Let Me Be The One by Jo Goodman Page A

larks flew out of the treetops and underbrush.
    A haywagon stood abandoned at the side of the road. Scattered sheaves littered the ground like gold dust. The wagon's broken axle and missing wheel caused the flat bed to rise at a steep angle, making for an irresistible jump for the most daring riders. Battenburn, Northam, and Elizabeth wisely avoided it and gained more ground on their quarry.
    At Battenburn, the guests who had not taken part gathered on the crenelated roof. Here, high above even the treetops, they had a largely unrestricted view of the hunt. From their vantage point the spread of scarlet across pasture and orchard, over footbridges and fences, was not without a certain orchestrated beauty. They applauded the appearance of the lead riders and wagered on the identity of those at the fore. The baroness produced a spyglass that delighted them all, and they took turns describing the progress of the hunt in exceptionally fine narration.
    It had to end, of course, and badly, if one's sympathies lay with the fox. The wily predator could neither escape the hounds nor the hooves and was finally run to ground near the edge of the Battenburn estate. The hounds circled the large oak whose roots had been exposed by the fox's earth. They clawed the trunk and climbed over each other in an attempt to bring him out of his hollow.
    Elizabeth turned her mount around before the hounds were given their due. Without looking behind she knew Northam was following. Becket's silver-gray coat shone with the proof of his heroic exertions. She patted his neck and praised him but did not let him slow for long. Northam kept pace with her as they left the others and took a circuitous route back to Battenburn.
    "Look!" Elizabeth pointed to the parapets, where glimpses of lavender, cherry, and daffodil gowns could be seen in the low intervals between the stone merlons. Feathers and ribbons adorning hats were lifted gaily in the breeze. She raised her arm and made a graceful arc with it, hailing the observers. "They're watching from there. Wave to them."
    Northam tipped his hat instead, a small gesture that could not have been seen properly, or at least he hoped that was so.
    Elizabeth laughed. In contrast to Northam's slightly affronted expression, there was high color in her cheeks and her wide smile was radiant. Vitality clung to her like the scent of the sweet lavender salts she bathed in. "I collect it is not so easy for you to make a spectacle of yourself when your friends are absent."
    "I said as much yesterday, if you will but recall."
    Whether it was high spirits in the aftermath of the hunt or a more elemental desire to drop this unsettling man a peg or two, some gremlin of mischief urged the Lady Elizabeth to raise her riding crop. Before Northam could guess her intention, she caught the brim of his top hat with the tip and sent it toppling over the back of his head. It bounced on the rump of his mare before he could catch it and fell to the ground.
    She took no time to enjoy his startled expression and applied her crop to Becket's rump instead. Northam followed, but not before he climbed down from his horse to retrieve his hat, brush it off, straighten the brim, and settle it back—at the proper roguish angle—on his head. It was not out of a slavish adherence to fashion that he did so; indeed, he had already demonstrated to Elizabeth by removing his jacket at the picnic that he was no devotee of Brummell. It was rather that he wanted to give her time and distance, allow her to wonder if he intended retribution, perhaps lower her guard for a moment, then conclude finally, and correctly, that he would accept nothing less than a full accounting for her actions.
    Becket wove through the trees with all the confidence and grace of the woman on his back. When she urged him to increase his pace, he obliged. When she sent him toward the fence, he cleared it. He would have burst his great heart for her if she had asked it, but Elizabeth