Falling for Chloe Read online

  Falling for Chloe

  by Diane Farr

  A Regency RomanceCopyright © 2000, 2011, 2012 by Diane Farr Golling

  Smashwords edition

  All rights reserved.

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  To Linda

  my third sister

  my second mother

  my first friend

  Chapter 1

  Chloe shrieked when her posterior hit the mud. It was an extremely wet patch of mud, and the force of her landing sent her skidding backwards. She ended up half-lying, half-sitting, where the puddle met the tangled roots of an ancient oak. She listened to the swift tattoo of Thunder’s departing hooves with a calm born of despair.

  Stranded. In the mud. She might have known her morning would end this way.

  It had been the first sunny morning in what seemed like ages, and Chloe had been so heartily sick of life indoors that she had jumped at the chance to try out Father’s new gelding. Wiggins had told her the brute was too big for her. Wiggins had been right, as usual. Although she had held Thunder admirably for a good long while; even galloped him across the Two-Mile Run. She did wish someone had seen her then!

  Well, no one had seen her then. But someone was about to see her now. That was unmistakably the sound of an approaching horse.

  Chloe struggled frantically to free herself from the squelching mud, managed to rise precariously to her feet, and discovered that her riding boots were stuck fast. She wished it were possible for a lady to swear. Chloe’s vocabulary contained no words that did justice to this moment.

  She stood in the icy mud, fuming. Who on God’s green earth would be coming down this nameless track to nowhere? She supposed she ought to be grateful that anyone was, but somehow gratitude was not her dominant emotion. She was cold and wet and filthy, and she knew she looked ridiculous. She devoutly hoped that the approaching stranger would prove to be female. She dared not try to free her feet until she knew.

  The horse rounded the bend and Chloe gasped, then bit her lip. Thank God, it was Gil! Oh, dear—it was Gil! She knew she would be handily rescued. But she feared she would never hear the end of it.

  Mr. Gilliland sat gracefully astride his mount, a beautifully-groomed gray that, in other circumstances, would have made Chloe green with envy. Gil was nearly as gorgeous as the prime bit of blood he was riding. His London tailoring looked out of place in the middle of Dobson’s Thicket, but it certainly was impressive. He looked every inch the gentleman, and, as he was a tall young man, there were a good many inches to look it.

  When he spied his childhood friend standing ankle-deep in muck, wet, horseless and muddy, laughter lit his azure eyes. He promptly reined his horse to a halt and swept the curly-brimmed beaver off his artistically-arranged hair. The muted sunlight in the wood struck the ordered waves of guinea-gold as he bowed, revealing the gleam of expensive pomade.

  "Chloe Littlefield!" he exclaimed. "Fancy meeting you here. Lovely weather we’re having, what?"

  Chloe frowned crossly at him. "For heaven’s sake, Gil, get off that horse and make yourself useful! I am very glad to see you, but pray do not tease me until you have finished rescuing me."

  "Oh, am I rescuing you?"

  "Yes!"

  He eyed her doubtfully. "What do you need me to do, exactly?"

  She shivered. The mud had not penetrated the thick skirts of her riding habit, but it had definitely seeped through her jacket. And her feet had gone quite numb. "My boots are stuck." Since it was only Gil, she lifted the wet hem of her skirt and showed him.

  "Step out of ’em."

  "I can’t."

  Gil dismounted leisurely and strolled up to her. "Give me your hand," he ordered, and she did so. "Now try it. I’ve got you, Chloe."

  Braced against Gil, clutching his hand and simultaneously holding her heavy skirts out of the way, she struggled to step out of the mud. Her right foot came out booted, although the boot was caked with filth. But when she stepped on her right foot and pulled her left free, her stockinged foot slipped out of the boot, leaving it behind. She clutched at Gil and squeaked as she nearly lost her balance. He held her with surprising strength—at arm’s length. This did not offend her in the least; his anxiety to keep her at bay was perfectly understandable. She was extremely dirty.

  "Thank you!" she gasped.

