Red Satin

An Excerpt From: RED SATIN

Copyright © BARBARA MILLER, 2009

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Andrew Devon, only son of the Earl of Carlisle, nearly dropped his reins as his curricle drew near the estate of Sir Thomas Foley. Two riders with a scattered pack of hounds were coursing a hare directly toward the hedge that bordered the road. And one of them was a woman. She led her companion, in fact, her black riding habit fluttering to reveal a trim ankle. The curled feather of her forage cap flew back to mingle with her coppery curls unfurling like a red satin banner behind her.

He checked his team as the riders disappeared for a moment behind the hedge. All this time, the baying of the hounds and the pounding of hooves grew louder. The panicked hare shot out of the hedgerow and under his horses’ hooves, causing them to stamp restlessly and his servant to swear. Before any of the hounds appeared, a rustle of branches against leather heralded the launching of the woman and her horse over the hedge. She was on a blood bay that glowed like her own hair in the setting sun. Devon hauled on the team’s reins even as he captured the scene in his mind. He was an artist of sorts, not a thing he puffed off to people, and he was always in despair that he might forget such an image before he could sketch it.

She barely spared him a glance she was so intent on not riding down any of the hounds that poured through the gaps in the hedgerow. The male rider crashed through rather than leaping over the hedge, looked surprised, and gave Devon a half salute before continuing across the road after the girl. The dust settled and Devon noticed the curled feather from her hat lay on the road.

He handed his reins to Roth and got down to retrieve it with a shake of his head. He was a sentimental fool to pick up something that would remind him of such a woman. He would never see her again. If he could have followed his heart he would have ridden after her, but he was being shoehorned into marriage with the daughter of his father’s old friend, the girl his brother would have married if he’d lived. And Miss Foley could be nothing like the wild vision who had just burst on the scene. He slid the feather into an inner pocket and got back into the curricle.