The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella (7 page)

She was finishing a second rasher of ham when she heard a sound behind her. She turned to find large brown eyes looking up at her from under a plain, dark blue bonnet.

"Hurry!"

"Hurry?"

The little head bobbled, and a tiny gloved hand reached for hers. "Papa's getting my pony cart."

"That's nice, Lady Anne, but what...." Then Jocelyn remembered. She had promised to accompany Lady Anne today. But she couldn't. Not now, not after the way she'd made a fool of herself last evening. She wished she had fallen victim to Lady Mary's malady so she could keep to her room until after the holidays and it was time to leave. She could not face Tarkington. What he must think of her! Her cheeks burned in memory.

"Oh, my dear, I can't . . ." Her voice trailed off helplessly as she stared into Lady Anne's guileless young eyes. A promise had been made. Lady Anne was too young to understand casually made and casually broken promises. Jocelyn would not begin her education.

"I forgot to bring down my outdoor garments. I shall have to fetch them first," Jocelyn told the child as she rose from her chair. She would use the time to gather her wits and secure some mask that could see her through the day.

"Emmie brung them."

"Brought them," Jocelyn corrected without thought, then started. "She did?"

Lady Anne's head bobbled again as she pulled Jocelyn out of the breakfast parlor. "See?" She pointed at Emmie standing near one of the pier glasses that flanked the front entrance. Worse, she was speaking with the marques.

Jocelyn felt her heart descend into her stomach. There would be no reprieve, no chance to order her mind or adopt any mien that could see her through her embarrassment. She stared at him, vulnerable to the slightest look or word.

"Miss Maybrey, you should not have let Anne take you away from your breakfast."

Jocelyn blushed and looked wildly around, searching for inspiration, for the right words to say.

"We would have waited," the marques finished.

Jocelyn whipped her head back to look at him. He was smiling only slightly, but the expression reached his eyes. She blinked, bemused.

"That's quite all right. I was finished. Really."

The marques nodded, took her cloak from Emmie, and held it out for her. Numbly Jocelyn walked toward him and allowed him to put her cloak around her. She only woke from her dazed state when it appeared he would take her hat from Emmie as well. The thought of his hands placing her hat on her head and tying the bow under her chin galvanized Jocelyn to action. She dived under his arm to seize the hat first, then turned toward the pier glass to settle it on her head. The marques stepped away, but through his reflection in the glass Jocelyn saw the odd way he compressed his lips and the light in his eyes glow brighter. He was laughing at her!

"Well, Lady Anne," she said briskly, "shall we go for a ride in your cart?"

"I'm afraid we won't be using the cart," the marques said as they descended the stone steps before the manor.

"But, Papa!" protested Lady Anne.

"Hush. This is much better. See? I instructed the grooms to harness one of the small estate wagons. How else can we bring home the Christmas greens your grandmother wishes us to gather?"

"You, my lord?" Jocelyn heard herself ask.

Tarkington laughed. "Yes, Miss Maybrey. It seems the house servants are considered to have more important matters to attend to. I, as the most frivolous of the lot, am free for garland and boxwood and mistletoe gathering."

Jocelyn smiled despite herself. "Frivolous, my lord?"

"Decidedly frivolous." He stopped by the wagon. "You first, Miss Maybrey."

"What? Wait—"

The Marques's hands were firm about her waist. He lifted her high as if she weighed no more than Lady Anne. Instinctively her hands grabbed his forearms for security. He set her on the worn padded wagon seat. He would have dropped his hands immediately if it were not for the firm grip Jocelyn maintained. Guiltily, and flushing once again, she released her grip, her hands sliding self-consciously away.

Jocelyn's breath clouded against cold morning air, but inwardly she felt a new glowing warmth almost like banked coals. It was a curious feeling, not altogether unpleasant, though the thought of what might fan those banked coals to flames unsettled her.

Their eyes held a moment longer, then the marques turned to lift his little daughter for Jocelyn to settle between her and where the marques would sit on the wagon bench seat. Afterward, Jocelyn's breathing felt tight, as if a band constricted her chest. She turned her attention toward Lady Anne, seeking some solace in the child's bright chatter as the marques turned the wagon down a trail paralleling the river.

