She heard herself laugh, all breathless, incredulous delight. She urged the horse to even greater speed, feeling its strength and spirit radiate into her every organ and sinew.
Only as the horse sped up the next incline did she rein it to a stop, then turned it around. Lord Tremaine was there in the distance. He set his thumb and forefinger against his teeth and whistled, a piercing note of conspiratorial celebration. She grinned, feeling her mirth spread from ear to ear, and answered his call, galloping back toward him as if she were a medieval knight at tournament and he her striking post.
He ran toward her, as light-footed and swift as a creature of the African savannah, and reached her just as she slowed. She unhooked her feet from the stirrups and threw herself into his waiting arms. He easily took the impact of her momentum and weight, lifting her high in the air and spinning her around.
“I did it!” she yelled, unladylike and thrilled.
“You did it!” he cried at almost the exact same moment.
They grinned hugely at each other. He set her down but left his hands around her waist. She happily let her hands remain on his shoulders. “I couldn't have done it without you.”
“Don't encourage me, I'm not so modest to begin with.”
She laughed. “Excellent. I hate modesty with a passion.”
And loved him to distraction. He had done it. He had cajoled and wheedled and lured her out of her self-imposed exile from all things equestrian and restored a treasured joy to her life.
Her hands crept toward his collar, and then, before she knew it, she was cradling his face in her palms, the tips of her ring fingers brushing at his earlobes. He went still, the laughter in his eyes transmuting to a dark, quiet intensity, almost forbidding if he hadn't momentarily chewed on his lower lip.
She carved a thumb along his cheekbone, tracing its subtle contour, feeling the weight and the heat of his unwavering, unblinking stare. This was—or should be— their moment, the coming together of two kindred souls in an instant of ecstatic camaraderie.
She spread her fingers, pushing her kidskin-clad fingertips into his hair, pulling his head down toward hers. She wanted him. She needed him. They were perfect for each other. One kiss, just one kiss. And he'd know it too, not just deep in his heart but foremost on his mind.
He didn't stop her. He was compliant to the gentle pressure of her hands, his eyes gazing down at her with an almost befuddled wonder. Bliss erupted in her. He'd seen the light. He'd at last understood the unique, rare splendor of their bond.
They came so close she could count his eyelashes—and no closer.
“I can't,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I'm pledged to another.”
Her bliss turned to cold daggers in her heart. Her limbs froze. But disbelief still reigned, like a mother's denial over a child's abrupt and senseless death. “You really want to marry Miss von Schweppenburg?”
“I've told her that I would,” he answered obliquely.
“Does she care?” Gigi could barely keep the bitterness out of her voice.
He sighed. “I care.”
Her hands dropped. The pain in her chest was her hopes charring to ashes. But still those hopes smoldered, pinpricks of unbearable light in piles of hot cinder. “And what if you hadn't pledged yourself to her?”
“What if my departed cousin had chosen a less fateful way to express his disdain for the great city of London?” His eyes were such raw intoxication, all ruinous gentleness and wistful resignation. “Life is intractable enough as it is. Don't torment yourself with what-ifs.”
The opportunities she'd lost with Carrington's death had not beleaguered her, because they were only those of title and privilege, a business alliance fallen through. She was the daughter of an entrepreneurial man. She understood that even the most careful nurturing didn't always yield the fruits one sought.
With Lord Tremaine, she'd lost all detachment and perspective.
“You have already proposed to Miss von Schweppenburg?”
“I will.” He was unequivocal. “When I hear from her next.”
Slowly, unwillingly, she began to understand that for good or ill, he intended to marry Miss von Schweppenburg. Neither the prospect of riches nor the promise of carnal delight would lure him away from this chosen path.
Her entire happiness—something she hadn't even known she remotely cared about—had hung on his answer. And he'd doomed her. He might as well have shot the stallion out from under her as she galloped toward him in feckless rapture.
“I'm sure you will be very happy together,” she said. A lifetime of training under Mrs. Rowland was barely enough to force that platitude past her larynx with any semblance of dignity.
He bowed and handed the reins of the horse to her. “The day flees. You'll return home faster riding.”
He helped her mount. They shook hands again as they bid each other good day. This time, he did not linger in his touch.
Half a mile out, it hit Gigi that Lord Tremaine didn't know exactly where Miss von Schweppenburg was.