Emma was starting to rub her eyes and wonder where the day had gone when Lord Ragsdale reappeared in the book room, looking none the worse for wear for what must have been a strenuous day for one so indolent. Do be charitable, she thought as she looked up, wincing at the sharp pain between her shoulders.

"Yes, my lord?" she inquired, noting that in their brief acquain-tance, seldom had she seen him looking so pleased with himself.

His eye was lively with good humor, and he seemed to throw off that boyish, barely contained energy that she remembered- with a pang-about her own younger brother.

"Emma, you must see my horses!"

"Horses in the plural, my lord?" she inquired.

"Yes; singular, isn't it?" he quizzed. "I found myself in the middle of a wonderful sale, and who can resist a sale?"

"But two horses?" she asked. "I know sales are wonderful but..." she stopped. "It is only two, isn't it?"

"Yes," he a.s.sured her, taking her by the arm and pulling her to her feet. "Sir Bertram Wynswich of Covenden Hall, Devon, periodically finds himself under the hatches, and he is obliged to lighten his stables. How lucky I am today. Emma, the letters can wait!"

She capped the ink bottle and let him lead her out of the house and into the stable yard, amused by his horseman's commentary on the finer points of his fortuitous acquisitions.

"Next you will be telling me they can fly," she grumbled as he hurried her along.

"Very nearly like, Emma," he agreed, and stopped before the largest loose box. "Well, what do you think? Is this not a sound investment?"

She could not disagree. The horse that came to the railing when Lord Ragsdale leaned his arms on it would have charmed the most discriminating gypsy. He was a tall chestnut, taller than she ever could have managed, with a n.o.ble Roman profile, deep chest, and legs that went on forever. He looked as well-mannered as a gentleman, with an intelligent face that seemed to broadcast equine good humor.

Emma stepped up on the railing and glided her hand over his nose. "Oh, you are a bonny lad," she whispered. "Lord Ragsdale, this must be your lucky day!"

He nodded. "Indeed. Didn't I say so? Do you know I even won at cards this afternoon? I have discovered that it is much easier to play when I am sober. Then I paid a call on Clarissa Partridge."

"And Miss Clarissa agreed over tea and macaroons to follow you to the ends of the earth?" she teased in turn.

Lord Ragsdale laughed. "Not precisely, you goose, but she did consent to let me escort her to Covent Garden when we return next week."

"Bravo, my lord!" Emma said, clapping her hands.

Lord Ragsdale bowed, then looked over Emma's shoulder. "And here is another beauty."

She turned around to look across the aisle at another horse, a gray mare, smaller, but just as interested in the people in the stables as they were in her. Her ears were c.o.c.ked forward, almost as though she understood their conversation. Emma reached up to pat the second horse, admiring every inch of her elegant bearing. Lord Ragsdale knows horses, she thought as she found herself nose to nose with the little beauty. She thought of her father's stables then, remembering with a rush of pleasure completely independent of any regret or longing.

"Oh, Lord Ragsdale, I wish you could have seen my father's stable," she said, forgetting where she was. "He had a roan that would have given your hack a run for his . . ." She stopped, acutely aware of Lord Ragsdale's full attention. "But you couldn't be interested in that," she concluded. She stepped away from the mare, embarra.s.sed.

Lord Ragsdale turned his attention back to his horse, sparing her further embarra.s.sment. "Emma, you're no more shanty Irish than I am," he commented, not looking at her. "Something tells me that your father had a whopping good stable."

He cannot possibly be interested in anything I have to say about my family, she thought, suffering the familiar panic she always felt around Englishmen. "Yes, he did," she concluded, "but I needn't tax you with that." She glanced at the gray, desperate to change the subject. "This is a lady's horse, my lord. I hate to tell you, but if you bought this for Miss Claridge, you will be disappointed. She doesn't ride."

She waited as he continued his scrutiny of her, hoping he would ask no questions that would rip her wounds wide-open, leaving her to bleed inside again. Oh, please, my lord, she thought, change the subject.

He turned from his regard of her and fondled the gray's ears. "If you must know, I was looking to the future," he explained, after a moment's hesitancy. "Perhaps Clarissa will enjoy this horse someday."