Remnants of the night's frost glistened on the north face of rocks sheltered from the sun's warmth by the tangled briar from summer's berries, clumps of pine, and evergreen shrubbery. Winter wrens flew up before them to settle on branches overhead. Their feathers puffed out against the cold, and they cocked their heads from side to side, their bright dark eyes watching them pass. Once they saw two male wrens fight over a large red berry, so preoccupied with their war they scarcely had time to fly out of the horse's way. Lady Anne laughed at their antics. Her laughter eased the tightness in Jocelyn's chest, and she laughed at the child's delight.

When they crossed a narrow wooden bridge over the river, Jocelyn instinctively clung to the side of the wagon, fearful they'd come to mischief on so narrow a structure. She disliked bridges. They always made her nervous. Once on the other side the marques stopped the wagon and told her she could relax her grip. She meekly apologized, color rising in her cheeks.

"Do not apologize, Miss Maybrey, It is not necessary. That was a narrow bridge and to one unfamiliar with it or without control of the reins, crossing can seem daunting. I myself do not like others to drive me across. I prefer to be in control on such a structure."

"Thank you, my lord, but I confess I do not like bridges at all. An inexplicable failing of mine, I'm afraid," she said with a shaky laugh and offhanded gesture.

"Miss Maybrey! I wish I had known! There was no need for us to go to the wood across the river for greenery. I merely thought to take you to this wood because of its high vantage point. In my vanity I wished you to see Bayneville from the top of the hill ahead that borders the wood."

"Please, my lord, do not overly concern yourself. I'm fine."

"But will you be fine when I confess there is no way back to Bayneville lest we cross the river again?"

"I gathered that, my lord," she said dryly. "Rivers this wide and deep don't vanish in the next mile or so."

"True, but I can at least ensure that your crossing not be disturbing in quite that manner."

Jocelyn laughed. "Nothing can make a bridge less disturbing."

The marques smiled as he lifted the reins and urged the estate horse on. "We'll see, Miss Maybrey."

Jocelyn was touched by Tarkington's concern. It was relaxing in a manner she'd never experienced.

"Are we almost there, Papa? Are we almost there?"

The marques laughed. "Almost, poppet. Beyond that line of spruce is a grove of holly. We'll start there."

Together the three of them cut and gathered the holly, then boxwood and other greenery until the back of their wagon was full.

"What about the mis'toe, Papa?" Lady Anne asked as Tarkington once more boosted her on to the wagon seat.

"We have to go farther for that," he said, picking up the wagon reins.

"I know what mis'toe is for," Lady Anne confided to Jocelyn.

"Oh, you do?" Jocelyn said to the dimpling child.

Lady Anne nodded, then giggled behind her gloved hand. "It's for kissing!"

"My goodness! Are you sure?"

"Don't stand under the mis'toe or you'll get kissed!"

"Well, I shall certainly take your advice. Imagine, being kissed!" she said. Then her eye caught the Marques's tense gaze. All humor left her lips. Unconsciously she licked them. The Marques's eyes narrowed briefly. In confusion Jocelyn blushed and looked away. She was attracted to this man. Dangerously attracted. How foolish! A tingling rose in her chest, catching in her throat and zinging throughout her body in a form of panic she'd never felt before. She was about to be betrothed to his cousin—though perhaps not. Mrs. Bayne would likely do her best to squelch the match. She considered that consequence and knew it wasn't the cause of her panic. She knew the worst last night, though only now would she put the feeling to thought. If she married Charles Bayne, her life would continue in the fashion she'd grown up with. Unfortunately she was beginning to realize she did not want that life for herself: an endless round of parties, of late nights and late risings, of maintaining appearances, of being somewhere just to be seen there, of listening to gossip, of laughing at some ridiculous joke, or clucking one's tongue at another's misfortune. That was her parents' world, and they thrived in it. She now knew that as a child when she'd observed them—from a distance, the way society deemed children were meant to—she had enjoyed that distance, that vicarious participation, far more than she'd ever enjoyed its actuality for herself.

This she enjoyed, she thought, looking around her at the pearl-gray skies and the shades of green and brown in the landscape. She enjoyed the slow sway of the wagon as it rumbled down the dirt lane and the birds that flew before them, disgruntled at the intrusion into their feeding grounds. She enjoyed the time to play the harpsichord and the time to merely sit by a fire or a window to think. She realized she even enjoyed the silence of the night without the calls of the night watchman or the rattle of carriages along the pavement, or the drunken bawdy songs of the town bucks as they made their way home after a night carousing on the town.

