Read Online The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella by Holly Newman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Holly Newman
Tags: Romance
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society deemed children were meant to—she had enjoyed that distance, that vicarious participation, far more than she'd ever enjoyed its actuality for herself.
This she enjoyed, she thought, looking around her at the pearl-gray skies and the shades of green and brown in the landscape. She enjoyed the slow sway of the wagon as it rumbled down the dirt lane and the birds that flew before them, disgruntled at the intrusion into their feeding grounds. She enjoyed the time to play the harpsichord and the time to merely sit by a fire or a window to think. She realized she even enjoyed the silence of the night without the calls of the night watchman or the rattle of carriages along the pavement, or the drunken bawdy songs of the town bucks as they made their way home after a night carousing on the town.
She was not made as her parents were, and that identification of the uncomfortable itch on her soul eased some of the turmoil in her heart. She smiled.
"Miss Maybrey?"
"I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering, I'm afraid."
"From a very odd lot of sheep."
"Pardon?"
"Your face, Miss Maybrey. It has run a gamut of emotions. Every time I glanced your way, a different emotion was there. I was so fascinated by the changes I could scarcely keep my attention on driving the cart."
Jocelyn blinked and blushed. She opened her mouth and closed it several times in succession as she thought of, then quickly discarded, one answer after another. Ultimately she realized there was no direct answer to be given.
"Is something troubling you, Miss Maybrey? Aside from my Aunt Bayne, and I beg you not to let her trouble you. I believe she would try the patience of a saint," he said with a soft laugh. "But leaving that unfortunate situation aside, is there anything wrong? I know this is being forward, but I am concerned."
She shook her head. "What troubles me would not halt an ant. It is nothing, my lord. Merely my own silliness. Mother tells me I can be a goose at times."
"That I do not believe. I think you are far wiser than most. . . . There, Anne, do you see that bunch of green high in the oak tree ahead? That's your mistletoe."
"Up there? But how do we get it, Papa? It's too high!" Tarkington laughed. "I haven't done so in years, but I believe I still can climb a tree."
"My lord!" exclaimed Jocelyn.
"Don't you believe I can, Miss Maybrey?"
"Yes, yes, of course you can," Jocelyn stammered, "But what of your clothes?"
He glanced down at his immaculate fawn-colored greatcoat. "Yes, I see your point. Greatcoats are not conducive to climbing." He jumped down from the wagon seat, took off his coat, and slung it over the edge of the seat.
"My lord! You'll catch a chill!"
"Devil a'bit, Miss Maybrey. You fuss more than my mother," he teased. He reached for Lady Anne. "Come on, poppet, down you go. . . . I need you to help catch the mistletoe when it falls." He set his daughter down and wordlessly held out his hand for Jocelyn.
Jocelyn, flustered by his teasing, tripped over the end of the lap robe that had fallen to the floorboard. Tarkington caught her by the waist as she stumbled forward. As her color soared higher, the Marques's grin grew broader. Never did he look less like the serious man of Lady Mary's description.
The intimate feel of his hands around her waist ricocheted tingling heat throughout her body. In shock she raised questioning eyes to meet his only to have their gazes lock. Slowly he set her on the ground, but his hands remained at her waist. The air grew thick between them. Jocelyn saw a pulse beat in his neck and knew he was as strangely affected as she. That knowledge calmed her fears, and the tingling heat grew, spreading throughout her body. Her lips parted in wonder at the sensations she felt, at the warmth of the expression in his gray eyes like sunlight reflecting on a still pond. The tips of his fingers pressed against her back to pull her closer while his muscles tensed, his head dipped, and the pulse in
This she enjoyed, she thought, looking around her at the pearl-gray skies and the shades of green and brown in the landscape. She enjoyed the slow sway of the wagon as it rumbled down the dirt lane and the birds that flew before them, disgruntled at the intrusion into their feeding grounds. She enjoyed the time to play the harpsichord and the time to merely sit by a fire or a window to think. She realized she even enjoyed the silence of the night without the calls of the night watchman or the rattle of carriages along the pavement, or the drunken bawdy songs of the town bucks as they made their way home after a night carousing on the town.
She was not made as her parents were, and that identification of the uncomfortable itch on her soul eased some of the turmoil in her heart. She smiled.
"Miss Maybrey?"
"I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering, I'm afraid."
"From a very odd lot of sheep."
"Pardon?"
"Your face, Miss Maybrey. It has run a gamut of emotions. Every time I glanced your way, a different emotion was there. I was so fascinated by the changes I could scarcely keep my attention on driving the cart."
Jocelyn blinked and blushed. She opened her mouth and closed it several times in succession as she thought of, then quickly discarded, one answer after another. Ultimately she realized there was no direct answer to be given.
"Is something troubling you, Miss Maybrey? Aside from my Aunt Bayne, and I beg you not to let her trouble you. I believe she would try the patience of a saint," he said with a soft laugh. "But leaving that unfortunate situation aside, is there anything wrong? I know this is being forward, but I am concerned."
She shook her head. "What troubles me would not halt an ant. It is nothing, my lord. Merely my own silliness. Mother tells me I can be a goose at times."
"That I do not believe. I think you are far wiser than most. . . . There, Anne, do you see that bunch of green high in the oak tree ahead? That's your mistletoe."
"Up there? But how do we get it, Papa? It's too high!" Tarkington laughed. "I haven't done so in years, but I believe I still can climb a tree."
"My lord!" exclaimed Jocelyn.
"Don't you believe I can, Miss Maybrey?"
"Yes, yes, of course you can," Jocelyn stammered, "But what of your clothes?"
He glanced down at his immaculate fawn-colored greatcoat. "Yes, I see your point. Greatcoats are not conducive to climbing." He jumped down from the wagon seat, took off his coat, and slung it over the edge of the seat.
"My lord! You'll catch a chill!"
"Devil a'bit, Miss Maybrey. You fuss more than my mother," he teased. He reached for Lady Anne. "Come on, poppet, down you go. . . . I need you to help catch the mistletoe when it falls." He set his daughter down and wordlessly held out his hand for Jocelyn.
Jocelyn, flustered by his teasing, tripped over the end of the lap robe that had fallen to the floorboard. Tarkington caught her by the waist as she stumbled forward. As her color soared higher, the Marques's grin grew broader. Never did he look less like the serious man of Lady Mary's description.
The intimate feel of his hands around her waist ricocheted tingling heat throughout her body. In shock she raised questioning eyes to meet his only to have their gazes lock. Slowly he set her on the ground, but his hands remained at her waist. The air grew thick between them. Jocelyn saw a pulse beat in his neck and knew he was as strangely affected as she. That knowledge calmed her fears, and the tingling heat grew, spreading throughout her body. Her lips parted in wonder at the sensations she felt, at the warmth of the expression in his gray eyes like sunlight reflecting on a still pond. The tips of his fingers pressed against her back to pull her closer while his muscles tensed, his head dipped, and the pulse in
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