Sawyer was not a good man. He left that business to Simon.

Which was precisely why he kept his horse behind Lady Blair as she rode so that he could look at her behind.

Sawyer was not a good man.

But for crying out loud, the woman wore breeches and sat with each shapely leg on either side of the horse like it was a common occurrence for her to spread her legs in front of a group of men.

Sawyer choked on air, and the oddest noise leaked from him.

Lady Blair turned on her mount, arching a brow as she glanced back at him. "Are you quite alright?"

"Quite," Sawyer managed to say, though the word came out clipped.

"Sawyer!" The bellowing of his father gave Sawyer a much-needed excuse to gallop away from Lady Blair; he'd honestly never been so thankful to be hollered at.

Pulling up beside the great Lord Farrington, Sawyer drawled, "You called?"

His father smoothed a hand over his silver-blonde hair before turning to Sawyer. His blue eyes were as sharp as ever. "Would you like to explain why you are lagging at the back of the group when you are usually pushing your brother out of the way so you can be first at everything?"

Sawyer didn't roll his eyes, but it was close. He stared at his father beneath hooded lids. "I haven't done anything of the sort in years." If he hadn't been holding onto his reins, Sawyer would have crossed his arms over his chest and glowered properly.

His father snorted. But he said, "That is beside the point. Why are you trailing behind?"

"I do not know what you are trying to imply, father," Sawyer replied tightly.

"Oh, do pick me, Leo ole chap." Sawyer swiveled to see the American, Mr. Rockwell, riding along his other side, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Sawyer was confident the man was a fine gentleman, but at the moment, he longed to hit his expression rather hard. "I do think I can unravel this riddle quite easily," Mr. Rockwell added.

Sawyer did roll his eyes this time when his father smirked at his friend—were they even friends? It was hard to say for certain. Lord Farrington leaned toward his son, then, and muttered, "Son, if you ogle that lady's rear end one more time, I shall send you back to Rosecrest."

"You wouldn't." His father's threats were often empty.

"I would." Lord Farrington's brows rose as if challenging Sawyer to try him. "And then I would make you explain to your mother how you were harassing—"

"I was not harassing anyone, father. You are overdramatic, as usual."

His father harrumphed. "I am merely protecting that lady from the likes of you."

Sawyer snorted. "From the likes of me? You do recall I am your son." There was a momentary stalemate as he glared at his father; his father glared back.

"Oh, don't stop just yet. It was all rather captivating—this bickering of yours."

The two of them turned their glare to Mr. Rockwell, who laughed and faced forward again, pretending to ignore them despite leaning sideways off his horse to hear any further conversation.

But Sawyer's father ended the conversation with, "Yes, the fact that you are my son is rather the point."

Sawyer trotted to the front of the pack, sidling next to his princely Uncle Theo. Theo gave him a sly grin that said he'd heard the entire conversation with Sawyer's father. Sawyer ignored the look, focusing instead on what they were there to do: hunt.

Somehow, he made it through the rest of the morning without interacting with his father, Lady Blair, or, god forbid, Mr. Rockwell. The hunt was over rather quickly, the hounds running ahead to sniff out the prey, leading them in the right direction. To Sawyer's shock, horror, and quite a few other emotions, Lady Blair was the first one to make a kill, her shooting skills on par with some of the best marksmen he'd seen. God, that pheasant hadn't stood a chance.

Sawyer, however, was not as successful with any of his attempts. And he grumbled as he dismounted his horse, leading it to the stables once they returned. And then he grumbled even louder when Lady Blair jumped—quite literally jumped—in front of him.

"Christ, woman." He scowled, tightening his grip on his reins. Someone needed to put reins on Lady Blair, Sawyer mused. "You will scare the damn horse."

She matched his scowl. "Has anyone ever told you that it is impolite to swear before a lady?"

Sawyer dropped a sardonic look. "You joined the hunt, my lady. You do not get to dictate the behavior of men when you choose to dress like one and chase after wild beasts."

Lady Blair surprised him by shrugging. "I do suppose you are correct there." But Sawyer wasn't going to let his shock show at her willingness to relent. He worked hard to maintain his cool composure. Sawyer also worked hard to keep his eyes trained on Lady Blair's face. It wasn't all that hard to do—wisps of hair had begun to fall from her long braid, but the afternoon sun was hitting it, revealing its shine. Her eyes sparkled.

"Whitley likes to write." She tilted her head. "And read."

Sawyer shook his head. "I'm sorry. Pardon?"

"Whitley. My sister. You do recall that we were supposed to speak of her. But then you avoided me."

Clearing his throat, Sawyer muttered, "I was busy. Hunting."

One side of her mouth cocked up, and Sawyer had never seen a lady make such a brash expression.

"Well." Her tone was crisp and pert. "You may tell Simon that Whitley enjoys literary adventures."

Sawyer nodded. "Perhaps you should tell me which literary adventure is her favorite to read."

"Oh, yes. She is incredibly fond of Wuthering Heights. Or anything involving a Bronte."

"I am certain we can find a copy in the Rosecrest library." Sawyer shrugged. "I shall assign it to Simon as his homework for the night."  He was positive Simon would do anything to improve his chances of beguiling Lady Whitley Ash.

Lady Blair smiled. It was full and unbidden. "Lovely."

She spun around to leave, and something made Sawyer blurt, "What is your favorite literary adventure, Lady Blair?"

He instantly began to internally berate himself for asking the question. Sawyer did not care for any sort of task that involved staring at words, and he certainly didn't wish to have a conversation about whatever love story she would undoubtedly spew.

Turning on her little booted heel, Lady Blair considered Sawyer. "Mine?"

"Yes, yours." Sawyer wasn't sure why he confirmed it. He could have begged off.

"We are not discussing me, Lord Pearce."

"Perhaps I want to discuss you." The retort bounced out of Sawyer's mouth before he could think; his smirk grew without permitting his muscles to move. God help him.

But Lady Blair's lips simply tilted again in that becoming way that seemed to tease Sawyer. "Is this another one of your ventures in flirtatious advances?"

"Certainly not," Sawyer immediately denied, forcing his mouth into a flat line. "I am merely making congenial conversation, Lady Blair."

She tapped her foot on the ground, and Sawyer was uncertain if it was due to her pondering or impatience to be rid of him. But then she tipped a finger to her nose and said, "My favorite novel is Great Expectations."

"Dickens." Sawyer raised a brow. "Is that so?"

"It is." Lady Blair gave him a knowing smile—what she precisely knew Sawyer wasn't entirely sure yet—before walking away into the stables.

Sawyer had never been so wholly confounded by a woman before. And he found himself wondering what she would surprise him with tomorrow. In fact, he thought he was rather looking forward to finding out.

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