Never Fall for Your Fiancee

A waiting stable boy rushed forward with the block and placed it on the ground. Minerva decisively placed one foot upon it, then the other, and froze. “Aren’t sidesaddles a lot harder to master—what with the rider dangling precariously over the side rather than on top?”

“Not at all. You are not dangling, because your … um … bottom is still atop the horse.” Hugh grabbed the pommel and gave it a hearty shake to demonstrate how sturdy it was as he thought about her bottom. “It is perfectly safe. Trust me.”

“Says the man who has probably never ridden sidesaddle in his life.”

She had him there, so he glossed over it. “Once you are saddled, you also have the reins to help steady you. It’s probably best to demonstrate them once you are up.” He gestured to the saddle with a flick of his head. “So gather your skirts in your right hand and … up you get.”

She bundled up the fullness of her heavy habit in one hand, cocked her leg awkwardly, almost tripping in the process, then spun back to face him, bewildered and more than a little panicked. “Exactly how do I get up?”

“Why don’t we leave mounting the horse for another time and I’ll simply lift you today?” Hugh didn’t wait for an answer, and instead briskly put his hands around her waist. The feel of her womanly curves brought him up short. Her arms suddenly looping around his neck brought him up shorter. She was gripping him so tightly he had no choice but to feel the soft press of her bosom against his neck as it rose and fell in time with her rapid breathing; his eyes were level with her lips, unable to look elsewhere thanks to the bundle of burgundy velvet wedged against his cheek. Not that he paid much attention to the velvet when his big hands nearly spanned her waist and he could smell her sultry perfume where it lingered on the pulse of her throat.

The incendiary effect on his body was instant, and despite the chilly winter morning, his skin burned. “You might need to let go for me to lift you.”

She released her grip only slightly.

“Perhaps put your hands on my shoulders?” His voice came out strangled, not because she was strangling him but more because their intimate position was suddenly giving his body inappropriate ideas. Her long legs were plastered against his torso. If he didn’t act swiftly, something of his would be inadvertently and mortifyingly plastered against her thighs.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never been lifted before. As you rightly pointed out, I’m hardly slight. Do you promise you won’t drop me?”

“My dear Miss Merriwell, while the Standish male is untrustworthy in nearly all things and should never be trusted as a general rule of thumb, we would absolutely never drop a lady. Even a less-than-slight one. Please trust me in this.”

Finally she put a little distance between them, placing her palms flat on his collarbones and staring deeply into his eyes, making him yearn to kiss her anxious frown away. “This is all very new to me.”

This was all very new to him, too, and it certainly wasn’t fun. His heated skin didn’t feel like it fit his skeleton any longer, his heart was hammering a fevered tattoo against his ribs, and his hands wanted to go roaming on an extensive journey of discovery. For the sake of his own sanity, and in case he forgot to be noble, Hugh didn’t linger over the task and practically threw her up into the air in his haste to release her.

She gave a little squeak as she landed on the saddle, then nearly fell off the damn thing in her hurry to grab the reins, forcing him to use his body to hold her upright as she fought for balance. As she had said, she wasn’t slight. She was a tempting armful he was only too aware of. He didn’t bother trying to explain how to hook her leg around the pommel and arranged the limb himself as dispassionately as he could with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers, trying to imagine it was any other leg than her ridiculously long and shapely one and failing miserably. Since when had he been drawn to legs? Or perfume? Or silly little hats?

“Now shove your other foot in the stirrup.”

The spare leg flayed about ineffectually in the air, displaying the merest glimpse of silk-clad calf. He lunged and gripped the offending thing firmly around its booted ankle and stuffed it unceremoniously where it needed to be before jumping back, more than a little flustered and confused as to what exactly was going on.

They were just legs, for pity’s sake. Hardly warranting such an effusive reaction when he saw legs every single day. Most people owned two of them. Nor was he some green youth who had never touched a woman before! He had touched dozens of them, all over the place, seen copious pairs of naked female limbs and never once experienced a reaction like this to any of them.

Perhaps he was ill?

That had to be it.

All the stress of his mother’s impending visit and this complicated damned charade was obviously taking its toll. Either that, or the circumstances had unsettled him. For so many reasons, she was forbidden fruit; ergo, it stood to reason the wayward, womanizing Standish blood flowing through his veins wanted to take a bite. It was all heredity. That had to be it if even the bloody woman’s calves were alluring!