She swallowed, feeling warm for no apparent reason at all. “I…Mary Fulton is my name.” She raised her chin, irritated at her own hesitation. “Though it is not as if I owe you the courtesy of introducing myself when you have not done so. I would greatly appreciate it if you would be so good as to tell me to whom am I speaking, sir?”
He laughed, and the sound slipped down her spine like a trickle of warm oil. “I am Ian Sinclair, little spitfire, on my way to Briarwood Manor.”
She gave a start. “Lord Ian Sinclair.” This must be the Ian Sinclair. The one Victoria had told her about several months ago. The one they called “Lord Sin.” The one who had asked Victoria to marry him. Victoria had in fact come very close to doing so, believing that Jedidiah did not want her. But they had worked out their differences and Victoria had rejected Sinclair’s proposal.
So what, then, was he doing at Carlisle now?
He must have gained quite a bit of information from her reaction, for he seemed to scowl with chagrin for a moment before that expression of studied charm and unconcern masked the more vulnerable expression. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Miss Fulton. Am I to take your reaction as indication that you know of me?”
She nodded slowly, wondering why she felt even more drawn to him after having seen that momentary glimpse of vulnerability beneath the surface of his charm. “I am well acquainted with Lady Victoria. She has mentioned you in passing,” she told him carefully. It was not precisely the truth, but for some reason Mary felt uncomfortable with having Ian Sinclair know she knew so much of his private affairs.
An inner voice told her that the more distance she kept between herself and this man, the better.
Blessedly unaware of her thoughts, he nodded, settling back on his horse. “Then I shall surely be seeing more of you this week while I am at Briarwood, Miss Fulton.” Again there was that oddly intimate inflection in his voice that she could not fully define. It was also apparent in his mysterious dark eyes.
Self-consciously, she stepped backward and shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps. Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure they are expecting you.”
Ian Sinclair looked down at her, the expression in his eyes now more clear as his admiring gaze moved slowly over her. Raising a dark brow, he indicated the empty space on the saddle before him. “I am not in such a great hurry.
I would be happy to take you wherever you might be going.”
Unaccustomed to such attention and unsure as to how to react, Mary was unable to meet that appreciative gaze. She flushed and ran unaccountably trembling fingers over the skirt of her blue cotton dress. “No, really, I have not finished my walk.” She waved a hand to indicate the open moor before her.
He looked at her closely. “Are you sure? You would be no trouble to me—no trouble whatsoever.” Again she heard that unexplainable something in his voice, a quality that made her think of summer nights that were too hot to lie beneath the covers.
For a breathless moment his eyes met hers and the world tilted. Now to that image of a hot night was added an unexpected vision of his face leaning over hers, his dark eyes seeming to see right into her soul. Mary took in a breath of shock.
He smiled, a dark, knowing smile that made her flush deepen as she blinked with disbelief at her own thoughts. “Well?” he prompted.
Quickly she answered, refusing to acknowledge any of what was happening. “I am quite sure that I have no need of your assistance. I do very well on my own.”
A dark brow arched high. “Do you, now? But just imagine how very well you might do with someone else.”
She did not want to even try to contemplate why he was persisting in talking this way. But Mary had had quite enough. “Really, sir, I do not think it very good of you to make sport of me.”
He sobered abruptly, putting a hand over his heart. “I assure you, Mary, I have no desire to make sport of you. At least, not with words.”
She frowned, feeling more and more out of her depth, and not liking that in the least. But she tried her best to hold her own, dismissing him with as much disdain as she could muster. “That would be Miss Fulton, please. Now, good day, sir.”
Ian Sinclair smiled again, seemingly unaffected by her hauteur. “As you wish, Miss Mary Fulton. Until we meet again.” With that he spun his mount around and galloped off, the horse’s hooves flashing.
She watched him, shaking her head. They would not be meeting again. She would make sure of that. He could not be up to any good with his lingering looks and innuendo that she could not quite understand. Men like Ian Sinclair, who she knew was the heir to an earldom, could only mean disaster to a young woman like her with no dowry and no prospects to recommend them for marriage.
Not that she wanted anything to do with the blackguard. He was not the kind of man one could depend on, with his flirtatious ways. And no one would deny that he was far too handsome for his own good.
Heaven help her, if a miracle did occur and Mary someday met a suitable man and fell in love, he must certainly be a gentleman to depend on. Someone who would be a partner and soul mate. He would not be a man who would shed the light of his charm on every woman he met.
Squaring her shoulders, Mary set off across the moor once again, realizing as she did so that for the few moments he had been there, Ian Sinclair had made her forget the problems confronting her. With a sigh, Mary cast one last glance in the direction he had gone.
Ian barely felt the wind tugging at his hair as he rode away from the little country beauty. With her gold hair, and eyes that seemed to look right inside him, she had been enough to warm any man’s blood. There had been no quaint demureness in her manner, stirring Ian’s interest even further.
He was not at all surprised to learn that she was acquainted with Victoria Thorn. That lady was not one to simper and flutter her lashes like a schoolgirl. Lady Victoria faced a man directly, as had Miss Fulton—Mary. He laughed aloud at recalling her insistence on his using the formal address.
Mary. The name suited her, being somehow soft and strong at the same time, as he suspected its bearer was. For some reason he felt a growing curiosity about the young woman he had left behind him on the moors. She was not dressed at all fashionably, with her golden hair whipped to a wild disarray. Her plain straw bonnet could do little to protect that creamy complexion from the sun, clutched in her hand the way it had been. No hoops had shaped the skirt of her pale blue dress, and the wind had molded it quite distractingly to a slender and delicate but pleasingly rounded form.
Perhaps Victoria would be more willing to quench his curiosity about Miss Fulton than she herself had been. He spurred his mount forward.
Some time later Ian was riding down the well-tended, tree-lined drive. In the distance, through the veils of new leaves, he could see the enormous sandstone manor house where lived his host and hostess, the recently wedded Victoria and Jedidiah Thorn-McBride.
Ian had asked Victoria to marry him just under a year ago, and for a short while it had looked as if she might say yes. But it had been Jedidiah McBride whom she had loved. Jedidiah had been posing as her cousin from America at the time, though Ian had ultimately sensed there was something more than family devotion between the two. At the wedding, Victoria had admitted there was no family connection, only that they had agreed to do a favor for the other, and had ended up falling in love. He’d be lying if he said his heart was broken by her refusal, but he was disappointed, having felt they would deal very well together.
Having become even more friendly with the couple when they were in London right before Jedidiah’s trip to America, Ian was content that Victoria had made the right choice for herself. It was more than obvious that the newlyweds were completely devoted to one another. How could he begrudge them such happiness?
As he came closer to the house, Ian could not help comparing it with his own family estate,