“Go ahead,” she said.
She offered some split ends to him, and, most seductively, he smoothed her hair, and slowly snipped about two inches off.
It was amazing how intimate an act it was, especial y as he had to pocket it before Mrs. Crescent came over, rubbing her bel y.
“A very good likeness, Mr. Wrightman, though I do find it a bit shocking just how low you’ve chosen to go. I daresay this needs trimming.”
He rol ed up the paper. “Not to worry, Mrs. Crescent. I shal trim it and lampblack it at home.” He bowed. “I must let you both rest for the big day tomorrow. Until then!”
Chloe curtsied, and he left.
“Did he take a lock of your hair?” Mrs. Crescent asked.
Chloe didn’t think she should say yes.
“You don’t need to answer, I can see in your face that he has. Very clever of him to come under the pretense of a silhouette, with shears. It’s a good sign, a very good sign!”
Instead, she focused on the footman at the stable, with his blond hair tied back in a short ponytail and his taut calves that practical y popped out of his tights. He took her tiny hand in his strong, white gloved one and helped her mount the horse for the hunt. She locked her legs into the stirrups and gripped the reins. Just a week ago, the prospect of an attractive footman would’ve enchanted her, but now more than ever, she wanted to win the fifteen Accomplishment Points and gain some more time with Sebastian.
Afraid she hadn’t practiced enough, she mounted Chestnut with a show of bravado because horses, like dogs, sensed fear, and she had to be strong. She hardly recognized her shadow, cast on the fine gravel in front of the stable. It exuded confidence, from the tip of her riding hat with a ribbon underneath to her tight jacket, long riding habit skirts and crop tucked under her arm. The sun glistened on the Kel y-green hil s, the hounds barked and horses mil ed about in the field, and—the stable stench snapped her back to reality. Where was Sebastian?
Her hands quivered as the footman careful y strapped the sidesaddle belt across her lap. Her skirt seemed the size of a circus tent and she tucked in the heavy folds.
Grace trotted up on horseback. “Your skirt does look more unwieldy than mine,” she said.
The cameras weren’t on them. “Thank you for that bril iant observation,” Chloe said.
“Perhaps the seamstress made a mistake on yours. You’d best not flash any leg while riding. That would be an infringement of the rules.”
“And flashing a breast isn’t?”
“That was an accident, Miss Parker.”
“I’l say. I can only hope there won’t be any accidents today.” Chestnut started sniffing Grace’s horse’s behind. Chloe tugged at the reins, urging him to turn, and he would obey for a minute then turn his head again to sniff.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Henry Wrightman about fixing your tiara. I would delight in undertaking a little project like that with him.”
Chloe flinched. Now she was after Henry, too? “I’d prefer the jeweler it came from, Tiffany’s, to do the fixing.”
Grace seemed insulted. “I had very little to do with your tiara breaking, whilst you had everything to do with al of our Accomplishment Points getting wiped out. We worked weeks to acquire those points and making ink isn’t exactly my forte.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
Grace kicked her horse and it trotted off—she was an expert rider. Chloe patted her horse’s neck.
The master of the hunt, a red-faced man with a brass hunting horn tucked under his arm, headed over to Chloe. He took off his top hat and bowed toward her and the cameras.
“Our hunt awaits you, Miss Parker. Need I remind you that should you choose not to ride, you must go from whence you came?”
Chloe tapped the riding crop in the palm of her hand. The image of her whipping him with the riding crop flashed through her mind. “I do thank you for that gentle reminder,” she said.
“Mr. Wrightman is quite keen on riding, and whatever woman he chooses should love to ride as wel .”
“Sir, I ful y intend to ride. But might I ride western style?” she asked, trying to sound as 1812-ish as possible.
“I’m afraid not. Only a lady of title may choose to ride astride.”
The footman led Chestnut toward the field where the rest of the riding party waited. The horse took steady, solid steps. Stil , even this hunky footman couldn’t hold a cheap tal ow candle to Sebastian, who appeared on the field like the sun bursting from behind a cloud. There was something about a man on horseback— especial y such a cultured, Oxford-educated man who also happened to be, wel , a total hottie, as Emma would say.
She pictured herself and Sebastian in a white carriage festooned with pink peonies, pul ed by white horses, riding off into the sunset together, he reciting poetry and—
Just then the hounds howled and Grace’s gray horse sidestepped away from Henry’s and toward Sebastian’s. The tail on her horse whisked back and forth, brushing Sebastian’s as if in shameless flirtation, as if even her horse were moving in on the guy.
Henry trotted over on his horse, and glad as she was to see him, he blocked her view of Sebastian.
