Forever My Love(55)
No pack of foxhounds in the country, not even the royal buckhounds in the Windsor kennels, could equal the Berkeley pack. The Berkeley hounds were bred for incredible speed and indomitable spirit. When it was made known that the pack was being brought for the last few days of the Sackville hunt, the hour of the hunt was delayed considerably, for the Berkeley pack would catch the fox far too quickly in the early-morning hours, later in the day the fox was faster, his belly less full than at daybreak, and therefore he would present more of a challenge to the hounds.
The Earl of Berkeley's general philosophy was to avoid half-measures; he either committed himself fully to an interest or left it alone, and this attitude extended to his treatment of his animals. He demanded frequent and meticulous reports on their care and progress. Unlike the trainers at many notable kennels, those who managed the Berkeley foxhounds were not allowed to practice the traditional customs of bleeding the puppies before cubhunting started or giving them port. Their training was hardly unorthodox, merely conservative and practical. The puppies were walked often… in fact, many of the earl's own tenants were paid to walk the spirited animals. Occasionally Berke-ey hounds were bred with the flawless Yarborough and Meynell blood, to keep the quality of their speed, endurance, and physical superiority consistent. In anticipation of the Sackville hunt, the hounds had been sent a day early and were already lodged in the kennels. The eagerly anticipated arrival of Lord and Lady Berkeley would occur in late morning, in plenty of time for them to move into their rooms and prepare for the dance that would be held this night for their benefit. Sackville and many of his guests were preparing in their own way for the appearance of the couple. Sackville was reading the past several issues of the Times and other papers in order to know the current political and financial news, for the Earl of Berkeley owned a fast-growing shipping business that would someday provide serious competition for the Dutch East Indies Company. The ladies were all gathering the latest bits of gossip to regale Lady Berkeley with, for she was extremely popular and had of late become a leading fashion figure. The way her hair was dressed and the style of her clothes were always copied down to the last detail, and the women were all eager to see the gowns that she would wear during the coming weekend.
As the preparations at Sackville Manor progressed, an enclosed carriage jostled along the poorly mended roads from Warwick to Hampshire. The livery of the servants and the coachwork were royal blue and crimson, colors which glowed richly against the muted landscape. Its sturdy six-inch-wide wheels plowed steadily through muddied tracks and miry byways. Four immaculately groomed black horses trotted gracefully over the country roads, pulling the vehicle at a sedate pace. Even the coachman was a noteworthy sight, dressed in plush clothes with shining gold buttons, his head ornamented with a flaxen wig and a low-brimmed bat. Two outriders and two grooms clad in equally splendorous finery completed the picture. The curtains at the windows of the carriage were discreetly drawn to afford the two occupants of the vehicle privacy. Privacy which they had made good use of.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," Rosalie said, idly walking her fingers through the gold-tinged hair on her husband's chest. "Because of you I'm abominably disheveled. My buttons are all undone and my hair is in ruins—and we'll probably arrive at Sackville Manor any moment."
Berkeley grinned, his aggressive masculine features temporarily softened in the aftermath of their passion. He was a strong-willed man with a fearsome temper, but Rosalie had learned over the course of their five-year marriage that in the few minutes just after they made love Berkeley was always in an agreeable and good-humored state of mind. At times like this he had agreed to many of her schemes and demands against his better judgment, unable to refuse her anything after he had been so magnificently satisfied. Rosalie sometimes found it privately amusing, for Rand Berkeley could intimidate the most powerful men in England… yet she alone had the power to wrap him around her little finger. And that is the way it should be, Rosalie thought contentedly, snuggling against his warm chest.
"I am indeed ashamed," Rand replied, his light hazel eyes caressing her as his fingers toyed with the curled locks that fell down her back in a cascade of sable. "It's been far too long since I made love to you in a carriage." He nibbled at the side of her throat while adding, "Don't worry about arriving too soon— you know I always leave you enough time to restore your appearance."
"The devil you do. I wouldn't give you three blind 'uns and a bolter for the amount of time you allow me," Rosalie rejoined, using the slang phrase for a bad team of horses. "Restore myself? You know that 1 never look the same after you're through with me.""No one's opinion matters but mine. And I approve wholeheartedly of your appearance."