Colin pulled his horse up short. So short, in fact, that the horse was panting and snapping his jaws at the bit.
A raven-haired beauty had just crossed his path. She was the woman of his dreams; she wore an icy blue traveling coat over a deep, midnight blue traveling frock. The combination picked up the blue shine of her glossy ebony curls, which were swept up on top of her head, underneath a perky crushed velvet hat.
Colin watched her saunter on down the park lane, as if the world had not just stopped spinning on its axis, time held still in its tracks, and even the birds had stopped their spring song. After a second that felt like an eternity, she stopped and then swung her parasol, body, dress, and train all in one smooth motion.
The siren of ancient myth shot Colin a look that went through him like a bullet. He felt the physical impact of this look and recoiled slightly under its force although at the same time he was pulled farther into the snare of her presence; his sanity coming very close to crashing against the rocks. The beauty’s eyes were the color of wild violets in the summer time but right now they were filled with golden sparks of indignation.
“Excuse me, Sir,” she spoke with the smooth lilt of a Northerner, “Are you in need of assistance?”
“I, uh—“ he stammered, unable to form the words he wished for.
She made a “harrumph” noise deep in her throat and turned back to the road.
“What is your name?” Colin finally spat out.
“Lady Lydia Whitehead,” she called over her shoulder and with a swish of her bustle, she was gone.