The House of Happiness by Barbara Cartland

before breaking into a headlong gallop.
    Although Eugenia had ridden as a child and though she had found herself fully at home in the saddle that morning, she was not an accomplished enough horsewoman to control an animal that was determined on its own course. She could do nothing but cling on, closing her eyes against the stinging lash of sudden rain and the mud that flew from under the mare’s hooves.
    Ahead lay the lake and an area of grey rocks.
    Eugenia felt her strength ebbing, her grip faltering. Another moment and she would surely be pitched headfirst onto the rocks –
    â€œWhoa, there, whoa!”
    The Marquis, arriving at a gallop, reached for the mare’s reins and tugged with all his strength.  The mare’s head jerked and she ran on for fifty yards or more but the Marquis and his horse kept pace. Checked at last, the mare drew to a trembling halt. The Marquis dropped her foam-flecked bridle and leapt to the ground as Eugenia, half faint, began to slip from her saddle.
    â€œM-my Lord!”
    She felt strong arms encompass her, a flutter of breath on her cheek as she was lifted and carried to shelter.  Her eyelids flickered open and she was staring up at a painted wooden ceiling.
    The Marquis deposited her gently onto a red lacquered seat. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and then stepped back out into the rain to tie the horses. Eugenia watched his movements dazedly.  His task accomplished, the Marquis returned.
    She had not yet regained her composure. Her bosom rose and fell heavily with each laboured breath and her face felt hot. Outside rain fell in a shimmering grey sheet. It felt as if she and the Marquis were marooned, cut off from the world.
    â€œW-what place is this?” she asked.
    â€œThe Chinese pagoda,” he answered shortly.
    Since the light – such as it was – lay behind him, the Marquis was only visible in silhouette. Eugenia strained to read his expression.
    â€œI must thank you, my Lord, for your timely rescue.”
    â€œI did what any man would have done in the circumstances, Miss Dovedale,”
    His tone seemed cool and Eugenia felt herself blush. No doubt the Marquis had not forgiven her accusation that he had deliberately neglected ‘ Paragon ’. On reflection, she could not forgive herself.  What had come over her, that she should have expected the Marquis to be as concerned as herself over the fate of her childhood home?
    â€œMy Lord, I must apologise for what I said – about ‘ Paragon ’.”
    â€œYou spoke as you felt.”
    â€œThere are many who would consider it a discourtesy, my Lord.”
    â€œI am not among them.”
    The diffidence of the Marquis unsettled Eugenia. She cast about for a means of more fully engaging his attention.
    â€œAre those – figures I see up there on the ceiling, my Lord?”
    The Marquis glanced up. “Yes.  They are part of a painting that illustrates an old Chinese story.”
    â€œW-what kind of story?”
    â€œA love story.  Miss Dovedale, the storm has eased. I think we might risk riding on now.”
    Mutely, Eugenia rose and followed him to her horse. He lifted her to the saddle without a word and then immediately turned to untie his own mount.
    The two rode in near silence back to the house. The rain had eased but not ceased and by the time Eugenia dismounted she was shivering and wet.
    The Marquis ordered a maid to accompany Eugenia to her room and to help her shed her damp garments. Before Eugenia could bob a curtsy and reiterate her gratitude, the Marquis was gone, striding away down the corridor towards his library.
    Once garbed in her warm dressing gown and her hair wrapped in a towel, Eugenia sought out her mother.
    At the sight of her daughter, Mrs. Dovedale raised both her hands in relief.
    â€œThank God! I thought the lightning had fried you to a cinder!”
    â€œI – we – found shelter, Mama.”  Mrs.