Marlowe hummed quietly as he walked, feet springing against the damp earth. His dark hair hung in thick curls against his forehead and the air was heavy in his lungs, still ripe with the smell of the afternoon rain and the fresh spice of the birch trees that lined the road. He was glad that he had waited in the tavern for the rain to pass. It had turned out to be quite the downpour. He was now late, of course, but he was willing to risk his father's irritation and his mother's disapproval. And as for the girl... well, he had disappointed women before.
He should have taken a carriage perhaps, or even a horse. But he had wanted to stretch his legs, to feel the solid earth beneath his feet, to walk the roads of his boyhood. And to forget, of course. To pretend the war had never happened, that he had never seen the blood or smelt it against the baking earth. It was odd to be here now, to be home again, where the scent of wildflowers tickled his nose instead of the scent of unwashed men.
He wondered, somewhere at the back of his mind, if that wasn't the real reason he had gone into town on foot. He had felt the humid languor in the air before leaving. And when the first light drops had fallen like small pins in the streets, he could have rushed home before the downpour. But perhaps he had lingered on ulterior motives- to avoid the whole meeting. To keep pretending that he was simply himself, not a soldier returned home, distinguished, and now in sudden need, according to his family, of a wife.
It wasn't that Marlowe wished to disappoint his parents. It was just that he wasn't interested in what they wanted. The poor girl they were trying to fling at him, a certain Miss Katherine Jennings... It wasn't her fault, either. He did not want a wife; he wanted time. But to try explaining that to his parents... they simply didn't understand.
He had thought that it would be wise to return home, to the familial estate of his childhood for a time. But now London was sounding better and better. The press of the crowds, the laughter and liquor of the ton. Easier to forget when you were never alone.
He squinted against the sky, though it was dim, heavy with the clouds that had rolled in earlier that afternoon. There would be no beautiful sunset tonight. Just the quick fall of darkness. He flexed his fingers at his waist and sighed. Still stiff, but healing. His family would be dressing for dinner now, and wondering where he was. Well, it was what it was. His boots splashed in the mud.
That was when he heard the sound of hooves, the wild rush of beating against the earth. He looked behind him, but saw no one on the road. Then, faster than he could think, he heard the rustle of the leaves, the thud of the steps. A red horse bolted from the hedgerow, saddled, but with no rider. It startled as it saw him, reared back its head in fear.
"Whoa there," he flung his hands up at the horse, which had paused its flight after its jump and was now stamping the ground nervously, eyes wide. Marlowe approached it cautiously, and the horse seemed to calm as he lifted his hands towards the beast. He patted its neck soothingly. "There boy, where is your rider?"
The horse snorted and stomped its foot, flicking its ears back with wide eyes. Marlowe glanced towards the copse of trees behind the hedgerow. He heard something as well. His muscles tensed as the brush parted.
It was not at all what he had expected. A woman, in a dove grey riding habit. Her fair hair was mussed under her hat. Her face was pink with exertion, her eyes sharp.
He found that his mouth was unfortunately open. He snapped it shut, and grabbed the horse's reins. "Good evening. Does this belong to you?"
Her dark eyes flashed. Green, he saw, dark as emeralds. "I should say so." She gestured down at the riding habit with the crop she held in her hand. "Although I've half a mind to give him away to the first person I see. I suppose that's you. Do you want him?"
"I... well..." he fumbled for words, not normally having to fend off questions from beautiful women emerging from woods.
"You don't want him, I can tell you that. He has a bit of the devil in him." She was closer now and looked him up and down. "Although I dare say you could handle any sort of trouble he threw at you. You look a competent sort." She brushed a stray hair from her face and narrowed her eyes at him, as if daring him to argue. "A military man?"
He shifted his weight, not quite at ease with this startling woman. "You aren't from around here. I know everyone."
She crossed her arms, and the stiff fabric of her short jacket could not disguise the swell of her breasts underneath. "Well, you don't know me." She extended her gloved hand. "I'm Lady Balfrey."
He took it briefly. "Lieutenant Marlowe Hughes." He straightened his shoulders. "I just returned home from Spain."
"I was right, of course." Her lashes fluttered briefly. It was an entrancing sight. He felt his eyes dance across her face. The flushed cheeks, carnation pink, the dazzling eyes, and a lush mouth, the color of holly berries.
"Might I accompany you home, Lady Balfrey?" He knew her name now, of course. She would be the wife of the neighboring lord. They would have been married while he was away, hence how she had escaped his acquaintance until now. He ransacked his mind for memories of Lord Balfrey, but though they were acquainted, they had never been close. Nicholas Balfrey had been a different sort of boy than Marlowe. He was quiet and bookish while Marlowe preferred to explore and ride. He wondered what such a man would feel about having his wife appear from the bushes like a wanton dryad, flushed and rumpled as if she had been rolling around with a satyr just there behind the trees... But no, he must quell that line of thinking.
She tilted her head at him, and there was an odd look in her eye, as if she could see the licenstious thoughts that had flashed through his mind. The high color was beginning to fade from her cheeks and she looked thoughtful now, less agitated. "Yes, you may, Lieutenant." She handed him the reins. "But you mind this horrid beast. I've had enough of him today." Her voice had dropped- the pitch low and sultry.
He guided the horse, which seemed docile enough now as they began the path towards her estate. "What exactly happened with this poor fellow, Lady Balfrey?"
"Call me Arabella, please." She sighed. "I miss the sound of my name. I think I can trust you with it, can't I?" She blinked twice, dark lashes fluttering.
He was taken aback and almost stopped in his tracks. Her dark eyes searched his face. There was something so off-putting about her. She bit the corner of her lip. Distracting. "Of course. And you must call me Marlowe. At least..."
She snorted. "At least when we are alone. Don't worry, Lieutenant, I haven't forgotten all propriety." She smoothed a hand over her skirt, which was stained with green patches and then waved an arm towards the horse. "I wanted an adventure, so I took this old devil out and he doesn't like me, so he threw me at the first opportunity."
She tilted her head towards Marlowe. "It's so lonesome to be cooped up at the house every day. Riding helps. My husband is gone to London, you see. He often is. He doesn't think it necessary for me to accompany him on business." Her look darkened, but she directed it towards the hedgerow. "And my acquaintance is very limited here."
"Yes, Nicholas always did keep to himself."