She was not made as her parents were, and that identification of the uncomfortable itch on her soul eased some of the turmoil in her heart. She smiled.

"Miss Maybrey?"

"I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering, I'm afraid."

"From a very odd lot of sheep."

"Pardon?"

"Your face, Miss Maybrey. It has run a gamut of emotions. Every time I glanced your way, a different emotion was there. I was so fascinated by the changes I could scarcely keep my attention on driving the cart."

Jocelyn blinked and blushed. She opened her mouth and closed it several times in succession as she thought of, then quickly discarded, one answer after another. Ultimately she realized there was no direct answer to be given.

"Is something troubling you, Miss Maybrey? Aside from my Aunt Bayne, and I beg you not to let her trouble you. I believe she would try the patience of a saint," he said with a soft laugh. "But leaving that unfortunate situation aside, is there anything wrong? I know this is being forward, but I am concerned."

She shook her head. "What troubles me would not halt an ant. It is nothing, my lord. Merely my own silliness. Mother tells me I can be a goose at times."

"That I do not believe. I think you are far wiser than most. . . . There, Anne, do you see that bunch of green high in the oak tree ahead? That's your mistletoe."

"Up there? But how do we get it, Papa? It's too high!" Tarkington laughed. "I haven't done so in years, but I believe I still can climb a tree."

"My lord!" exclaimed Jocelyn.

"Don't you believe I can, Miss Maybrey?"

"Yes, yes, of course you can," Jocelyn stammered, "But what of your clothes?"

He glanced down at his immaculate fawn-colored greatcoat. "Yes, I see your point. Greatcoats are not conducive to climbing." He jumped down from the wagon seat, took off his coat, and slung it over the edge of the seat.

"My lord! You'll catch a chill!"

"Devil a'bit, Miss Maybrey. You fuss more than my mother," he teased. He reached for Lady Anne. "Come on, poppet, down you go. . . . I need you to help catch the mistletoe when it falls." He set his daughter down and wordlessly held out his hand for Jocelyn.

Jocelyn, flustered by his teasing, tripped over the end of the lap robe that had fallen to the floorboard. Tarkington caught her by the waist as she stumbled forward. As her color soared higher, the Marques's grin grew broader. Never did he look less like the serious man of Lady Mary's description.

The intimate feel of his hands around her waist ricocheted tingling heat throughout her body. In shock she raised questioning eyes to meet his only to have their gazes lock. Slowly he set her on the ground, but his hands remained at her waist. The air grew thick between them. Jocelyn saw a pulse beat in his neck and knew he was as strangely affected as she. That knowledge calmed her fears, and the tingling heat grew, spreading throughout her body. Her lips parted in wonder at the sensations she felt, at the warmth of the expression in his gray eyes like sunlight reflecting on a still pond. The tips of his fingers pressed against her back to pull her closer while his muscles tensed, his head dipped, and the pulse in his neck quickened.

"Papa, can I climb the tree, too?"

Tarkington's hands dropped from Jocelyn's waist. He crossed to his daughter's side and swung her up in his arms, his expression shuttered and rigid. "No, poppet," he said in a strangled voice. He cleared his throat. "It's too high a climb for you."

Jocelyn gasped at the realization that he'd intended to kiss her! Red surged into her cheeks, and she turned away from Tarkington and Lady Anne—ostensibly to look out over the countryside, in reality to hide the myriad emotions she knew to be chasing across her face. Vaguely she was aware of the marques setting his daughter back down and instructing her where to stand.

The sound of boots scraping against bark as he climbed the tree matched the emotions inside her. He'd been about to kiss her! And she'd wanted him to! Never had Mr. Bayne attempted more than to kiss her hand. Nor would she have allowed him further liberties. But she would have allowed Tarkington—would have welcomed them!

She brought a cold gloved hand up against her flaming cheeks. What could have possessed her? She was acting the flirt. Was it because he was a marques? Was she enamored with his title? She hoped not, for that would not allow her to think well of herself. Was it his widower circumstances?