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the going as well as he. One glance as they cleared a fence was enough to reassure him that Antonia had not lost her skill; Geoffrey was almost as good as she.
    In perfect amity with their mounts, they fled before the wind, finally drawing rein on an open hillock miles from the Manor. Philip wheeled, dragging in a deep breath. His eyes met Antonia’s; their smiles were mirror images. Exhilaration coursed through his veins; he watched as she tipped her head up and laughed at the sky.
    “That was so good! ” she said, smiling still as her eyes lowered and again met his.
    They milled, catching their breaths, letting their mounts settle. Philip scanned the surrounding fields, using the moment to refresh his memory. Antonia, he noticed, was doing the same.
    “That copse,” she said, pointing to a small wood to their left, “had only just been planted last time I rode this way.”
    The trees, birches for the most part, were at least twenty feet tall, reaching their fingers to the sky. The undergrowth at their bases, home to badgers or fox, was densely intertwined.
    “This brute’s still fresh.” Geoffrey wheeled the grey tightly. “There looks to be some ruins over that way.” He nodded to the east. “Think I’ll just shake the fidgets with a quick gallop.” He glanced at Philip and lifted a brow.
    Philip nodded. “We’ll go back by way of the ford. You can join us on the other side.”
    Geoffrey located the stream and the ford, nodded agreement, and left.
    Antonia watched him cross the fields, an affectionate smile on her lips. Then she sighed and turned to Philip, her eyes holding an expression he could not immediately place.“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see he hasn’t lost the knack.”
    Leading the way off the knoll, Philip raised his brows. “Of riding neck or nothing? Why should he?”
    Keeping pace beside him, Antonia’s lips twisted; she gave a light shrug. “Eight years is a long time.”
    Philip blinked. A long moment passed before he asked, “Haven’t you—and Geoffrey—been riding regularly?”
    Antonia looked up, surprised. “I thought you knew.” When Philip threw her a blank look, she explained, “Papa died in a hunting accident. Virtually immediately Mama sold his stable. She only kept two carriage horses—she said that’s all we’d need.”
    Philip kept his eyes fixed ahead; his face felt like stone. His tone was careful even when he asked, “So, essentially since you were last here, you’ve been unable to ride?”
    Simply voicing the idea made him blackly furious. She had always found immense joy in riding, delighting in her special affinity with the equine species. What sort of parent would deny her that? His opinion of the late Lady Mannering, never high, spiralled downwards.
    Her attention on the roan, Antonia shook her head. “For me, it didn’t really matter, but for Geoffrey—well, you know how important such skills are to young gentlemen.”
    Philip forced himself to let her answer pass unchallenged; he had no wish to reopen old wounds. As they gained the flat, he tried for a lighter note. “Geoffrey has, after all, had excellent teachers. Your father and yourself.”
    He was rewarded with a swift smile.
    “Many would say that I’m hardly a good example, riding as I do.”
    “Only because they’re jealous.”
    She laughed at that, a warm, husky, rippling sound Philip was certain he’d never heard before. His eyes locked on her lips, on the column of her white throat; his gelding pranced.
    Instinctively, he tightened his reins. “Come, let’s ride. Or Geoffrey will tire of waiting.”
    They rode side by side, fast but not furiously, chestnut and roan flowing effortlessly over the turf. Geoffrey joined them at the ford; they wheeled and rode on, ultimately clattering into the stableyard a short hour after they had left it.
    The two men swung down from their saddles; Philip tossed his reins to Geoffrey, who led both grey and chestnut away.
    Before Antonia