  He steadied her, then let her go, pulling out a handkerchief to dust his gloves. "What a troublesome chit you are, Clo," he remarked. "I suppose you’ll want me to retrieve that boot for you. It’s ruined, you know."

  Chloe gazed mournfully at her stranded boot, which looked absurdly small stuck by itself in the thick paste of mud. "Is it?" She wished again that her vocabulary were more extensive. "Blast!" she muttered. It seemed inadequate. "I suppose there’s no point in retrieving it, then."

  Gil chuckled. "It won’t beggar you to buy a new pair of boots. I wish you’d let me choose ’em for you."

  Chloe sniffed and tossed her head, discovering in the process that portions of her hair were thoroughly caked. "In the village, no doubt, where the impropriety of you choosing boots for me would set everyone in a bustle."

  "No. In London, where no one would bat an eyelash."

  That made her laugh. "I know you, Gil. You’d choose the most expensive boots you could find."

  "Why not? You’re swimming in lard. Do you good to spend a little of it. On yourself, Clo! Not on one of your godforsaken charities, and not on your father’s horses, and not on Brookhollow! And, by the by, I hope you’re properly grateful that I haven’t laughed at you yet."

  "Oh, I am," she assured him. "Do I look as silly as I feel?"

  "Yes," he responded promptly.

  Her lips twitched. "Beast."

  Gil had a famously infectious grin. "Very well; what would you like to hear? You look quite fetching, for a girl who is covered in mud and blue with cold."

  She did, actually. Chloe Littlefield was a little dab of a thing, and never spent an extra farthing on her appearance, but no matter how deplorably she was dressed she always looked just like a Dutch doll. The look was misleading, as Gil knew well. A keen intelligence was tucked beneath those flaxen ringlets, and that sweetly-rounded chin had been known to assume a very stubborn tilt from time to time.

  He watched as Chloe stepped gingerly to a slightly dryer patch of ground and cast an anxious glance at the sky. "I feel half frozen, and it’s going to rain again. We’d better start for home."

  "Where’s Thunder?"

  Her sudden scowl looked ludicrous on that doll-like face. "After we parted company, Thunder took off for parts unknown. The stupid creature is probably miles away by now. He’s very fast; I’ll grant him that."

  "Well, dash it, Clo—! Are you expecting me to put you up on my gray?"

  She flushed. "I beg your pardon, but what else are we to do?"

  Gil eyed her in dismay. She was filthy. As if reading his thoughts, Chloe began to chuckle.

  "If you wish to wrap a blanket round me first, I’ve no objection."

  "Yes, that’s all very well, but I didn’t bring a blanket!"

  She patted his arm sympathetically. "Poor Gil! You weren’t cut out for the role of knight errant."

  He shook his head glumly. "No. But you can’t walk, I suppose, with only one boot."

  She gave
a little spurt of laughter. "I’m so sorry."

  "I don’t suppose my boots would fit you?"

  "No, Gil. I should think it highly unlikely."

  He sighed. "So would I. Very well! Up you go." He turned to seize Chloe round the waist, but then paused. "Most of the mud is on your backside. I say, would you mind riding face down? I could put you across his rump, you know. On your belly."

  She was so tiny, she had to tilt her head back to stare at him. "Would I mind what?" He saw the exact moment when she realized he had been funning. The china-blue eyes, round even when they weren’t filled with astonishment, suddenly crinkled into laughter. "Gil, you unconscionable wretch! You don’t mind sharing your horse with me at all."

  He grinned. "Well, I wouldn’t go that far! It will pain me to see you scattering dirt across this beauty’s flanks. Not to mention the effect you will have on my new saddle. But here’s for it! Up you go."

  He tossed his wet friend into the saddle with some difficulty, and took the reins from her. "I’ll lead him, thank you."

  She chuckled again. "Yes, no sense in marring that jacket of yours by sharing a saddle with me. It’s very smart, by the way."

  "Thank you," said Gil politely. "You’d stare if you knew what I paid for it."

  "Oh, I’ve no doubt I would. And this horse is new, isn’t he? What’s his name?"

