooms
and a generous dining room. The half-timbered house had been left him by his
great-uncle, an avid sportsman who had taught Anthony most of what he knew
about hunting. Great-uncle Alden would be pleased, Anthony thought, to know his
former hunting box now housed the Odd Sock Hunt Club, second in consequence
here in the Shires only to Melton's Old Club.

"About time you returned," he was
greeted by Sir Charles Storm, better known as Stormy, upon entering the parlor.
"Rush insisted on holding dinner for you and I'm famished."

Anthony turned to Ryan Dean, Earl of Rushford,
with a grin. "Good of you, Rush, but not really necessary. I'd no idea
Ballard's beast would be so much trouble. That's what delayed me." He
threw himself into an overstuffed armchair near the fire.

"Horse was a bad deal, then?" massive
Grant Turpin, lounging opposite him, asked sympathetically. "That's what
comes of doing favors for striplings. Warned you against that."

Anthony grinned, knowing his imposing friend
would have done the same, for Thor, as he was known to his intimates, was a
notoriously soft touch. "Yes, you did, but I knew I could handle the brute
better than young Ballard. He's a damnably skittish thing, though. Starts at
his own shadow. Or did, until—" He broke off, suddenly reluctant to
mention the girl who'd come to his rescue.

"Doesn't sound like much of a hunter,
though you'll set him right if anyone can," Thor said with gratifying
confidence. "Is it temperament or training, do you think?"

"Too soon to know," Anthony replied
with a shrug. "Could be a combination—"

"I say," Stormy broke in, "can't
we discuss it over dinner?"

With a chuckle, the four men adjourned to the
dining room, where they were joined by two or three other members of the Odd
Sock Club. It was a jovial group, for among the requirements for inclusion were
a lack of pretention and general amiability. Just now, everyone was in high
spirits in anticipation of the first real hunt of the season four days hence.

Not until the roast beef was served did the
conversation return to Anthony's new purchase.

"Where did Ballard buy that horse, anyway?"
asked William Verge, Viscount Killerby. "There haven't been any auctions
yet, have there?"

"Not that I know of," Anthony
responded to the little bouncing ball of a man affectionately known as Killer.
"He bought it from a local squire, a fellow by the name of Seaton."

"Seaton?" echoed Stormy from the
opposite end of the table, where he'd been working his way steadily through the
courses. "Of Wheatstone? Someone else had a bad mount off him last year—
horse refused the jumps. Now, who was it?" He frowned and took a sip of
claret in an apparent effort to jog loose the memory.

"Porrington, wasn't it?" offered
Rush. "I remember him landing in a ditch when that new bay of his balked
last year. Thought the dunking did him good, personally."

There were nods of agreement, Anthony's
included, for Porrington was notoriously high in the instep. In fact, he
suspected it had been Porrington who had blackballed Killer from the Old Club
several years earlier, the event that had ultimately resulted in the formation of
the rival Odd Sock Club.

"Perhaps I'll pay this Seaton a
visit." If the young woman he'd met knew the horse, she might well be
found somewhere at Wheatstone. "See if the fellow is making a practice of
selling half-trained horses."

He remembered how easily the girl had calmed
the horse. Perhaps he hadn't made such a bad bargain after all . . .

"Good idea," Thor agreed. "We
can act as though we're interested in buying and look into Seaton's setup.
Could be Porrington and Ballard were isolated incidents, or it could be
pattern. I'd hate to see any other striplings like Ballard taken in, if
so."

"It's not as though we've anything else to
do, with the first hunt still days away," Stormy added.

Anthony had intended to go alone, but now he
nodded. "Very well. In the morning I'll have another word with Ballard,
then we can give Seaton's stables a look."

This suggestion was
met with general approval, and the coversation turned back to the hunt and a
spirited discussion of the season's prospects for good sport.

* *
*

On her return to Wheatstone, Tessa Seaton was
careful to ride the strawberry roan mare in a wide circle around to the back of
the stables, well out of sight of the main house, before dismounting. If she
were quick, she could return Cinnamon to her stall and get back before her
father noticed she'd been away.

"How did she go, then?"

Tessa whirled, startled, to see her cousin
Harold leaning against the corner of the main stable block. As usual, his hat
was pulled low over his forehead, a piece of straw dangling negligently from
his lips.

"Fine. She went fine," Tessa replied
with a shrug. "I told you she would." Regret tugged at her, for she'd
already become rather fond of Cinnamon. It was foolish, since the horse had
been bought for resale.

Her cousin nodded. "With those lines, I'm
betting we can get a monkey for her once the hunt begins."

Tessa frowned. "I doubt she's worth five
hundred pounds, though she is better-tempered than most of our beasts."
She refrained from pointing out that the pervasive temperament problems were a
direct result of Harold's inept training.

"She jumps well," she continued,
"but she's not as fast as most huntsmen would prefer. Perhaps with another
season's conditioning—"

"What the devil difference does it make?"
Harold interrupted. "She's worth whatever someone will pay. Nimbus is
flashier, though, so we should show him in the first hunt. He'll fetch even
more, I'd wager."

"Nimbus? He's not ready. We've only had
him since August and he's not shed most of his bad habits yet. He bit two
stable lads last week, and kicked Rambler the week before that."

"The stable lads won't be riding him. You
will."