‘Are you related to her?’ Georgina asked as they neared Hyde Park Corner, turning their horses for another lap of Rotten Row.
‘Not exactly...’ He paused. ‘I’m in England with two good friends, Mr Sam Crawford and Mr George Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald is Lady Winston’s nephew.’
It was a strange way of putting it, not exactly, but she supposed some people had friendships that were as close as family ties. It might be that he considered these two men his brothers and as an extension Lady Winston as a relative as well. In a way it was only like her considering Caroline a sister.
Georgina was about to open her mouth to ask another question, when she heard a shout in the distance. She saw Mr Robertson turn his head and focus in on the cry, and followed the direction of his gaze to do the same.
Hurtling towards them, although a good few hundred feet away, was a riderless horse. The groom who had been exercising the spirited animal had been thrown to the ground and was now struggling to rise. The horse seemed petrified of something, nostrils flaring and head thrashing from side to side, and as they watched, it showed no signs of slowing.
‘Stay to one side,’ Mr Robertson ordered, gripping her horse’s bridle and guiding her next to the fence. Here she was in very little danger, a good few feet away from the main path, but Georgina knew better than to move at all. She had a great respect for horses, knew the damage they could do by throwing a rider, or worse stampeding.
As she watched Mr Robertson narrowed his eyes as if trying to work out something, then urged his horse forward into a canter, heading away from her and the runaway beast. At first she wondered if he was fleeing, but quickly dismissed the idea. Of the little she knew of the mysterious Australian, she could tell he wasn’t one to shy away from a little danger.
The runaway horse was gaining on him and Georgina watched as slowly he picked up the pace, so that by the time the riderless horse was level with him he was travelling more or less at the same speed. They were running out of path and if he didn’t do something soon the horse would escape into the rest of Hyde Park where it could injure an unsuspecting person out for a morning stroll, or even worse dart onto the street, causing an accident.
Just as she thought there was no hope she saw Mr Robertson lean across and take the horse’s bridle, then in one swift manoeuvre he leapt off his horse’s back and onto the runaway animal’s. The horse bucked, but after a few seconds seemed to settle and within half a minute was wheeling round in a gentle trot.
As Georgina watched Mr Robertson dismounted, caught his own horse and began leading both animals back up towards her and the amazed groom. She could see him muttering soothing words, all the time working to keep the animals calm.
‘Thank you,’ the groom said, his cheeks red with embarrassment at having to be saved in such a fashion.
‘Spirited beast,’ Mr Robertson said, almost admiringly, handing the reins back over.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Georgina asked when they were once again alone, although receiving curious looks from all the other grooms out exercising their master’s horses.
‘It’s what I do,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I own the largest stud in Australia.’ He grimaced. ‘More or less the only stud in Australia.’
‘You breed horses?’
‘Breed them, raise them, train them and sell them.’
Not a life of crime, then. Georgina sighed—he was probably very wealthy, although she wasn’t sure how the income of Australian landowners compared with English ones. Not that it would matter to her parents. They were destined to disapprove of him immediately. He was new money, someone who had raised themselves up and made their fortune through hard work. Although some might think it admirable working to make their legacy, her parents certainly did not agree with that opinion. To them the only people who mattered were those who had been born into money, preferably a very long line of it.
With a glance sideways she wondered if this was why she felt an irresistible pull whenever she thought about Mr Robertson. He was handsome in a rugged way, certainly had a good physique with broad shoulders and hard muscles in all the right places, but Georgina thought it was more than a physical attraction. She knew some young women flirted with and pursued the wrong sort of men, exactly because their parents wouldn’t approve of them. She’d never thought herself to be that rebellious, or that shallow, but here she was wondering how she could spend more time with Mr Robertson, even when she knew nothing could ever happen between them.
‘I should be getting home,’ Georgina said, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable. If she had any sense she would break off their connection immediately and resolve never to see this man again.
‘Would you like me to escort you?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, far too quickly, earning herself an amused grin from Mr Robertson. ‘Thank you, but, no,’ she said, forcing the words to come out at a more normal speed.
‘But you will allow me to call on you later, as we agreed?’
She should say no. Find some excuse, but silently she nodded.
‘And you will accept my call?’
It was custom for callers to be screened before being admitted to the house and Georgina had on occasion informed their butler to tell the caller she was out. She hated doing it, though, hated to think someone had made the effort to visit and she wouldn’t deign to see them.
‘I will,’ she said.
‘Until later, Lady Georgina.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Robertson.’
With practised discretion Georgina stifled a yawn. The poem Mr Wilcox was reading must have been three pages long and they were still on the first page. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t entertaining, and really she was trying not to listen to it out of fear she might laugh. And that would be rude. Mr Wilcox was a nice enough young man, persistent in his courtship despite not receiving any signs of encouragement from Georgina, and she really didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but the poem was truly terrible.
If I could liken your skin,
To the creamy plaster of a fountain.
I would liken your lips
To the red rose that grows beside it.
She wasn’t even sure if fountains were made from plaster. All the ones she could think of were stone.
‘Mr Robertson to see Lady Georgina,’ the butler announced, directing his words towards Lady Westchester, who glanced enquiringly at Georgina.
‘I made his acquaintance at the ball last night,’ she said, trying not to meet her mother’s eye. ‘He is related to Lady Winston,’ she fibbed.
‘Show him in.’
Georgina studied the needlework in her hands, trying to compose herself for the minutes ahead. Her mother would immediately disapprove of Mr Robertson, that much she was sure, even without knowing about his questionable background. He was too different to the other men they socialised with for her mother not to notice.
‘Lady Georgina,’ Mr Robertson said, bowing in her direction as he entered the room.
‘My