Hooves thundered close behind. Startled, she turned to see Lord Thatcham’s stallion skid to a halt, so close that the heat from his breath condensed on her face.

“What’s this?” Lord Thatcham’s voice cut through her misery. He looked down from far above, shaking his head. “Where are you off to so soon? Do you think the devil resides at Thatcham Hall, that you must run away as soon as you arrive?”

He clicked his tongue and rode Thunder in a circle around Philomena. She fought an impulse to run as the horse snorted, nostrils flared. Lord Thatcham’s lips twitched as though he were on the verge of suppressed laughter. She would stand her ground. She straightened her back, raising herself to her full five feet and seven inches.

Neither Lord Thatcham nor the horse appeared in the least tired or disarranged by their night time exertions at the railway cutting. The man’s hands lay relaxed on the horse’s shoulders, controlling the powerful animal with light touches of the rein. Thunder snickered quietly, obedient to his master.

Lord Thatcham’s dark blue coat stretched over broad shoulders and fitted tight to the waist. His cravat lay in a careless knot, as though he wasted little time or thought on dress. Philomena clenched her fists. She hated the shabby, ill-fitting fustian that drooped from her shoulders. Her fingers itched to pull at the waist of Joseph’s voluminous trousers, and she blushed at the contrast between her ragged costume and Lord Thatcham’s casual elegance.

Mud splashes defiled his otherwise gleaming boots, and sweat glistened on the horse’s neck. Lord Thatcham must have spent the hours since his return from the cutting in riding through the fields, rather than seeking sleep. He must have endless stores of vitality, while Philomena longed to give in to the almost overwhelming desire for sleep. Every muscle in her body ached with weariness, but Lord Thatcham showed no symptoms of tiredness, beyond a few tiny lines around eyes and mouth. Even the horse shifted from one foot to another, as though keen for another outing.

Lord Thatcham’s eyes glinted in the winter light, as grey as the sky. “By God, you have yet to change out of those undesirable breeches, I see. Could Mrs. Rivers find nothing to fit you among my old clothes? Surely, James the footman could offer you something to wear.” He regarded her from on high, eyebrows raised.

Philomena’s neck ached from staring upwards. Fury threatened to overcome her. How dare he look down his nose, as though she was a less than satisfactory toy, put on this earth for nothing but his amusement? She had long feared that all men except her dead guardian must be like Joseph, selfish and cruel. It seemed she was right. Philomena’s hackles rose at this man laughing at her. It was bad enough that she was in this predicament, alone and penniless, with not a friend in the world, without a rich, supercilious man, no matter how unnervingly attractive, looking down an aristocratic nose at her.