A silky masculine voice interrupted their silent, lethal communion, slicing skillfully through the tension. “Westcliff …you didn’t tell me that you would be providing entertainment, or I would have come out here earlier.”

“Don’t interfere, St. Vincent,” Westcliff snapped.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. I merely wanted to compliment you on the way you’re handling the situation. Very diplomatic. Suave, even.”

The gentle sarcasm caused the earl to release Lillian roughly. She staggered back a step, and was immediately caught at the waist by a pair of deft hands. Bemused, she looked up into the remarkable face of Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent, the infamous rake and seducer.

The intensifying sunlight burned off the mist and laced St. Vincent’s dark gold hair with streaks of glittering pale amber. Lillian had seen him from a distance on many occasions, but they had never been introduced, and St. Vincent had always avoided the line of wallflowers at any ball he happened to be attending. At a distance, he was a striking figure. At close range, the exotic beauty of his features was nearly immobilizing. St. Vincent had the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, light blue and catlike, shaded with dark lashes and surmounted by tawny brows. His features were strong but refined, his skin gleaming like bronze that had been patiently polished for hours. Contrary to Lillian’s expectations, St. Vincent looked wicked but not at all dissipated, his smile skillfully reaching through her anger and enjoining a tentative response. Such a plenitude of charm should have been illegal.

Switching his gaze to Westcliff’s set face, St. Vincent arched one brow and asked lightly, “Shall I escort the culprit back to the manor, my lord?”

The earl nodded. “Get her out of my sight,” he muttered, “before I’m moved to say something I’ll regret.”

“Go ahead and say it,” Lillian snapped.

Westcliff took a step toward her, his expression thunderous.

Hastily St. Vincent tucked Lillian behind him. “West-cliff, your guests are waiting. And although I’m certain they’re enjoying this fascinating drama, the horses are getting restless.”

The earl seemed to undergo a brief but savage battle with his self-discipline before he managed to school his features into impassivity. He jerked his head in the direction of the manor in a silent command for St. Vincent to remove Lillian from the scene.

“May I take her back on my horse?” St. Vincent inquired politely.

“No,” came Westcliff’s stony reply. “She can damned well walk to the house.”

St. Vincent motioned at once for a groom to take charge of the two abandoned horses. Giving his arm to a fuming Lillian, he gazed down at her with a twinkle in his pale eyes. “It’s the dungeons for you,” he informed her. “And I intend to personally apply the thumbscrews.”

“I would prefer torture to his company any day,” Lillian said, gathering up the long side of her skirt and buttoning it to walking length.

As they walked away, Lillian’s back stiffened at the sound of Westcliff’s voice. “You might stop by the icehouse on the way back. She needs cooling.”

Fighting to marshal his emotions into some semblance of order, Marcus stared after Lillian Bowman with a gaze that should have singed the back of her riding jacket. He usually found it easy to step back from any situation and assess it objectively. In the past few minutes, however, every vestige of self-control had exploded.

As Lillian had ridden defiantly toward the jump, Marcus had seen her momentary loss of alignment, potentially fatal on a sidesaddle, and the instant expectation that she would fall had sent him reeling. At that speed, her spine or her neck could have snapped. And he had been powerless to do anything but watch. He had been abruptly cold with dread, nauseated from it, and when the little idiot had managed to land safely, the full sum of his fear had been transformed into blazing white fury. He had made no conscious decision to approach her, but suddenly they were both on the ground, and her narrow shoulders were in his hands, and all he wanted to do was crush her in his arms in a paroxysm of relief, and kiss her, and then dismember her with his bare hands.

The fact that her safety meant so much to him was…not something that he wanted to think about.

Scowling, Marcus went to the groom who held Brutus’s reins, and took them from him. Lost in brooding contemplation, he was only dimly aware that Simon Hunt had quietly advised the guests to proceed with the jumping course without waiting for the earl to lead them.

Simon Hunt approached him on horseback, his face expressionless. “Are you going to ride?” he asked calmly.

For answer, Marcus swung up into the saddle, clicking softly as Brutus shifted beneath him. “That woman is intolerable,” he grumbled, his gaze daring Hunt to offer an opinion to the contrary.

“Did you mean to goad her into taking the jump?” Hunt asked.

“I commanded her to do the exact opposite. You must have heard me.”

“Yes, I and everyone else heard you,” Hunt said dryly. “My question pertains to your tactics, Westcliff. It’s obvious that a woman like Miss Bowman requires a softer approach than outright command. Moreover, I’ve seen you at the negotiating table, and your powers of persuasion are unmatched by anyone except perhaps Shaw. Had you chosen, you could have coaxed and flattered her to do your bidding in less than a minute. Instead you used all the subtlety of a bludgeon in the attempt to prove yourself her master.”

“I’ve never noticed your gift for hyperbole before,” Marcus muttered.