Free His Lordship's Chaperone by Shirley Marks Page A

called for his bay hunter to be saddled while he
took breakfast. A mere half hour later, he rode at a fast-paced trot and made
good time to the park. Once he reached the path, he nudged his mount into an
easy canter.
    It hadn’t been ten minutes before he heard several
high-pitched calls for help. Haverton glanced behind him, trying to spot the
source of the cries. The sound of thundering hoofbeats grew louder as the approaching gray runaway came up fast from behind. On its
back was a woman in distress and clearly unable to gain control of her mount.
    Haverton’s bay surged forward. He checked the
reins, held his horse from bolting and sat deep. The gray neared. The Marquess
urged his horse forward to pursue and within seconds matched the gray’s speed.
Haverton stretched out his arm and reached for the rider. The woman grabbed for
him and snatched him by the coat sleeve, successfully pulling him off his horse
as she lost her seat, sending them both tumbling to the ground.
    A few moments’ silence ensued after their
undignified landing. The Marquess sat up and craned his neck to check on the
condition of the woman who had all but caused this disaster.
    “Lord Haverton! Thank goodness it is you.” It was
Lady Darrow. Had he not seen her last night at the ball? Did he not dance with
her daughter the lovely Miss Darrow?
    “I do not believe it is such good fortune,” he
mumbled. Apparently the comment passed unheard. He stood and helped Lady Darrow
to her feet before brushing the dust from his clothes.
    “Please,” she said in a soft, low tone, “allow me.
It’s the least I can do.” Lady Darrow brushed the sleeve of his coat then she
inched closer. He caught her arm by the wrist, preventing her from approaching
areas she had no business near.
    “I am fine.” He noted that she had forgotten to
feign helplessness and shock and seemed more interested in helping herself. All
he could manage was a civil, “Are you harmed?”
    Lady Darrow drew her wrist to her forehead and
fluttered her eyelashes. Holding out her other arm, she gave an anguished sigh.
“I suppose I am fine but … I feel … a trifle …” She wobbled a bit before
swooning in just the right direction for Haverton to catch her.
    What had probably hurt her the most was being found
out, he mused. The Marquess laid Lady Darrow on the
grass next to the bridal path and knelt by her side. His bay stood not ten feet
away from him, grazing alongside Lady Darrow’s gray.
    He glanced down the path, looking, hoping, praying her riding companion would soon arrive. Anyone
except her husband. Several minutes passed. No one was coming and Lady Darrow
showed no signs of recovery. Would it be a terrible thing to leave her here?
How wrong would it be to leap into his saddle and dash home? No, he couldn’t do
that, no matter how ill or premeditated her intent.
    Haverton lowered himself to the grass and he sat.
If she were unconscious, he was the King of England. Resting his elbows on his
knees, he concluded he was better off leaving her lie pretending
unconsciousness than reviving her and having to fight her off.
    Yes, he’d wait, but he would not enjoy it.
    In the large parlor of Moreland Manor, Catherine
discovered, to her delight, not a harpsichord but a pianoforte. The last time
she had played was as a child while living at her grandfather’s house. She sat
on the bench and keyed a simple tune with her right hand. Her fingers were
slow, proving that it had been too many years since she had last practiced.
    Moving down an octave, she played the same tune
with her left hand. Then again, down another octave. Instead of the plucked,
tinny sound of the harpsichord, there was a wonderful low, sonorous vibration.
    What a wonderful sounding instrument.
    Catherine played a slow arpeggio, delighting in the
tone and range. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted someone hovering at
the door and stopped, pulling her hands from the keyboard.
    “Lord Simon, is it