  "Wager. He’s new since you’ve seen me last, but I’ve been riding him round London for the past few weeks. He’s a great one for attracting the ladies! I hope the two of us will soon be as famous as Lord Sheringham and his Gullcatcher."

  She patted the animal’s glossy neck. "He’s certainly showy."

  "Like his owner?"

  Chloe’s eyes sparkled mischievously. "I didn’t mean to imply that he was only showy. I daresay he possesses other virtues."

  "Ah. Unlike his owner." Gil shook his head reproachfully. "I’ll tell you what, Chloe: it’s a good thing you have no social ambitions. Never met a more rag-mannered wench!"

  An ominous pattering sound began overhead. Rain was spattering the thick foliage overarching the path. Gil greeted this development by muttering one of the words missing from Chloe’s vocabulary. "And so much for my natty new jacket. Where are we, Clo?"

  "Miles from anywhere, I’m afraid. Don’t you know? What brought you into Dobson’s Thicket?"

  "You did, of course. Look out! I’m coming up." Gil gathered the reins in one hand and hauled himself into the saddle in front of Chloe. She clutched him round the waist. He was so tall, her face was completely muffled against the back of his coat.

  "Gil, do you mean you were following me?"

  "Tracked you like a Red Indian," he said, not without pride.

  "Gracious! Whatever for? I didn’t even know you were home."

  "Wanted to see you," he explained. A flash of lightning caused Wager to dance nervously and Gil steadied the animal, murmuring soothing blandishments. The crack of thunder followed almost immediately, and, with a roar, the heavens opened. Streams of water soon began to pour through the tree branches and strike them.

  "I say, Clo!" shouted Gil above the racket. "Is there shelter anywhere about?"

  "Barlow’s cottage is less than a mile ahead," she shouted back. "There’s nothing else, as far as I know."

  "Good old Barlow," muttered Gil. His clearest memory of the cottager was unpleasant; Barlow had caught him stealing apples as a child. The consequences had been painful, and Gil had never forgotten it. But he urged his horse forward.

  By the time they trotted into the clearing where Barlow’s neat cottage stood, the day had turned nearly as dark as night and the downpour had become fierce. There was no light in the cottage. This was an ominous sign. Gil and Chloe slid off the horse, huddled on Barlow’s small porch, and pounded on the door. There was no answer.

  Chloe suddenly looked guilty and bit her lip.

  "What is it?" demanded Gil, his heart sinking.

  "I just recalled that Barlow’s sister was taken ill last week. I believe he’s gone to visit her."

  With a despairing moan, Gil closed his eyes and leaned dramatically against the door. To his surprise, it moved. He straightened hastily as the door swung slowly open.

  "Oh, thank goodness!" exclaimed Chloe, darting inside.

  But Gil remained on the stoop. He peered apprehensively into the dim interior. "I say, Chloe, are you sure we ought to go in?"

  "Whyever not? If Barlow were here, he’d take us in. We’d do the same for him. Anyone would! And of course we’ll repay him for anything we use."

  Gil’s sense of foreboding did not diminish. "I don’t know," he said uneasily. "Devilish queer fellow, Barlow. Rather keen on the idea of private property."

  Chloe gave a little peal of laughter. "You’re remembering those apples, aren’t you? Silly Gilly! That was simply ages ago."

  Gil winced. For the thousandth time, he wondered bitterly why his parents had burdened him with the name Sylvester Gilliland. The unfortunate juxtaposition of his Christian name and his surname had given rise to much merriment in his youth. Not, unfortunately, shared by him. But he had learned long ago that to show emotion upon being addressed as "Silly Gilly" only encouraged its use.

  "Very well," he said darkly. "On your head be it." And stepped into the cottage.

  Two daunting facts struck him at once. The cottage consisted of one room only. And it was spotlessly clean. Chloe was bustling blithely about, heedless of her muddy skirt dripping on Barlow’s meticulously-kept floor. Gil shuddered. Chloe had thrown open Barlow’s cupboards without a thought, and was busily rummaging about. She was such a generous little soul, it was clearly inconceivable to her that anyone might object to her making herself at home.

