Desire rose in him, surprising in its intensity. Reminding himself that seducing Miss Denby was not a possibility, he thrust the memories of her from his mind and turned his attention back to the horse, now being put through several intricate manoeuvres.
Finally, the groom pulled up and leaned low over his mount’s head, probably murmuring well-deserved compliments in his ear. Straightening, the lad kicked him to a trot across the paddock towards the lane leading back to the stables.
‘I’d like a closer look at that horse,’ Alastair said. ‘If we cut back at the next crossing, we should reach the stable lane about the same time as the groom.’
Max nodding agreement, the two cousins set off. Confirming Alastair’s prediction, after hurrying down the path, they emerged from behind a stand of trees just as the rider trotted past.
Apparently startled by their unexpected appearance, the horse neighed and reared up. With expert ease, the lad controlled him.
‘Sorry to have frightened your mount,’ Alastair told him. ‘We’ve been admiring him from the other side of the paddock.’
Max was about to add his compliments when his assessing eyes moved from the horse to the rider. With a shock, he realised the ‘groom’ was in fact no groom at all, but Miss Caroline Denby.
Alastair, no sluggard where the feminine form was concerned, simultaneously reached the same conclusion. ‘Devil’s teeth! It’s a girl!’ he muttered to Max, even as he swept his hat off and bowed. ‘Good morning, miss. Magnificent horse you have there!’
Miss Denby’s alarmed gaze leapt from Alastair to Max. As recognition dawned in her eyes, her face flamed. ‘Stepmother is going to be furious,’ she murmured with a sigh. Apparently accepting that she’d been well and truly caught, she nodded to him. ‘Good morning, Mr Ransleigh.’
Alastair’s brows lifted as he looked enquiringly from Miss Denby back to Max, then gestured to him to perform the introductions. Bowing to the inevitable, Max said, ‘Miss Denby, may I present my cousin, your host, Mr Alastair Ransleigh.’
She made a rueful grimace. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. I thought surely I’d be able to return before anyone but the grooms were stirring. Couldn’t you just pretend you hadn’t seen me?’
‘Don’t fret, Miss Denby,’ Max said. ‘We’re not supposed to let you see us, either. Shall this unexpected encounter remain our secret?’
She smiled. ‘In that case, I shall be pleased to meet you, Mr Ransleigh.’
‘And I am absolutely charmed to meet you, Miss Denby,’ Alastair replied, his rogue’s eyes avidly roving her form.
Max restrained the strong desire to smack him. Hitherto he’d thought nothing could accentuate a lady’s body like a silk gown, preferably thin and cut low in the bosom. But though he’d be delighted to see Miss Denby garbed only in the sheerest of materials, there was no escaping the fact that, in male riding attire, she looked entirely delectable.
Tight-knit breeches hugged her slender thighs and the curve of her trim derrière upon the saddle, while riding boots outlined her shapely calves. Beneath her unbuttoned tweed jacket, her shirt, open at the top since she wore no cravat, revealed a swan’s curve of neck, kissable hollows at her throat and collarbones, and a lush fullness beneath that made his mouth water. Several lengths of the glossy dark hair she’d thrust up under her cap had tumbled down during the ride and lay in damp, tangled curls upon her face and neck—looking much as they might, he thought, if she were reclining against her pillows after a night of lovemaking.
The heated gleam in Alastair’s eyes said he was envisioning exactly the same scene, damn him.
‘Bargain or not, I’d best return immediately and get into more proper clothing,’ Miss Denby said, pulling Max from his lusty imagining. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’
‘Wait, Miss Denby,’ Alastair called. ‘There wasn’t a soul stirring when we left the house but a short time ago. Tarry with us a minute, please! I’d like to ask about your mount. You were training him, weren’t you?’
She’d been looking towards the stables, obviously anxious to be away, but at Alastair’s expression of interest, she turned back, her eyes brightening. ‘Yes. Sultan is the most promising of our four-year-olds. Father bred him, Cleveland Bay with some Arabian for stamina and Irish thoroughbred for strength in the bone. Easy-going, with wonderful paces. He’ll make a superior hunter or cavalry horse … although I’ve about decided I cannot part with him.’
‘Your father … you mean Sir Martin Denby, of the Denby Stud?’ Alastair asked. When she nodded, he said, ‘No wonder your mount is so impressive. Max, you remember Mannington brought several of Sir Martin’s horses to the Peninsula. Excellent mounts, all of them.’
‘Lord Mannington?’ Miss Denby echoed. ‘Ah, yes, I remember; he purchased Alladin and Percival. Geldings who are kin to Sultan here, having the same dam, but a sire with a bit more Arabian blood. I’m so pleased to know they performed well.’
‘Mannington said their stamina and speed saved his neck on several occasions,’ Alastair said. After giving her a second, more thorough appraisal, he said, ‘You seem very knowledgeable about your father’s operation.’
‘I’ve helped him with it since I mounted my first pony,’ she responded, pride in her voice. ‘In addition to training the foals, I kept the stud books and sales records, as Papa was more concerned with charting bloodlines than plotting numbers.’
Sympathy softened Alastair’s face. ‘You must miss him very much. My condolences on your loss.’ While, her lips tightening, she nodded a quick acknowledgement, Alastair said, ‘A sad loss for the stud as well. Who is running it now?’
‘I am,’ she replied, lifting her chin. ‘Papa involved me in every aspect of the business, from breeding the mares to weaning the foals to breaking the yearlings and beginning the training of the two-year-olds.’ Her chin notched higher. ‘Denby Stud is my life. But …’ she gestured toward the fishing gear looped across their shoulders ‘… I mustn’t keep you from the trout eager to sacrifice themselves to your lures.’
She turned her mount’s head towards the stable, then paused. ‘I can count on your discretion, I trust?’
‘Absolutely,’ Alastair assured her.
Giving them a quick nod, she touched her heels to the gelding and rode off. Alastair, Max noted with disgruntlement, was following the bounce of her shapely posterior against the saddle as closely as he was, devil take him.
After she disappeared around the curve in the lane, Alastair turned to Max, grinning. ‘Well, well, well. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so silent around a female. Here I thought you’d been moping about, mourning your lost career. Instead, you’re been perfecting your credentials as a rogue, sneaking off to secret assignations with a tempting little morsel like that.’
Max struggled to keep his temper in check. ‘Let me remind you,’ he said stiffly, ‘that “morsel” is one of your mother’s guests and an innocent maid.’
‘Is she truly innocent?’ Alastair shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Lord have mercy, riding astride in breeches like that! I can’t believe I didn’t immediately realise she was female. Just shows how one doesn’t recognise what is right before one’s eyes when one’s not expecting it. Though she is an excellent rider: fine hands, great seat.’ With a chuckle, he added, ‘Wouldn’t mind having her in the saddle, those lovely long legs wrapped around me.’
A flash of fury surging through him, Max whacked his cousin with his fishing pole. ‘Stubble it! That’s a lady you’re insulting.’
‘Fancy