The Outrageous Belle Marchmain. Lucy Ashford

they’ll be handsomely paid for their work. If there’s anything else you need by way of equipment or supplies, just let my manager Shipley know.’

      Jacob nodded approvingly. His men would whisper between themselves, He’s a good ‘un, is the master. None works harder than him or treats us better. Yes, Master Adam had his grandfather’s instinct for making money. But he was also a fair man, a man who kept his promises, and the reopening of the old quarry had brought fresh hope to many lives round here.

      ‘Aye, I’ll tell the lads,’ Jacob promised. ‘Will you be sendin’ the stone up to Bristol, sir, when it’s ready?’

      Adam gazed at the rolling green countryside which surrounded them, then turned back with a new light burning in his dark eyes. ‘No. I’m going to build a railway to the Avon canal, and from there this stone—this new stone—can be taken by boat to the Thames and to London itself.’

      ‘But it’s not your land between here and the Avon canal, Master Adam—leastways, not all of it!’

      Adam had moved towards his big roan and was already securing his rolled-up coat to the back of his saddle—far too warm for the garment on a day like this. ‘My grandfather never let a simple obstacle like that hold him up. And neither will I,’ said Adam in a voice edged with steel.

      Jacob shook his grizzled head in wonder as he watched him ride off. ‘There’s no stopping him,’ he murmured, eyes shining with delight. ‘No stopping him, that’s for sure.’

      Goliath was ready to gallop and Adam let him. There’s nothing like the feel of the land under your horse’s hooves being yours, my lad. Especially when that land but recently belonged to men who’d cross to the other side of the street rather than acknowledge you.

      Those were the words of his grandfather, who with his work-roughened hands and west country vowels had laboured night and day to remove the shame of the name the upper classes scornfully gave him—Miner Tom. But they’d all come to Miner Tom’s funeral, oh, yes. All the gentry of Bath and London had hurried eagerly to the lavish ceremony—because they’d realised by then how much the man they’d despised was damned well worth.

      Adam’s grandfather had wanted nothing more desperately than for his grandson to be accepted by the society that had spurned him. That wish had come true. But now Adam often thought that he was happiest on days like this, riding Goliath across Somerset’s lush green hills and knowing that the chief wealth of those hills, the fine stone beneath them, was his to be harvested.

      They’d said the Sawle Down quarry was finished. It had last been profitable fifty years ago; then the expense of extracting the stone had deterred any prospect of new investment. But Adam had anticipated the surge in demand and hence in price for good building materials; he’d made his calculations and investments and proved the doomsayers wrong.

      Now his detractors would say there was no way he could get the valuable stone to the canal, that vital water link to the Thames and London. Well, he would prove them wrong again.

      Suddenly a distant movement caught his eye. Another rider was enjoying the afternoon sun—and blatantly trespassing on private land. A woman. Eyes narrowed, Adam urged Goliath into a canter towards her.

      He swore aloud when he saw her turn her pretty dappled mare’s head and set off away from him at a reckless pace. A stupid pace, that was taking her towards the edge of another old quarry.

      Adam swung Goliath into a broad circle to head her off. The ground here was treacherous. Yes, the grassy slopes of Sawle Down looked inviting, but—disused quarries aside—decades of quarry debris lurked beneath the sheep-cropped turf, waiting to catch the unwary. And indeed it was only a matter of moments before the dappled mare suddenly stumbled and sent its foolish rider crashing to the ground. Adam was there in moments, swinging himself out of the saddle to kneel beside that prone body.

      She was clad in a riding habit of crumpled crimson velvet. Her abundant black curls fell in loose array; her little crimson hat, set with ridiculously jaunty red feathers, lay nearby. He saw that her face was a perfect oval, with a tip-tilted nose, a rosebud mouth and thick lashes dark against creamy skin.

      The faint scent of lavender drifted up to him. Who was she? What the hell was she doing, riding up here on her own? She was a lady of quality, that was clear. Apart from her fine clothes he registered that her complexion was dewy, her figure lissom. Then Adam realised that her eyes were fluttering open. He noted the tremor of fear that surged through her as she saw him towering over her. Adam was suddenly aware that his boots and breeches—his open-necked shirt, too, quite likely—were covered with dust from the quarry.

      She was struggling now to stand up. He fought the impulse to offer her his dirty hand. ‘Are you hurt?’ he said. ‘Perhaps I—’

      ‘Stay away from me!’

      Adam’s lip curled. As he’d thought. Quality. And her age? Twenty-six, twenty-seven, perhaps, and that disdain just had to have been with her from birth. ‘You took quite a fall just then, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I only came over to see if you needed my help.’

      She looked so pale, yet there was such determination in that small pointed chin; something rebellious in those startlingly green eyes that were assessing him. Dismissing him, God damn it.

      On her feet now, she brushed down her brightly coloured habit, pushed her luxurious curls back from her face and started hobbling after her horse. ‘Poppy!’ she called. ‘Poppy! Here, girl!’

      But the mare just whinnied and trotted off to join Goliath, calmly grazing nearby. The woman bit her lip, hesitating, uncertain.

      ‘That’s horses for you,’ Adam said. ‘Your mare’s had a fright. It was perhaps a little unwise of you to ride up here. Don’t you know there are quarry workings nearby?’

      ‘How can one ignore the hateful things?’ she shuddered. ‘Always so busy. So noisy.’

      ‘Particularly at the moment, yes. But they provide work and wages for many men, and food for their families.’

      She stared up at him as if he talked a foreign language, then said, ‘Excuse me. You’re in my way.’

      He did not budge. ‘Quarries are no place for sightseers,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m trying, incidentally, to find out exactly what you’re doing up here.’

      He saw her tip-tilted nose wrinkle a little at his open-necked shirt and the dust on his boots. The old, familiar bitterness surged in his veins. So. Some lordling’s wife, to judge by her mount and her attire, and the wedding band on her finger. She was the kind of woman who would look down on him—until someone enlightened her as to who he was.

      He was damned if he was going to be the one to tell her.

      She darted sideways to pick up her crimson hat then went marching off towards her horse again, clearly wanting no more conversation with a man she’d dismissed as a labourer. Something clenched warningly in Adam’s gut as he absorbed the way she carried herself. Noted the way her pert little behind swayed under that luxurious fabric.

      He called after her, ‘Didn’t you come up here with a companion or a groom?’

      She swung round, her face still pale. ‘I like riding alone. I like being alone.’ She carried on stubbornly towards her mare, holding her hat with one hand and the red velvet skirt of her habit in the other. He couldn’t help but notice small, neatly turned ankles in little leather halfboots.

      Her dappled mare had trotted off again, away from her. Goliath watched, interested, and Adam called his big horse over. ‘Here! Goliath!’

      Goliath came and the little mare did, too; Adam caught the mare’s reins and stroked its dappled silken neck. The woman walked back to him reluctantly.

      ‘I’ll help you up if you like,’ Adam offered. ‘Then I suggest you get off this private land before dusk falls. You could break your neck riding home once the light starts fading.’

      ‘Private!’