Gabriel D'Arcy. Ann Lethbridge

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      She laughed. A light bright sound that spread unaccustomed warmth in his chest. ‘So it is good we have such staleness out of the way, then. And you will call me Nicky. Nicoletta is such a mouthful for the English tongue, don’t you think?’

      ‘Nicky,’ he said, tasting it on his tongue, sharp and tart, yet, like her, exotic. ‘It suits you.’

      A little frown creased her forehead. ‘A compliment?’

      ‘A woman as lovely as you does not lack for compliments.’

      ‘Lovely? Mais non. Not at all. I think they call it je ne sais quoi, n’est-ce pas?’

      ‘It seems we are at point non plus. At a standstill in this war of words.’

      ‘War?’ She raised a brow. ‘Surely not. Relax, mon ami, and enjoy a ride on what appears to be the coming of a very fine day.’

      He laughed and helped her out of the carriage. He could barely remember the last time he had found a woman so enticingly amusing. It was like coming into the light after days below ground. And she was right. Whatever she was, lovely did not adequately describe it. The sum of her was more attractive than the individual parts. And therefore undefinable. She was not going to be as easy to figure out as he had assumed. Not easy, but not impossible. And perversely he was looking forward to learning her secrets. And if his initial suspicion proved correct and she did come as a spy from the French? His chest tightened. Then he would leave her convinced that her masters had nothing to fear in regard to his loyalty. That way this vibrant creature wouldn’t have to die. At least, not this time.

      ‘I will certainly be interested to see you put that mare of yours through her paces,’ Gabe said, as they mounted.

      She glanced back at his gelding, a big bay, strong enough to hold a man of his weight and height and still go like the wind. ‘I’ll wager my glove that Peridot and I will leave you in our dust.’

      Again a challenge. It must be part of her nature and it was alluring as all hell. ‘Now that I look forward to seeing.’ He clapped his heels to Bacchus’s flanks.

      * * *

      The early-morning breeze stung Nicky’s cheeks. The dew on the grass glittered like diamonds. She felt carefree. Giddy. As if the Countess was nothing but a bad dream and she was young again. Thank goodness, her companion was out in front. The ineffably charming Mooreshead was far too intelligent to insult her by letting her win. But one look at her face and he’d see the cracks in her hard-won walls. She let go a breath and gathered her composure.

      Clearly Paul had been right to repeat his warnings last night. The man had a dark and dangerous allure. Beneath the urbane veneer lay finely honed steel forged in a crucible of fire. What turned a man with every advantage of position, wealth, intelligence and education into a traitor? She would have to be clever indeed to expose his treachery and bring him to justice.

      The thought of this physically beautiful man mounting the gallows robbed the day of its brightness.

      She forced herself not to think of the end, only the means, and urged Peridot to greater efforts as the big, rangy bay drew a good length in front. No catching them now. At the end of the Row, Gabe circled his horse around and greeted her with a boyish smile that caused her heart to flutter.

      Mortified by her instinctively feminine response, she halted in front of him with a smile that felt forced. At her command, Peridot curtsied low, in acknowledgement of his win.

      The smile turned into a delighted grin. ‘What a little beauty. And fast.’

      ‘Not fast enough,’ she said lightly. ‘He’s not very pretty, your animal, but he is strong.’

      Gabe patted his mount’s neck. ‘I see you know horseflesh.’

      She pouted, but not so much that he would think her serious. ‘If I knew it well enough, I would not have wagered one of my new gloves.’ Repressing the tingle of anticipation at the thought of his touch, she held out a hand for him to claim his prize. Boldness was the only way to handle a man like him. A man who assumed he held all the power.

      With deliberate slowness, as if he sensed her impatience and intended to punish her, he pulled off his own gloves and tucked them beneath one heavily muscled thigh. When her hand disappeared inside his palm, it clearly emphasised the difference in their size and strength. Even through the kid she could feel his warmth. A small shiver slid down her back, but she kept her smile steady, coolly amused, unflustered, despite the unwanted flutter of her pulse. Carefully he undid the tiny button at the wrist, then raised her hand to press his lips to the blue-veined pulse point he had uncovered. Her insides tightened in response to the velvety sensation.

      When he glanced up at her, his eyes danced with mischief.

      Her heart tumbled over, her body loosened. She swallowed her urge to gasp at the odd sense of discovery. The kind of feeling a younger Nicky might have experienced. Before the world changed and she became a pawn. A puppet with gilded strings. The naive child she’d been was dead and buried beneath her childish hopes and dreams. Only the Countess lived to play this so very dangerous game. ‘You won the glove, sirrah. Nothing more.’

      He fastened the button and gave her hand a gentle pat. ‘And you must keep it until I return you home. You need it for now.’

      Generous to a fault. A wickedly clever move. She inclined her head as if approving of his thoughtfulness. Oh, yes, the man had charm from his beautiful burnished locks to his highly polished boots, making it hard to think of him as evil. She shored up her defences with a teasing smile. ‘Do you make a habit of collecting ladies’ gloves?’

      ‘Only yours.’

      Gathering her reins, she tossed him an arch look. ‘A very small collection, then.’

      He laughed out loud. Again, that deep joyful sound. It stirred something deep in her heart. Recollections of happier times. She squashed the surge of sentimentality. Men never did anything without a purpose and they were at their kindest when their intentions were at their worst. Her own husband was a prime example. She’d thought him their saviour, her and Minette. Instead he’d been her ruination.

      She fell in beside him and the horses walked side by side down the slope towards the Serpentine. ‘Do you ride here often?’ she asked, seeking neutral ground.

      ‘Rarely. Even at this time of year there are too many people.’ He gave her the same charming smile that seemed so friendly and open, yet did not allow her to assume intimacy.

      ‘You prefer the countryside, then, to town?’ she asked.

      ‘Each has their place. What about you? Town or country?’

      Country. ‘Town.’ The Countess must always prefer the town.

      They brought the horses to a halt where a copse ran down to the water and a huge gnarled willow trailed the tips of leafy branches in the water. The horses drank their fill.

      They turned to head back at the same moment. She looked over to make a comment about like minds when several rooks took flight. His horse reared. A crack rent the air. A sharp sound, like the snap of a branch. He cursed, coming around behind her on the left and grabbing Peridot’s headstall. And they were off, racing away.

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