The Black Cat

By Hayley Ann Solomon

On a moonless night, Lord Guy Santana encounters a lovely young woman carrying a black cat. "I am your destiny," she cries, then vanishes. His lordship is certain this chance meeting must have been a dream. But when Guy wins the cat in a wager, it leads him back to the mysterious beauty and he knows he must do anything to make her his bride.

Previously published in Enchanting Kittens.

33,200 Words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eClassics
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781601830555

Book preview

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Not a glimmer of a moonbeam brightened the velvety black night as Lord Santana muttered a curse under his breath and squinted to look at the sky. The winds were wild and stormy, but the dark rider in the elegant greatcoat of Bath superfine urged his horses onward.

He did not stop to check that his carriage and outriders and footmen and grooms were in slow attendance several waterlogged miles behind him. That he took for granted. What he did do was spur his animals ever forward, grim determination etching faint lines across his sardonically handsome features.

Likely get a wetting, he thought as the first telltale drops of rain brushed against buckskins. Again he cursed the necessity to be out on such an unpromising night. Just his luck that the evening should be moonless, blessed with thousands of stars but not one bright enough to act as a guide or luminary.

Foolhardy, he’d been called, but that was him all over. He was needed in London and nothing—certainly nothing so paltry as inclement weather and a midnight sky—would stop him from getting there.

He transferred the reins lightly from one hand to the other, for he was a notable whip and would have scorned to allow the constraints of a brewing storm to hinder his handling. Indeed, even now, two frisky but perfectly matched chestnut bays trotted quite steadily into deepening mist. When the twinkling stars seemed suddenly to all but vanish, the dark was even thicker than the earl had first thought.

He adjusted the collar of his greatcoat so that perfectly starched shirt points crept ever closer to his skin. For an instant, he wished he’d brought a scarf; then he thought the better of it. A scarf could be the very devil with a cravat and he was in sufficient trouble with his valet not to care for another dressing down.

The problem was his household still thought of him as a child in small clothes rather than the strapping, war-weary, worldly elegant and supremely bored young nobleman that he was. It amused him, at times, to allow their illusions to continue, for there was no doubting the kindness behind their regularly issued scoldings, nor the fondness behind their endless cosseting.

Of course, the newer staff looked up to him as a demigod and would never dream of addressing him in the terms of his butler, his valet, his nurse, and his rather plainspoken head groom, but then they had only ever seen the handsome ape leader of the Four Horse Club, the elegant arbiter of fashion, the select young gentleman who was at once mentor to the Prince of Wales and the headstrong champion of such noxious causes as the plight of chimney sweeps.

A flash of lightning interrupted his stray thoughts. He eased the reins ever so gently, for the animals were prone to be restive. They’d require skillful reassurance if the thunder sounded any closer. He listened, alert for the loud, heavy drumrolls that followed every dangerous flash of light. He did not have to wait long, for now that the clouds had burst, the sky was a ferment of activity, dark and haunting and illuminated in patches by sheets of light rendered slightly opaque by the mists.

He uttered a soothing, gentle gabble of words to the horses, one of which—the left—had stumbled slightly in fright. He tightened his hold to communicate control and prayed that she had not sprained a fetlock. The superfine was now saturated. Wet, wild water sprayed down the nape of his neck and trickled under his collars and cuffs. My lord did not care. For an instant, he knew a moment’s pure exultation as lightning split the sky in two.

The instant passed as exultation turned to fear and urgency and a deathly, ghastly transition from sitting to standing, a loud scream at the horses, a desperate whinnying as reins wrenched and a thundering heartbeat pounded mercilessly in his ears. The world was once more plunged back into an inky black, but this time his lordship knew of a certainty he was not alone in the storm. He drew a cautious halt and leaped down, cursing, from his high perch.

Somewhere out there, the glistening emerald eyes of an animal had been reflected in the lightning flash. It had sprung from the branches overhead and vanished into the mists. My lord did not concern himself with such a paltry thing. This was England, after all. He was, however, perturbed and more than a trifling displeased that the animal had been closely followed by a wisp of a girl. His heart still pounding, he felt his devastating horror turn instantly to violent fury as he realised that his horses had not, as he had first feared, trampled her to death. The sketchiest glimpse he’d caught in the sudden, split light suggested that the lady had not even thought of his oncoming chaise as she’d chased after the animal. Even in the dark and pelting rain, she surely must have been aware of his approach. As his warmly booted feet touched the ground, he stared into the fog, hoping his eyes would adjust.

Common sense urged him to continue on his way, but unwilling chivalry coupled with serious fury forced him to remain. If there was a stranger out there in the mists, she might have need of his help or shelter or . . . a good whipping. The earl whirled around as he heard a soft chuckle behind him.

The wild beast of the great green eyes had apparently not vanished into the storm as he’d first imagined. Instead, he was even now being cradled. A kitten resting soulfully in creamy, sultry, defiant arms of satin white. The sky lit up once more and Lord Santana was dazzled by the unexpected magnificence of that which he glimpsed. Even as darkness descended yet again, the earl could tell that the young woman was as rain drenched as the cat, her mane of tousled hair loose to her waist and her gown—if such it can be called—shockingly damp. He drew in his breath, for subsequent lightning revealed his initial impression to be correct. She was more beautiful by far than even his wildest imaginings.

You could have been killed! The anger in his voice was unmistakable, for the very thought of crushing such a creature under his wheels shook him to his impeccable core.

The maiden, far from being cowed, looked directly into his eyes and laughed. Her lips were invitingly red, her throat appearing a perfect cream against the remote and unlikely backdrop. From the recesses of his consciousness, Santana became aware of the faint strumming of a lute and a Spanish guitar. The flicker of a circle of lanterns momentarily caught his attention. He turned back to the girl.

"You ought to be horsewhipped! If you have not a care for your own life, think, at least, upon my beasts! Even now, they are sweating from fright."

The girl looked at him impishly. They will recover, my lord—faster, I am sad to say, than your lamentable temper!

Santana’s eyes narrowed. He was unused to being treated so cavalierly, and this by a little slip of a girl with no business being out on a cold and dangerous night. Smugglers were abroad. That was one of the reasons for his recall to London. His concern for her deepened his sense of outrage. He drew himself up to his full—and not inconsiderable—height.

"I take leave to tell you, my dear,