The Earl and the Hoyden. Mary Nichols

on one’s own land,’ he said, affecting annoyance, though he felt bound to acknowledge her skill in controlling her mount. ‘Especially one set on winning a race…’

      ‘I was galloping, not racing,’ she snapped. ‘If you had been looking where you were going instead of jumping out on me like some highwayman—’ She stopped suddenly to look more closely at him. He was a large man on a very big horse and towered over her. He was wearing a dark green uniform, its jacket decorated with black leather frogging and fastened with silver buttons. His breeches were also dark green and tucked into black riding boots. A dusty riding cloak was carelessly flung over one shoulder. On his head he wore a black shako beneath which his handsomely rugged features were set in a fierce line of disapproval, but even so she thought she detected a hint of humour in his dark eyes. ‘Did you say your land?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You are trespassing on the estate of the Earl of Amerleigh.’

      ‘Oh.’ Her heart gave a sudden lurch as her defiant gaze met his. She could not look away, it was as if some alchemy, some chemistry in their make-up, had fused and produced a new element, something akin to fire, which threatened to consume them both in its heat. For a moment she simply stared at him. This was the man who had humiliated her so profoundly she had never quite forgotten it, had not been allowed to forget because her father had conducted a determined vendetta on the old Earl ever since. But the Earl had died six weeks before and here was his successor, larger than life.

      ‘So you are the Earl’s cub,’ she said, using the name her father had given him. ‘Then you ought to know the extent of the Amerleigh domain, and this stretch of land does not belong to it.’

      He did not like being called a cub, but let it pass. ‘Of course it does. I used to roam here as a boy. I know every inch of it.’

      ‘But you are no longer a boy, are you, my lord?’ It was said with a false sweetness that disguised the bitter memories which the sight of him had invoked. And to rub salt into the wound, he did not remember her. ‘Things have changed since you went away. I advise you to speak to your lawyer before you accuse anyone of trespassing in future.’ She paused suddenly. ‘You do know…’

      ‘That my father died. Yes, Miss Cartwright, I do know.’

      ‘My condolences. You mother will be glad to have you home again.’

      ‘No doubt,’ he said, wondering how well she knew his mother or whether she was simply making small talk. She did not strike him as someone who went in for that sort of thing.

      ‘Now, you must excuse me, my lord, for I have work to do, even if you do not.’ She turned her horse to leave him, but he leaned forward and seized her reins.

      ‘Not so fast, madam…’ He did not know why he wanted to detain her, nor what he meant to say to her, but he was given no opportunity to find out because she slapped the back of his gloved hand with her crop, making him release the reins. He looked startled for a moment, then threw his head back and gave a hoot of laughter, which infuriated her.

      ‘If you think manhandling a lady is a subject for humour, then you are more uncouth than even I expected,’ she said, digging in her heels and galloping away, leaving him staring after her.

      What had been going on in his absence? Six years he had been away, serving with the army in Portugal and Spain, six long years, during which the fortunes of war had ebbed and flowed, and the army had marched the length of the Portugal and back more than once. Now Viscount Wellington was on the offensive and preparing to rid the world of the upstart Napoleon for good. He was on French soil and marching towards Bayonne. If it had not been for the illness and death of his father, Roland would have stayed to the end, would have exalted with the rest of the troops in the hard-won victory.

      He had written to his father once or twice in the early days of his service, but receiving no answer, had given up. If his father wished to forget him, then he would forget his father. Even his letters to his mother had been ignored, though he was sure that was because she had been forbidden to communicate with him. But three months before, she had written to tell him the Earl was gravely ill. ‘Come home, if you can,’ she had written. ‘We have removed to the dower house. It is more convenient.’ He wondered what could be more convenient about it. Compared to the rambling old hall where he had grown up, it was a doll’s house. He could not imagine his autocratic father living there.

      The letter had been addressed to his headquarters, but at the time it arrived he had been behind the enemy lines, surveying the land and producing maps. It was weeks before the letter was put into his hands and by then a second one had followed it, informing him his father had died and he was now the Earl of Amerleigh.

      He had obtained leave of absence and, with his personal servant, Corporal Travers, had returned to Lisbon and embarked on a transport ship. They had landed at Portsmouth and travelled by stage to Shrewsbury, where they had purchased mounts to take them the rest of the way to Amerleigh, taking a bridle path over the hills and ignoring the road. He had not expected to find a wild woman in men’s clothes galloping across the estate.

      He turned as Travers caught up with him. ‘You have just missed the most extraordinary creature,’ he said.

      ‘I saw her.’ Ben grinned. ‘I could see you were enjoying your conversation with her, so I held back. Who is she?’

      ‘I have no idea.’ He stopped suddenly and laughed. ‘Oh, it couldn’t be, could it? Oh, my, I do believe it was. What a homecoming!’

      ‘You know who she is?’

      ‘I think so. No, I am sure of it. Her name is, or was, Charlotte Cartwright and I have a feeling I shall be crossing swords with her again.’

      The new Earl had matured into a handsome man, Charlotte admitted to herself as she rode away, remembering the slight figure he had been at twenty-one, good-looking, yes, with his curly brown hair and classical features, but proud and disdainful, disdainful enough to humiliate her beyond endurance. But she had been proud too and that meant not showing her hurt. Nor would she remind him of it now. If he had forgotten her, so much the better. But they were sworn enemies and would remain so.

      She slowed to a walk, ruminating on what had happened six years before and all her anger bubbled up again. It had been her father’s wish to be accepted by society, and to that end he had entertained and had brought in teachers to show Charlotte the accomplishments a lady should have, including sewing, drawing and dancing, none of which she had particularly enjoyed. Besides, it was too late by then, her unconventional character had already been formed and she found it impossible to change, but to a certain extent he had achieved his aim simply because he was the richest man for miles around and could make or break any man he chose, and that included the Earl of Amerleigh. But not his cub.

      To be rejected by a stiff-necked, conceited sprig, in a voice loud enough to be heard by anyone standing within ten feet of him, had been the outside of enough. It was the first time her father’s money had not been able to buy whatever and whomever he liked. Hoyden, the sprig had called her. Well, she supposed that was not so far from the truth. And plain. Was she plain? Her father had assured her she was not, that she was every bit as beautiful as her lovely mother had been, and the silly young fop needed his eyes seeing to. But looking in the mirror on her return home from the ball which both fathers had confidently expected to end in the announcement of the engagement of their respective offspring, she had admitted that perhaps Roland Temple had the right of it. And coming to that conclusion had in no way lessened her sense of grievance; if anything, it had heightened it. Oh, how she wished her father had never made that bargain with the late Earl. But wishing did not mean she would undo what he had done. Never, never, never.

      She entered by the wrought-iron gates of Mandeville and was filled with the pride of possession. The red sandstone mansion ahead of her had been built by her father to tell the world how a mere nobody could, by dint of hard work and clever management, make a mint of money. It stood out from the surrounding countryside because the great trees that had been planted to make the park were still in their infancy, though there were several decorative trees and shrubs in the gardens near the house. Given a few more years,