"The life you've led until now," he corrected thoughtfully, leaning against the bedpost, arms folded, as he watched her dress. "As the countess of Hawkesmoor, you will take your place at court, and in county society, I trust. The Hawkesmoors have always been active in our community of the Fens."

Unlike the lords of Ravenspeare. The local community was more inclined to hide from them than seek their aid. But neither of them spoke this shared thought.

Ariel fumbled with the tiny pearl buttons of her shirt. Her fingers were suddenly all thumbs. He sounded so assured, but she knew that she would never take her place at court or anywhere else as the wife of this man, whatever happened.

"Your hands must be freezing." He moved her fumbling fingers aside and began to slip the tiny buttons into the braided loops that fastened them. His hands brushed her breasts and her breath caught. His fingers stopped their work and she felt her nipples harden against the fine linen of her shift as goose bumps lifted on her skin. Then abruptly his hands dropped from her and he stepped back, his face suddenly closed.

She turned aside to pick up her skirt, stepping into it, fastening the hooks at her waist, trying to hide the trembling of her fingers, keeping her head lowered and averted until the hot flush died down on her creamy cheeks.

If only he would go away now. But he remained leaning against the bedpost.

She felt his eyes on her, following her every move, and that lingering sensuality in his gaze made her blood race. Even the simple act of pulling on her boots was invested with a curious voluptuousness under the intentness of his sea blue eyes. The man was ugly as sin, and yet she had never felt more powerfully attracted to anyone. Not even Oliver, whose physical beauty was unmarred. Oliver, who, until last night, in her secret heart she had believed she loved.

She plaited her hair into a thick rope and crammed on her tricorn hat edged with silver lace. She picked up her gloves and whip and stalked to the door. "I'm sure we've been away long enough for you to have proved your point to the wedding guests, my lord."

"What point is that?" He raised an eyebrow as he moved to follow her.

"Why, your virility, of course, sir. Why else would you have accompanied me to my chamber so publicly? I'm sure our wedding guests are convinced you took the opportunity to bed your wife." She looked over her shoulder at him. "That is what you would have them believe, is it not, my lord?" Her voice was taunting, masking her own tumultuous emotions. "I'm sure you'll take a man's satisfaction from the coarse jests that will greet our return."

"I doubt you'll be put to shame by them, my dear," he returned with an ironic smile. "You went to the altar no shy virgin, and I'm sure your trysts with your erstwhile lover were no state-kept secret."

Ariel bit her lip. She'd invited the riposte but it still stung. She walked fast down the corridor toward the stairs, leaving her husband far behind, determined to join the shooting party on her own as if she'd seen neither hide nor hair of the bridegroom in the last half hour.

Simon limped after her, leaning heavily on his cane. She had shuddered at his touch. It wasn't surprising that such youthful beauty should find age and ugliness repulsive, and there was no way he could compete with the arrow-straight, unblemished physique of Oliver Becket. But for a moment in the charged intimacy of Ariel's chamber, he had forgotten all but his own awareness of her appeal. That strange contrast between her apparent detachment and the living warmth of her hair and skin, the glow of her eyes, the delightful flush on her cheeks that made her seem so innocent, almost childlike.

But he was a self-deluding fool if he imagined he could ever appeal physically to his wife. Not that he had ever expected to attract her, but he had hoped that she wouldn't be totally repulsed by him. A fond hope, he thought bitterly.

The shooting party was already mounted and moving out when he emerged into the courtyard. Ariel was riding the same roan mare he'd seen the previous day. The animal was skittish in the crowd, tossing her head, pawing the ground, sidling her rump into the horses to either side. Ariel seemed unconcerned, deep in conversation with Jack Chauncey, who, Simon noticed with a degree of sympathy, was having difficulty keeping his hands off the dancing roan's bridle.

He mounted his own piebald and immediately felt the relief of being once more as mobile as anyone else. On horseback his limp was unnoticeable, and his riding skill was unaffected by his wounds. He joined the group now moving out across the drawbridge, drawing up alongside Ariel and Jack.

"That roan is very fresh, Ariel."

"I was about to say the same myself," Jack agreed. "You don't think she's a little too spirited for a lady?"

