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Richard—who, like a gentleman, kept his head turned away—she managed to throw a leg over Hercules’s back. She hauled herself into the saddle, wet velvet bunched up around her thighs and showing an indecent amount of skin. How wicked it felt to sit with her legs exposed and splayed across the huge animal’s back.
    She laughed nervously. “If Mother could see me now she would either disown me or die of mortification. Probably both! Why, just last month Miss Clara Abernathy caused a minor scandal in London when she lifted her dress to mid-calf while descending the steps of the family carriage.” Lily looked at the water dripping from her bunched skirts and down her naked thigh. It was outrageous. “Let’s take the back way and cut through the fields. We can’t chance being seen.”
    “True,” Richard said, still keeping his eyes conspicuously averted. “But Farmer Cottle has his bull out to pasture. It’s the meanest-tempered animal you’ll ever see.”
    Isabelle nodded. “Would you rather risk certain goring? Let’s ride around to the front gates—it will be faster and we can stay behind hedgerows most of the way. And don’t worry. There wasn’t anyone on the ride out, after all.”
    “Very well,” Lily said at last, all too aware of the muddy trickles snaking down her legs. “I need a bath now!” She wiped her cheek with the damp sleeve of her riding habit and urged Hercules forward.
    The wind was blowing colder when they traded the shelter of the hedgerows for Brookdale Manor’s elm-flanked drive.
    “Almost home,” Lily said, then halted abruptly. Oh no. Why hadn’t they risked the bull?
    A gentleman was sitting his gray horse before the wrought-iron gates. There was something military in his bearing, a controlled energy that left the impression he could move from repose to full charge in an eye-blink. His lean, handsome face was turned to her, and she watched in horror as his gaze lowered to take in her exposed legs. Hot embarrassment washed over her and she was suddenly, unbearably, conscious of her indecent state.
    “Who is that?” Isabelle stopped beside her.
    “Someone I’m sure I do not want to meet.” Lily yanked the reins sideways and kicked her heels hard.
    The great horse reared, its powerful muscles tensing and releasing as it bolted forward. Lily clung to the saddle, concentrating on staying on as Hercules leapt the ditch that ran beside the drive and made for the open fields. Behind her she could hear her cousin’s alarmed shouts, but she hardly cared. Her only concern was to remain mounted and disappear from view as quickly as possible.
    “Hold on!” The man’s voice sounded impossibly close.
    She risked a glance over her shoulder. Truly, it must be a nightmare. The stranger was pursuing her, leaning low in the saddle—and he was obviously a far better rider than she would ever be. Despite her best efforts he was closing the gap between them. He drew his mount alongside, matching hers stride for stride.
    “Kick your feet from the stirrups,” he commanded.
    Before she could protest he leaned in and wrapped one arm tightly around her waist. He pulled her to him and Hercules, who wanted nothing of the maneuver, put on a final burst of speed and ran out from beneath her. She was suspended, clamped against the stranger, his arm coiled just below her breasts.
    She must have been held in that most humiliating way for a very short time, although it did not seem so. The stranger brought his mount to a halt, then leaned over and lowered her to the ground.
    Lily might have admired his riding skill, if she had not been so angry. But his “rescue” had made the situation a hundred—no, a thousand—times worse. She tugged at the disarray of her skirts as he dismounted and came to stand beside her.
    “That was a near thing, Miss. Are you—”
    She looked up him. His amber-flecked brown eyes were unnervingly close. “I am perfectly fine. Except for being chased down and plucked