Page 1 of The Hero

CHAPTER ONE

Whiting Manor, Bedfordshire,

September 1816

“Good grief, you will have frightened all the fish away now!”

To say Gideon was startled by the accusation, especially as the voice making it was female in origin, would be an understatement. It was so surprising, in fact, that he jerked too hard on his horse’s reins. Soldier, always temperamental, reared up in surprise at this unexpected rough handling.

Having been lost in unpleasant thoughts for the weekend ahead to be spent at Lord and Lady Whiting’s country estate, where Gideon might actually have to be polite to other members of Society, he had not been paying his usual meticulous attention to his surroundings. As a consequence, he had relaxed his grip on his horse’s reins after urging Soldier to ford the stream in front of them, rather than ride the half a mile or so to the nearest bridge, only to then pull too hard upon them and cause Soldier to react accordingly.

Later, Gideon would tell himself it was as a direct result of that shouted distraction that he, reputed to have one of the finest seats in England—and after having tried, and not succeeded, in grasping hold of Soldier’s mane—suddenly found himself flying backward through the air.

A rapid heartbeat or two later, he let out a shocked gasp as he landed in the icy-cold water of the stream.

“Now you have ensured there will definitely be no more fish for supper this evening!”

Gideon sat upright in the slow-flowing water, soaking wet from head to toe, to turn and glare in the direction of that irritated female voice.

A girl not a woman, possibly aged eighteen or nineteen, sat on the riverbank. Her dark and curling hair fell loose about her shoulders and down her back. Her unfashionable brown gown had been pulled up above her knees as she dangled her shapely bare feet and calves in the stream. The golden complexion of her face, hands, and legs below the knees all showed evidence of having been regularly exposed to the effect of the sun. She held a makeshift fishing rod, comprised of a pole and a piece of string, in those tanned and ungloved hands.

Indeed, she gave every appearance of being from the village a mile away, come to poach fish from the stream of the local landowner. The same Lord Whiting who was to be Gideon’s host for the coming weekend.

And yet…

Her voice had sounded educated rather than the dialect of the area Gideon had heard spoken at the inn, when he had halted in his journey an hour or so ago to partake of luncheon and a tankard of their coldest ale. He was in no particular hurry to arrive at his destination.

The amusement displayed in the girl’s sparkling blue eyes as she watched a soaking wet Gideon rise to his feet in the middle of the stream did not show the least deference, neither toward his age of possibly a dozen or more years her senior or to the wealth of his stylish appearance, which was added to by Soldier’s obvious pedigree.

She was, Gideon realized, one of the most startlingly beautiful females he had ever set eyes upon. Her hair was thick and shining, those sparkling blue eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, her nose small and straight, her cheekbones defined, and her lips a full and perfect bow.

Her alluring appearance immediately gave Gideon the intimate image of him threading his fingers in that glossy mane whilst his mouth thoroughly devoured hers.

What on earth…!

“Need a hand up?”

Gideon refocused his full attention on the now-standing girl. She had moved nearer to him down the riverbank and was holding out one of those bare golden-brown hands toward him, a cheeky grin curving her lips.

Soldier, the traitor, had wandered into the adjacent field and was now happily chewing on the corn stubble left after the harvest, but not yet plowed back into the ground in preparation for the next crop rotation.

Gideon considered his situation. Pride dictated he exit the stream under his own power. Against the possibility that if he chose to do that, his boots might slide on the wet mud, and he would fall back into the water.

He gave a defeated sigh as he decided common sense was more important than his already dented male ego.

He reached out a gloved hand to grasp the girl’s fingers, using that slight leverage to ensure he scaled the bank without mishap. He released her and straightened the moment he stood on solid ground. He even leveled the cuff of his shirt beneath his superfine, but knew the effect was ruined by the fact there was nothing he could do about the dripping wetness of every part of his clothing. Every part, his drawers uncomfortably wet against his skin, informed him.

The girl’s next statement only added to that discomfort. “I am afraid, as it has now floated off downstream, your hat is completely lost. But no doubt you will find your riding crop is somewhere at the bottom of the stream.”

* * *

Harry did her absolute best not to laugh at the appearance of the tall disgruntled gentleman standing in front of her with the water dripping steadily off his obviously perfectly tailored clothing. There was also a streak of mud down one of his chiseled cheeks, but she deemed it best not to bring attention to that.

He had looked absolutely magnificent seated on the back of the beautiful black gelding as horse and rider approached the stream. His dark hair was fashionably long beneath a tall top hat. His tailored riding jacket fitted him perfectly, as did the buff-colored leather breeches and the brown-topped black Hessians. His face could have been chiseled from marble: high cheekbones beneath piercing steely gray eyes, a long straight nose, unsmiling lips above a square and determined jaw.

Harry had been so enamored with his appearance that she had not thought to call out and stop him entering the stream until it was too late.

If she had done so, the fish would not have been startled away and the man on horseback would not have become unseated from his saddle.

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