My, but you are in love, she thought, smiling at him and grateful he had taken another conversational tack. "Perhaps you are right, my lord. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have your work to finish."

He smiled at her and reached in his pocket, pulling out a sale's receipt. "Very well! Enter this and send it to the bank." He grinned at the astonishment on her face as she absorbed the amount. "I can afford it, so don't you dare scold, Emma!"

She shook her head, thinking that Lord Ragsdale's indulgence in two horses could feed small cities. She stared at the amount. Or build new cottages for all his crofters and the neighbors besides. I hope he is so generous in another day, when he's inspecting thatching and rafters.

And so it goes, she thought, as she took a last look at the beau-tiful horses and started from the stable. Lord Ragsdale fell in step beside her, shortening his stride to hers.

"Of course, I need to exercise both horses. Emma, could I convince you to ride with me tomorrow on our way to Norfolk? I am a.s.suming that you are a rider."

A very good one, my lord, she told herself. There was a time when I could match my brothers mile for mile across the whole of County Wicklow. You'd have thought we owned it, or at least, part of it. And so we did, but that seems like someone else's life, and not my own.

"I would like that, my lord, but I don't have a riding habit," she temporized, grateful for an excuse and wondering why at the same time.

"That's no difficulty," he a.s.sured her. "I am certain my mother has a habit you can wear. She doesn't ride anymore, and it may be a trifle outmoded, but I fail to think that would bother you overmuch. Ride with me, Emma?" he asked again.

It wasn't a command. She knew she could say no. Emma hesitated.

"Of course, if you would prefer to ride in the carriage with Mama and Sally and Acton, I will understand," he continued smoothly.

Acton. The thought of riding for a day and a half in a carriage with that harpy glaring at her made her flinch. "No, no," she said hastily. "I'll ride with you, Lord Ragsdale."

Lady Ragsdale's habit was not a perfect fit, but her boots were, Emma decided, as Lord Ragsdale threw her into the sidesaddle the following morning. She settled herself comfortably and accepted a crop from him, enjoying the feel of the saddle, and the particular pleasure of good boots. She tapped the leather with the riding crop, thoroughly satisfied, for all that she would have to think of something to say to Lord Ragsdale through a whole day of riding.

Leading out in front of the carriage, they negotiated London's early-morning traffic and soon left it behind, riding into the morning sun, which struggled to get away from the low clouds and fog that seemed part of London's perennial landscape. They rode steadily to the north and east, and soon the breeze blowing toward the Channel cleared the air of haze, presenting them with a blue sky of surpa.s.sing loveliness.

To Emma's relief, Lord Ragsdale chose not to converse. They rode side by side, but he was silent, and she wondered if he was already regretting his decision to go to Norfolk. Lady Ragsdale had confided in her last night as Emma was helping with the packing that he had not been at Staples Hall since his father was laid to rest in the family cemetery there.

"And even then he was brought in to the chapel on a stretcher," she said. "He has never been back since." She sighed and looked down at the petticoat in her hands. "And we do not talk about it."

Emma looked at Lord Ragsdale's profile. At least you know where your father is buried, she thought. You don't lie awake at nights, wondering if he is alive or dead, as I do.

"Yes, Emma?"

His question came out of the blue, and she glanced at him, startled. "I... I didn't say anything, my lord," she stammered.

"But you looked as though you wanted to," he offered.

She shook her head. "You must be mistaken, my lord."

"I must be," he agreed serenely, and said no more.

As they rode along, mile after mile, she discovered it was not an uncomfortable silence. I could almost like this, she reflected, even though I suspect I am boring company. This is a peer used to card rooms, and clubs, and teas, and drawing rooms, and levees, and b.a.l.l.s. I hope he will not fall asleep because I am so dull, and dump himself off his horse. She smiled at the thought.

"Yes?" Lord Ragsdale asked.

She laughed in surprise. "You must have eyes in the back of your head," she protested.

"Nope. Just one on the left, but it does yeoman's duty. What's so amusing?"

Obviously there was no point in holding back. "I was just pic-turing you ejected from your horse and supine on the ground, bored into sleep because I am a dull conversationalist."

