Regency Christmas Vows. Anne Herries

a fine gallop, leaving the toiling groom far behind, and only as she skirted Greville Baynham’s land did she slow down and allow herself to think about the previous night.

      There was no doubt that some kind of peculiar affinity existed between herself and Guy Renshaw, and she knew that if she had any sense she would leave it well alone. Sarah sighed, allowing the horse to pick its own way along the steep path. She could not deny that in some senses Guy was a very eligible parti, so eligible, in fact, that he would look to marry far higher than a penniless companion, no matter how well-connected. In other respects he was utterly ineligible, for his reputation and evident disinclination for settling down rendered him not just unsuitable but positively dangerous. Sarah sighed again. She had had plenty of opportunities to marry in the previous six years, but somehow none of her suitors had quite matched her expectations and she had been too fastidious to marry just for the sake of it. She wondered now whether that had been a mistake. Living with Amelia was enjoyable, but how long would it continue? Besides, she had had the running of Blanchland and missed having her own establishment. Yet it seemed typical that when her inclination had finally settled on a gentleman who more than met her expectations, her choice should be totally inappropriate…

      ‘Good morning, Miss Sheridan! It is a beautiful morning, is it not?’

      Sarah came out of her reverie in time to see the subject of her thoughts let himself through the gate that separated the downs from Chelwood Park. He brought his horse alongside Sarah’s and gave her a smile, his gaze openly appreciating her pink cheeks and bright eyes.

      ‘That’s a very spirited creature you have there, Miss Sheridan! It would be difficult to tell which of you looks as though they have enjoyed the gallop more!’

      He sat his own chestnut hunter with a skill that Sarah did not find at all surprising and the casual elegance of his attire would be enough, she thought, to have all last night’s impressionable debutantes swooning again. This morning, with the breeze ruffling his thick, fair hair and the sun lighting those expressive dark eyes, Lord Renshaw looked utterly devastating.

      ‘Your cousin does not ride with you?’ he asked, looking down the hill to where the groom was exhorting his labouring horse up the slope. ‘I see that you are alone, to all intents and purposes.’

      ‘I think not.’ Sarah could not help wondering what intent or purpose he might have in seeking her out alone. She would have to be careful. ‘Amelia does not care for riding, but I brought the groom.’ She gestured down the hill, where Tom was still making heavy weather of getting the old cob to catch up. Guy laughed.

      ‘So I see—and promptly left him behind again! I did not imagine you to be so keen a rider, Miss Sheridan! You did not mention it as one of your ruling passions last night!’

      Sarah cast him a look under her lashes. ‘I grew up in the country, so it can be no great surprise that I ride!’

      ‘No, but you ride very well indeed, which is rare. I’ll allow that it is commonplace enough to meet ladies who can prance about in the park and think that they look most accomplished!’

      ‘You are very severe this morning, my lord!’ Sarah could not help laughing. ‘I am glad that my own small skill gains your approval rather than your censure!’

      Guy smiled lazily. ‘Oh, I am renowned as a hard critic, but I cannot find fault with you, Miss Sheridan!’

      Sarah felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. For some perverse reason all she could think of was his threat—or was it a promise?—to kiss her on some future occasion. Would such a manoeuvre be possible on horseback? It was an intriguing thought. It would certainly require considerable skill, but—Sarah suddenly realised that Guy was still watching her, one dark eyebrow raised in teasing enquiry. Afraid that he would read her thoughts again, as he had the previous night, Sarah turned her horse’s head abruptly away and was relieved to see the groom struggling up the last incline to join them on the level summit.

      ‘There is an exceptional view from up here,’ Guy observed, looking out across the city to the Somerset hills beyond, ‘and a keen breeze. It leaves me sharp set! Will you join us at Chelwood for breakfast, Miss Sheridan?’

      Tom the groom, who had been encouraging his exhausted horse, cast Sarah a scandalised glance. She smiled.

      ‘Thank you, my lord, but I do not think that would be very proper! I fear I must return to Brock Street for my breakfast!’

      ‘My sensible Miss Sheridan! A bachelor household, even one so unimpeachable as Chelwood, is not an appropriate destination for a single lady!’ Guy’s dark eyes were full of mockery. ‘A pity if you were to starve on your way home as a result!’

      ‘I must be going, at any rate,’ Sarah said, trying to crush her foolish excitement at his use of the phrase ‘my sensible Miss Sheridan’. She turned Astra’s head towards home. ‘Amelia will need help with all the preparations for her ball tonight. Good day, my lord.’

      ‘A moment, Miss Sheridan.’ Guy put his hand over hers on the reins. ‘Does Lady Amelia intend to be so fast as to have the waltz this evening?’

      Sarah paused. ‘I believe so, my lord.’

      Guy let her go and raised his whip in a salute. ‘Then save me a dance, Miss Sheridan!’

      Amelia was in great good spirits. Silk drapes in red and blue swathed the walls and pillars of the ballroom, white candles filled the sconces and huge vases overflowing with red roses formed the centrepiece of her decorations.

      The roses had arrived in the late afternoon and had caused much excited giggling and shrieking amongst the maids as they had tried to find sufficient receptacles in which to place them all. Several old, chipped vases had been pressed into service for the less prominent of arrangements and a chamber pot had even been proffered, though Sarah had seen Chisholm hastily hide it behind the umbrella stand before Amelia had noticed. There had been no card, which had led to much gossip and speculation, but when the pack of maids had gone and Amelia had swept off to see to the menus, Chisholm had stepped forward with a tiny, delicate posy of pale pink rosebuds with a card tucked inside. There were only two words, written in a strong black hand that Sarah had never seen before, yet instantly recognised: ‘Penance? Renshaw.’

      And now Sarah was wearing one of the rosebuds pinned to the bodice of her aquamarine gown and was full of a most heady excitement at the thought of seeing Guy again.

      ‘Your decorations look very fine and patriotic,’ Sarah said, catching her cousin at a quiet moment between the arrival of two parties of guests. ‘I know you would not give away the secret before, but how have you managed the red, white and blue theme for the menus, Milly?’

      ‘Oh,’ Amelia laughed, ‘the trout with garlic and tomatoes is red and there is woodcock in a white wine sauce—’

      ‘And the blue?’

      ‘Ice cream with bilberries! We call it glace du Napoleon! Cook has been swearing that this is his finest hour!’ Amelia smiled as her gaze rested on the roses. ‘They are magnificent, aren’t they? Are you sure you have no idea of their provenance, Sarah?’

      ‘Good evening, Lady Amelia. And Miss Sheridan! I am so glad that you decided to attend after all, ma’am!’

      Sarah swung round to see Viscount Renshaw bowing punctiliously. She was not sure whether she was glad to see him or not. On the one hand, his arrival was timely in diverting Amelia from her question. On the other, there was a decidedly wicked twinkle in his eye.

      Amelia opened her eyes wide. ‘Lord Renshaw! Good evening, sir! But whatever can you mean? Why should Sarah not attend my ball? Sarah, you know you have been promised for tonight this month past!’

      Sarah gave Guy Renshaw a fulminating look. ‘I have no notion what his lordship can mean, Milly!’

      ‘I beg your pardon.’ Guy gave her a look of limpid innocence. ‘I must have misunderstood you, ma’am. Lady Amelia, do I have your permission to take your cousin off and dance with her?’

      Amelia