“For a ride.” He patted the horse’s head. “She’s been favoring her hind leg.
My father wanted to test her, see if she has improved.” He paused, his smile uncertain. “Would you, ah… Are you interested in coming along?”
Christina glanced outside. The sun’s golden light seemed to sweeten the chorus of the birds’ song in the air.
“I should like that.”
In minutes, a groom saddled another horse and they departed.
Through the morning chill, they drifted without direction, without words.
Christina peeked at Drexell, wondering at his thoughts. Did he ever think of her, still want her?
“How is her leg?” she asked, to fill the silence.
He shrugged. “There’s no limp. I daresay, she not likely to win at Ascot anytime soon, but she’s healing.”
Christina had never been at a loss for conversation in her life. Today, with Drexell, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
Soon they reached Hyde Park, the center of the ton’s afternoon bustle. This morning, they found it nearly empty, a multi-hued wilderness cultivated for the eye’s pleasure.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Drexell said quietly.
She looked around. Buckingham stood in the distance, a stony sentinel.
Grass, trying to unearth the first of spring green stretched up to the banks of the Serpentine. Crocuses and snowdrops would soon douse the park with their
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sweet scent. The spindly branches of trees criss-crossed the cloudless winter sky.
“Beautiful,” she murmured. “I never really noticed it. Mostly, I traversed Rotten Row, seeing others and being seen.”
He laughed. “When I was young, my mother told me that Oliver Cromwell was nearly killed here in this park when he fell from his carriage and was dragged behind it.”
“No.” She tried not to grin. “You must be teasing.”
“It’s truth. And worse, his gun went off in his pocket.”
Christina laughed until her sides hurt. She couldn’t picture the stuffy Cromwell suffering such indignity well.
Drexell turned his face to her, his dark eyes contemplative. “You should smile more. It’s lovely.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Did you grow up in London?”
His faraway gaze matched his nod. “In Whitechapel.”
She knew nothing of his past, of him. To learn he’d been raised in the Whitechapel squalor stunned her. “How did you find your father?”
He hesitated. “He found me.”
Drexell pulled on the bay’s reins and brought her to a halt. “She’s favoring her leg again somewhat.”
Christina watched as he dismounted. She stopped her own horse. “How will you get her home?”
He shrugged. “Walk her, I suppose.”
Though Drexell seemed perfectly capable of such a trip, it seemed petty to trouble him. “My mount will carry us both.”
He paused, his dark eyes captivating hers with an enigma of a stare.
“Thank you.”
She smiled shyly. Christina knew she had never been demure, yet the emotion seemed appropriate, a reflection of her hopeful uncertainty. Should their marriage be more than a hollow shell? He didn’t seem an unworthy man, unlike—
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Christina broke off the thought when he flashed her a warm smile that vaporized her composure. She drew in a shaky breath. A seductive husband who seemed to understand her yet demanded nothing? She could have married worse men, much worse.
Drexell tied the injured bay to her mare, then pulled himself up behind her.
The hot breadth of his chest enveloped her back. His warm exhalations played at her neck.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
Other than the fact she could hardly breathe because she felt his presence acutely with every nerve in her body? “Perfectly.”
His hands came around either side of her and grabbed the reins. She’d been expecting it, but the sight of his calloused and tapered fingers inches from her waist washed her with a wave of heated awareness. Goodness, what was the matter with her?
“Ready?” he asked.
A note, some sort of suggestion, lay in the undertone of his question. The intimation should have worried or angered her. But the spike of excitement piercing Christina, the sliver of thrill, made her turn. She glanced at Drexell over her shoulder. Their eyes met, his face inches away. His dark gaze dropped to her mouth.
Time stopped. The rhythm of her breathing, her heart, increased, as if she’d been dancing one country reel after another. Yet she’d hardly moved a muscle.
He wanted her. Badly. He made no attempt to alter the strained set of his jaw or hide the flare of passion in his eyes.
Desire, pure and undeniable, raced through her blood. She wanted him, wanted to trust him, when he inched closer, his mouth hovering deliciously close to her own.
He paused a mere breath away and stopped.
Christina felt his breath on her cheek, felt the sensuality of his gaze like a tangible touch. Her insides quivered.
He remained motionless.
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Suddenly, she knew he would not kiss her until she raised her mouth that last inch to his.
Her heart began to beat wildly. Powerful longing warred with cautious self-doubt. At that moment, she trusted him more than she trusted herself.
Perspiration broke out on her brow, despite the cool air.
“Christina?” he urged.
She drew in a mind-clearing breath, but couldn’t stop the thought that his mouth would be a firm, erotic heaven, a balm to her soul.
But once she had surrendered, would he remain her good knight? Or become a controlling autocrat? Or simply leave her?
Christina looked away. “I—I think we should go now.”
* * *
Greg dropped in the following afternoon without warning. When the dandified viscount loosened his cravat from his neck, pulling it askew, Drex knew something was wrong.
“Has Manchester contacted you yet?” Greg asked.
Drex rose from his chair by the fire and set his coffee aside with a clink.
“Should he?”
“He released the American sailors from Newgate today.”
Faster than a bolt of lightning, Drex crossed the room to Greg’s side. “Ryan is free?” He laughed. “It worked. I knew it! Where is he? Are they being held somewhere temporarily?”
Greg paused. “Manchester released everyone but Ryan.”
The words sunk in slowly. Drex felt the air leave his body, felt himself struggling for breath, like a drowning man.
“Manchester refused to release Ryan until the Black Dragon is caught or killed.”
The familiar tones of Greg’s voice brought Drex back from his numbness.
Confusion wrinkled his brow. “Bastard! What the hell should I do now? This marriage was my last hope.”
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Greg laid a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“God’s teeth, I must either give myself into the hangman’s care or die now.”
Drex whirled away. “Why can’t something work out according to plan, just once?”
“I wish I had the answer,” Greg said from across the room. His usually buoyant pale features matched the gray of his coat.
“I’m not in the mood to die, damn it.” He paced.
Long strides took him across the room again, and he raked a hand through his short hair. His fingers sought his left lobe for the earring he wore, then remembered he’d doffed it weeks ago. Christ, nothing was familiar to him now, not this land, not his family or their society. Not his clothes, his speech or manners. Especially not his emotions for his beautiful but stubborn wife.
“Death does seem drastic,” Greg conceded.
“If only I could convince Manchester the Black Dragon is no more…” Drex sighed. An inkling of an idea wound into his thoughts. He smiled.
“Oh, no. Now what trick have you tucked up your sleeve?”
“What if,” Drex began, holding up a dramatic finger, “we led everyone to believe the Black Dragon had indeed died?”