The carriage was stifling. It was a humid August heat, and Mila could feel her chemise stuck damp against her skin. Above it, the boning of her corset dug into her ribs and stomach, pressing her insides in, and her shoulders back—making her nice to look at.
Her eyes rose to his face again.
Andrew Deemus.
Impeccable in his dark suit, tan vest, and white collar, he lounged against the seat cushions, his languid eyes roaming the Kingston newspaper he'd acquired upon landing. He had a high, pale forehead, dark, slicked hair, and fine, arched brows that gave him the appearance of being perpetually and quietly amused.
He looked up at her.
She shifted, trying to smooth the folds of her stiff underskirt to a more comfortable position. Beside her, Wynn was quiet, sitting rigid like a porcelain doll in her navy dress and lace collar. Their mother sat opposite, her embroidered skirts spilling over the seat and up against the carriage wall. The early afternoon sun caught the ivory fabric and set the tiny beads and metallic threads glowing with light—peacock blue, purple, green, and gold.
Andrew Deemus was still looking at Mila.
"The clothes suit you," he said. He set the newspaper aside, and Ada looked askance at the newsprint pages now scattered carelessly against her expensive skirts. Her jaw tightened, but she kept silent. Deemus smiled, his full lips quirking as he let his eyes roam the smooth folds of Mila's linen skirt, the precise tucks of the grey jacket. "I ordered them from Paris," he said. "A little atelier known for its sophistication and elegant simplicity." Mila wished she were clad in the dust-covered trousers she used to wear in the stable training ring.
Ada shifted, and the glass beads and metallic threads on her gown made a tinkling sound as they brushed together. Her dress had come from the House of Worth and must have cost Andrew Deemus a small fortune. The look on her mother's face when she'd seen it had been transportive, a kind of rapturous and ravenous awe, as though finally someone had seen her value and bestowed upon her the treasures she so richly deserved.
Mila knew she needed to say something. She would not say thank you. She would not lie and say she loved the clothes. She settled for the truth.
"They're the finest clothes I've ever worn," she said with a jut of her chin.
His lip curved, as though he'd caught what she'd left unsaid. "Well, you won't be able to say that for much longer. I'll be filling the house with fine things. You shall all be dressed like queens." He looked pleasantly to Ada at these last words and her face changed like a lamp lit, displeasure instantly overtaken by the performance of queen-like graciousness.
"It's hot," Wynn said.
"Don't complain," Ada said, the fine planes of her face suddenly sharp with the irritation that boiled constantly beneath the surface.
"It's not a complaint; it's a statement of fact," Mila said.
"I beg your pardon?" Ada said, a dangerous undertone threading her voice.
Mila's eyes flicked to Deemus. He was leaning against the wall propped by one elegant elbow, his fingers curved carelessly. He tipped his head and let one finger half hide the amusement that tugged at his lips.
"Let me take Wynn for a ride, get some air," Mila said.
"And have you arrive at the house disheveled and stinking of horse?" Ada said.
"Oh, let the girl get some air," Deemus said with another wave of his hand.
"Andrew." Ada's voice was quiet, her jaw tight.
"It's hot as blazes, Ada," Deemus said, his voice rising just a fraction. "And besides, the girl has more skill on a horse than half the men under my employ."
All of them, actually, Mila thought.
"I like to see her ride," Deemus said. "Why else would I have shipped that wild devil of a horse all the way from Kent to Canada if not for her to ride it?"
Ada straightened her shoulders, her breasts dipping and swelling at the tight bustline. She nodded her head once, grudgingly.
"Bring the devil," Deemus called through the carriage window. A few moments later, a groom rode even with the carriage on a dark brown mare, Diablo's lead in hand. Diablo arched his neck and whinnied, eyes wide with the noise of the carriage, the jangle of the wheels. Mila rose, gripping Wynn by the hand.
"Wynn stays here," Ada said.
Mila looked to Deemus, but he was smiling again, that quiet, amused expression he wore so often.
"Wynn, you shall tell me what your favorite bedchamber in the whole world would look like," he said. "And I daresay when we arrive, you'll find the house will have at least two or three that fit the bill."
Mila let go of Wynn's hand, her stomach tightening with anger toward her mother. It was a move of spite. She'd been outplayed, and now she was taking it out on Wynn. But Diablo was right there and Mila's heart surged with the need to cast herself to his back. She looked at Wynn regretfully, then pushed the carriage door open.
"You're not actually going to—" Ada began.
"Enough," Deemus said sharply.
Mila clicked her tongue twice and Diablo shied closer. Mila leaned against his strong shoulder and twisted her hips, throwing herself onto his sun-warmed back. She kicked her leg free of the skirts and petticoats and hoisted herself up on his withers, settling her knees firm on his sides.
"Hyah," she whispered to his ear, and he pricked the great dark-furred things as she twisted her fingers in his mane, and they were off, shooting past the carriage and the line of coaches and wagons and horses. They pounded into the rolling field of green and Mila's lungs expanded. Her heart swelled with the pure wonder of it, and for a moment, she knew that she was more powerful than all the corsets, petticoats, and stays they had tied her into. She knew she was dangerous and wonderful and wild like Diablo.
They should fear me, she thought. They should look in my eyes and know that I'm a devil too.