He shook his head. "On the contrary, Emma, I was about to congratulate you on the pleasure of your silence. Do you know that just since the beginning of this interminable Season, I have heard every stupid conversation that people such as myself utter? I am sure that the things we say over and over, thinking ourselves so witty, must be written somewhere on clay tablets." He looked her in the eye then. "You may reform me too completely, Emma. Suppose I become addicted to long silences and rational conversation that leads somewhere? Imagine the shock to my friends."

He joined in her laughter. "Seriously, Emma, we are halfway to luncheon, and you have not made one single remark about the weather, fashion, or the latest gossip."

"What would you like to talk about, my lord?" she asked fi-nally.

"Weather, fashion, or gossip?"

He reined in his horse, and she was compelled to stop, too.

"My father, Emma. Please."

Chapter 13.

But... but... your mother tells me ... I thought you did not wish to speak of him," she stammered. The mare sensed her sudden agitation and stepped in a dainty half circle. She patted the animal into control, searching for the right words. "I mean, your mother, your banker, David Breedlow even-they all warned me not to bring up the subject."

He spoke to his horse, and they continued. "They are wrong," he said finally when they were some distance in front of the carriage, and he could slow the pace slightly. "It may have been my choice at one time, but I find now that avoiding the topic breaks my heart."

His words were so simple, and so full of feeling that they went straight to her own heart. As she rode beside Lord Ragsdale, Emma realized that she would never be able to look at him in the same way again. It was powerful knowledge, and left her almost breathless. What do I say to this man? she wondered. He was looking at her, as though expecting something, and as she searched her mind for something to say, she thought of her mother, that woman of few words and much heart.

"Tell me, my lord," she said simply, remembering with an ache those calm words spoken to her so many times.

"I think he must have been the best man who ever lived, Emma," Lord Ragsdale said, with a glance over his shoulder, as though he feared his mother could hear him. The carriage was only a speck in the distance. He cleared his throat and smiled ruefully down at his saddle. "But I suppose that is part of the problem." He reached over and touched her arm. "Have you ever tried to measure up to an impossible ideal?"

She considered his question, and understood him for the first time. She smiled at him and shook her head. "We were all so human in the Costello household, my lord. I... I was the only daughter, and my brothers either ignored me, or were happy I was nothing like them."

He nodded. "I imagine it was a lively household, Emma. Perhaps you will tell me about it some time."

"Perhaps," she replied, trying to keep the doubt from her voice. "But we are speaking of you and your father, sir, are we not?"

"We are. He was all goodness, all manners, impeccable in character and possessing every virtue, I think. I was a younger son for much of my early years, thank goodness, so the onus of perfection rested on my brother. Claude was very much like Father."

He paused then, and she had the good sense not to rush into the silence. Perhaps I am learning wisdom, she thought as she watched Lord Ragsdale struggle within himself.

"Claude died when I was at Harrow, and then Father transferred his entire interest to me."

Again there was a long silence. Quiet, Emma, she told herself as they rode along, side by side. "I don't mean to say he wasn't interested in me before, Emma, but this was different." He shook his head. "I am probably not making much sense, but that's how it was. Claude died of a sudden fever, and overnight, I was the family hope."

He looked at her. "There are some things that the heir learns that I never learned. I suppose it becomes a way of life. Too bad I was a poor student."

Two weeks ago-a week ago even-she would have agreed with him. This is odd, she thought as they rode along. I want to defend him from himself, and he is someone I do not even like. She looked at the sky; it was still overcast. She could not blame her strange thoughts on too much sun. Her next deliberation came unwillingly, but she considered it honestly as Lord Ragsdale rode beside her in silence. Can it be that I have nourished myself so long on hatred that I do not recognize an attempt at friendship? I cannot even remember my last friend.

It was a shocking thought, almost, but instead of dismissing it, as she would have done only recently, she allowed herself the luxury of considering it. That is what I will do, she thought. I will leave myself open to a change of feeling. She nodded. It is a prudent measure, taking into allowance the plain fact that I must serve this man until he considers my debt paid.