Ariel went into a peal of laughter, and the mare kicked her heels back as if sharing the hilarity. "Would you have women ride only round-bellied cobs of stolid disposition, Lord Chauncey?"

Jack looked a little discomfited. "Women are not as strong as men, ma'am. I would hesitate to give any of my female relatives the charge of such a mount as that roan."

"What think you, my lord?" Ariel glanced mischievously at her husband, her earlier annoyance forgotten. "Would you forbid your wife to ride such a mettlesome creature as my Diana?"

"I doubt it would do me much good if I did," Simon observed mildly. "But since you seem to have the beast well in hand, the issue is clearly moot."

Ariel was pleased with the answer. Chuckling, she nudged the mare's flanks, and Diana took off with a whinny, the hounds streaking ahead of her. Oliver Becket with an exultant shout put spur to his horse and galloped in hot pursuit. Ariel looked over her shoulder and encouraged the roan to lengthen her stride.

Simon, without knowing quite why, set the piebald in pursuit of Oliver Becket. It was a juvenile thing to do, to engage in such a race, and yet he couldn't help himself. It was almost as if he needed to compete with the younger man, to prove himself as strong and capable. Oliver's face was set, his lips gripped tight as he pushed his horse to draw ever closer to the roan.

Although Ariel didn't once look behind her, Simon knew she could hear the pounding hooves of her pursuer. He could sense the excitement of the racers, the tension between them. It was a tension that set his teeth on edge, reminding him of the scene he'd interrupted the previous evening. They were in competition again; the air between them seethed with sexual challenge. He didn't know whether Ariel wanted to be caught or not. But he knew that he could not endure Oliver Becket to reach her before he did.

He touched his spurs to the piebald's flanks, and the animal, unused to such an unkind prod, threw out his great chest and surged forward. He was neck and neck with Oliver now. The other man looked over at him. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, his eyes glittered. There was loathing and a blind determination on the set face.

The piebald nudged ahead. Oliver whipped at his horse's flanks but the animal was beginning to flag. Then Simon drew alongside the roan. Ariel shot him a startled look. She had expected to see Oliver. Simon smiled, unable to hide his own jubilation.

"Pull up now," he instructed. "The race is run and Becket's horse is winded."

Ariel glanced backward and saw that Oliver was still mercilessly flogging his exhausted horse. She drew rein immediately, her eyes filled with anger, her mouth taut. "For God's sake, Oliver, leave the poor beast alone! He can do no more."

"The damned animal is fit for nothing but the knacker's yard," Oliver declared furiously, hauling on the reins. The animal's neck was lathered with sweat, his eyes rolled frantically, foam flecked the cruel curb bit, and blood welled from whip and spur cuts on his flanks.

"You are a brute," Ariel declared with throbbing ferocity. "He's in a muck sweat."

"Well, it was your idea to race," Oliver said, sounding sulky as a schoolboy who knows he's in the wrong.

"I was not racing. I was merely letting Diana have her head. I was not issuing any invitations!"

"Since when did that stop?" Oliver demanded with a smirk. "You've always been very free with your invitations, bud." He glanced sideways at Simon, who sat his horse, unmoving beside them, then Oliver wrenched his horse's head around and rode back to the cavalcade still some distance behind them.

"Such an unpleasant, boorish individual," Simon remarked. "But perhaps there's another side to him?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

Ariel felt herself blushing again. "I would count it a favor, my lord, if Oliver Becket were not mentioned between us again."

"That might be a little difficult, given our present situation," Simon said. "But perhaps if you held yourself aloof from him, then it might be easier to ignore him."

"Are you suggesting that I encourage him?" she demanded, sparks of flame like shooting stars bright against the gray of her almond-shaped eyes.

"I am saying that you should be careful not to put yourself into situations that could be misinterpreted," Simon explained. "Taking off as you just did could easily be assumed as an invitation to follow."

"One I see that you took up," she responded, her lips pressed tight. "If you disapproved of my gallop, sir, I wonder why you would have joined it."

"Better your husband should race with you, dear girl, than your would-be lover." He turned his horse back toward the approaching party. "Come. Let's join the others, and let's try to look as if we're in accord."