No wonder the sight of her galloping over the heath on that black horse of hers had nudged at the edge of his memory. It had puzzled him, that faint sense of recognition, because he knew very few youths, and the only jockeys he knew were his own. But that horse . . .

Now he remembered. He had seen her, met her—so to speak—one winter morning, three or four years ago.

He’d been avoiding Christmas, as usual. After his father died, Christmas had become more unbearable than ever. Not because his mother was grieving—although of course she put on a fine show of it—but because his own grief was real and deep. And private.

Then, once he turned twenty-one, she’d started throwing eligible young ladies at him. Inviting them to house parties at Everingham Abbey. And enacting him tragedies when he showed no interest.

It was easier to stay away, so when Stretton, an old schoolfellow, had invited him to visit, promising some good hunting, Hart, of course, had accepted, taking the invitation at face value.

More fool he. It turned out that Stretton’s two unmarried sisters were the quarry he was expected to hunt. Hart had gravely disappointed them.

On New Year’s Day, an actual foxhunt was arranged, and that was when he’d first come across Lady Georgiana Rutherford. Not that he knew her name, or that she was a lady. He hadn’t even realized she was female.

The hunt had started well. It was a crisp, icy, glorious morning, and it hadn’t taken the hounds long to catch the scent of reynard. The chase was on.

Over hedges, across ditches, mud flying, cold air scouring his lungs, the baying of the hounds, the sound of the horn—this is what he lived for, why he adored hunting. His horse’s hooves shattered the thin layer of ice from the previous night’s frost, tossing up mud and the scent of the earth, a distant hint of summer hay, long dead but still sweet.

Utter exhilaration.

Then without warning . . . it all fell apart. The hounds stopped, scattered, distracted, the fox seemingly forgotten.

The master swore and threw down his whip in disgust. “One of these days I’ll murder that hell-born brat!” He’d shaken his fist in the direction of a boy sitting bareback on a young black stallion watching them from the crest of a hill. Relaxed, gleeful—his very pose expressed contempt.

Other men joined in. “I’d like to strangle the little wretch.”

“Needs a damn good thrashing!”

Stretton came puffing up to join Hart. “Oh, I say, not again. Bad show that.”

“What’s going on?” Hart asked him. The sudden cessation of the hunt had left him feeling hollow, yet keyed up, disappointed and frustrated.