The Heir - Catherine Coulter [7]
She had stood in quiet command, stiff and cold as the marble wall behind her, until finally the smithy’s ringing hammer and chisel ceased their monotonous echoing.
Arabella guided Lucifer off the graveled drive onto a narrow footpath that wound through the home wood to the small fishpond that nestled like an exquisite circular gem set amidst the green oak and maple forest. The day was too warm for the heavy velvet riding habit. The morning sun baked through the stark black material, plastering her chemise to her skin. Only a splash of white about her neck broke the somberness of her dress. Even the soft lawn ruffles about her throat made her skin itch.
Arabella slid off Lucifer’s muscular back and tethered him to a low sturdy yew tree. She hadn’t bothered with a saddle. She remembered clearly how her father had drawn her aside one day when she was no more than twelve years old, and told her he didn’t want to take a chance on losing her, not when she was the best rider for her size in the county. Side saddles were death traps. He would not allow her to hunt in a side saddle. She could pose on one while an artist painted her, but that was all. She would ride astride or she would ride bareback.
She lifted her skirts from the wet morning grass and walked slowly about the edge of the still water to the far side, careful not to tread on the long, silken water reeds. They were beautiful, those reeds. The thought of trampling them was anathema to her.
What a blessed relief to escape from all those black-garbed visitors, with their long, unsmiling faces, nodding and bowing and reciting in low, doleful voices their mechanical phrases of sympathy. She marveled at how graciously her mother moved among them in her black rustling widow’s weeds, all in the latest style, of course, seemingly tireless, her charm and smile perhaps a bit brittle, but there and well in place. Lady Ann always knew exactly what was expected and executed every duty to perfection. Only Suzanne Talgarth, Arabella’s best friend from her earliest childhood, had pulled her aside, said nothing at all, and hugged her close.
Arabella paused a moment to listen to the baleful croaking of a lone frog, hidden from her view in the thick reeds. As she bent down with a graceful swish of her black skirts, she chanced to spot a patch of black, quite at variance with the myriad shades of green, in a cluster of reeds but a few feet away from her. She forgot the frog, and with a frown furrowing her brow, moved slowly and quietly forward.
She carefully parted a throng of reeds and found herself staring down at a sleeping man, stretched out his full length on his back, his arms pillowed behind his head. He wore no coat, only black breeches, black top boots, and a white frilled lawn shirt that was loose and open about his neck. She looked more closely at his face, calm and expressionless in sleep, and started back with a swallowed cry of surprise. It was as though she were looking at herself in a mirror, so alike were their features. His curling raven hair was cut close above his smooth brow. Distinctive black brows flared upward in a proud arch, then sloped gently toward the temples. His mouth was full, as was hers, and his high cheekbones accentuated his straight Roman nose. His chin was firm, stubborn. She was certain that his nostrils flared when he was angry. She had dimples. She wondered when he smiled if he had dimples, too. No, he looked too stern a man to have something so whimsical. Naturally, the dimples did not suit her either. She had never even entertained the notion that she was beautiful, but looking at him, she thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
“You cannot be real,” she whispered, still staring down at the