  He couldn’t bear to watch. "I’m off to do something about Wager," he announced, and ducked back out into the storm. Gil found shelter for his dripping animal in Barlow’s cow shed, removed the saddle, and rubbed him down as best he could. Since the only material to hand was hay, he was forced to rub Wager vigorously with handsful of the stuff. This took a good long while, but the exertion certainly kept Gil warm while it lasted.

  The rain did not abate. By the time Gil returned to the cottage, Chloe had a fire crackling on Barlow’s hearth and had put the kettle on. But what caused him to stop dead on the threshold was the sight of Chloe herself. She had somehow contrived to strip off her wet clothing and bathe while he was gone. A large tin basin containing a wet sponge and a cake of still-foaming soap gave mute testimony to her accomplishment of this feat. Her hair was piled anyhow on top of her head, the damp tendrils around her face curling riotously. Her pink and white skin glowed from scrubbing. And she was artistically wrapped in a kind of white toga.

  The overall effect was deceptively angelic. Gil felt the hairs stand up on his neck.

  "What are you wearing?" he demanded.

  Chloe looked very pleased with herself. "It’s a bedsheet."

  "Good God!"

  "What’s the matter?"

  "D’you mean to tell me you’ve torn up the man’s sheets?"

  "No such thing! It’s merely tied." She raised her bare arms to show him how well it was tied. The toga did not slip, but the swell of Chloe’s plump breasts above the tightly-tied swatches was unnervingly evident. As he stood in the doorway and goggled at her in dismay, she broke into laughter. "Gil, do stop staring! Come in and close the door. You’re letting the rain in."

  "You’re not dressed. It’s indecent."

  "Pooh! I’ve seen ballgowns that are far more revealing than this. The sheet is made of linen, and ever so thick. There’s another, too, if you’d care to get out of your wet things."

  "What, prance about in a sari? No, thank you." But he sneezed as he came in and closed the door behind him. "This adventure will be the death of me," said Gil gloomily. "Mark my words."

  "Well, I do think you ought not to stay in those wet clothes. We don’t know how long we may be stranded here."

  Water was streaming from his p
erson onto Barlow’s floor. His clothing was sticking to him, but pouring rivulets down his boots. The boots, at least, would have to go. Gil surrendered to the inevitable with a sigh. He plopped unceremoniously onto the floor and began tugging on his footwear, hoping grimly that this rough-and-ready treatment would not ruin their shape forever. There seemed little point in searching Barlow’s humble home for a proper bootjack.

  "Why the deuce did you take Thunder out today, anyhow?" he grumbled, wrestling with his boots. "And why did you take him so far? You might have known it would rain. It has done so every day for a se’nnight."

  Chloe was carefully spreading her wet riding habit over the back of a wooden chair. "Yes, but the morning was so sunny! I couldn’t bear to stay indoors another moment. I thought I should go mad." The golden head bent low over her task. "Don’t scold me, Gil. You know how it is in that house," she said softly.

  He did. Without another word, he finished yanking off his boots and placed them outside, on Barlow’s small, but relatively dry, front porch. As soon as he had closed the door again he padded over to his friend and patted her shoulder comfortingly, ignoring the fact that it was disconcertingly bare. "You always mean well, Chloe. I suppose today is not your lucky day."

  She peeped up at him impishly. "This isn’t my ill luck at work, it’s yours. I’m here through pig-headedness. Wiggins told me the horse was too strong for me, but I would take him! So, you see, this situation serves me right. But I fail to see why you became entangled in my mishap."

  "Following you," said Gil simply. His sodden clothing was wretchedly uncomfortable. He stood with his back to the fire and gingerly lifted his coattails, hoping the warmth would reach him eventually.

  Chloe glanced curiously at him. "Did you follow me all the way from Brookhollow?"

  "Yes, and I had the devil’s own work to do so! You had left not ten minutes before I arrived in search of you, and Wiggins pointed me in the direction you had taken. I never guessed you would go so far, or I wouldn’t have trailed you like a gudgeon. It was easy enough to see where you had gone, especially with the ground so muddy, but I was beginning to think I would never catch you."