"Emma, what on earth are you thinking?"

It was a quiet question, coming almost from nowhere, so wrapped up in her own thoughts was she. Emma knew she did not have to answer it, but as she looked at Lord Ragsdale again, took in his seriousness where earlier there had only been a certain irritating vapidity, she felt that she owed him an answer. She reined in the mare and turned to face him.

"I am thinking, sir, that I would like to be your friend."

The impudence of her words caught her breath away. Emma, you nincomp.o.o.p, she scolded herself as Lord Ragsdale stared at her. You're hardly in a position to recommend yourself to a marquess. When will you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?

"I... I'm sorry," she apologized when he continued to say nothing. "That was probably not good form, my lord. Forgive it."

I will die of embarra.s.sment if he just stares at me, she thought, her mind in a panic now. Suppose he turns his back and rides ahead? Or worse yet, makes me dismount and get in the carriage with the others and that witch Acton? "I'm sorry," she mumbled again.

"Well, I'm not," Lord Ragsdale said. "By G.o.d, Emma, let's shake on this. It's d.a.m.ned nice to have a friend."

She looked at him in amazement, well aware that her face was flaming red. He was holding out his hand to her, and sidling his horse next to the mare. Instinctively, she held out her hand. They shook hands, Emma holding her breath and looking him in the eye. She took a deep breath then, and plunged ahead. "Since we are resolved to be friends, my lord, you can rest a.s.sured that no matter what you tell me about you and your father, I will not judge."

He smiled, and some of the ravaged look left his face. "You will not dare, as my friend, will you?" he murmured. "Let us ride ahead a little." He put spurs to his hunter, and she followed just as nimbly.

When they were a good distance from the carriage, he slowed his horse, then rested his leg across the saddle as they sauntered along. "As a second son, I was supposed to embrace an army career. All that changed when Claude died. After Harrow, I found myself at Brasenose." He sighed. "I was not a good student. The warden remembers me well, and probably is not suffering cousin Robert Claridge any better than he did me."

"Did your papa rake you down and rail on?" she asked. "I know mine would have."

He shook his head. "Papa was much too kind to do that," he replied.

I wonder if that was such a kindness, she thought. Sometimes nothing says love like a really good brawl between fathers and sons, Emma thought, thinking of some memorable rows. I wonder if your father was as good a man as you think, she considered, then tucked the thought away. Surely Lord Ragsdale knew his own father better than she, who had never met the man.

"He would come to Oxford, and sigh over me, and remind me that the family was depending on me," the marquess said. "He was right, of course."

"My lord, did you begin to drink and wench then?" she asked suddenly.

He was silent a moment, reflecting on her quietly spoken question. "I suppose I did," he said slowly. "Of course, it seems as though I have always engaged in too much gin and the petticoat line." He looked at her without a blush. "At least I do not gamble, too."

She laughed. He joined in briefly, then put his leg back into the stirrup and cantered ahead. Again she followed.

"Papa commanded the East Anglia regiment, and they were called up during the '98," he continued. "I had always wanted an army career, and I badgered Papa to free me from Brasenose's environs. He did, finally, and I joined him in Cork. Oh, G.o.d, Emma."

She did not disturb the silence that followed, because she found herself forced back into the '98 herself. She was fifteen then, almost sixteen, and she remembered staying indoors when ragged mobs or uniformed soldiers pa.s.sed the estate, the one slouching on the prowl, the other marching smartly. And Papa would bang on the dinner table, and shake a finger at her brothers, warning them of the folly in getting involved in a quarrel that was not theirs. And so we did not, she thought, and see where it got us. Mama and Tom are dead, and I do not know where the rest of you are, Jesus and Mary help me. She looked at the marquess, and knew that sooner or later, he would ask the inevitable question.

"Was your family involved, Emma?"

She shook her head, relieved she did not have to lie yet. "We were not, for all that we lived not far from Ennisworthy and ... and Vinegar Hill."

"d.a.m.ned place," he commented. "How did you not get involved?"

She stared straight ahead. "My father was a Protestant landowner, my lord. It was not our fight."

"Truly, Emma?" he asked quietly.