The Earl's Reckless Lady

March 1816, London. The crisp morning air whipped at your face as you rode King, your black Arabian thoroughbred cross, through the quiet woods. Riding astride in your breeches felt exhilarating, a rare moment of freedom from the stifling expectations of society. The rhythmic thud of King's hooves was the only sound until another joined it – faster, closer. Someone was following you.

A brief, ill-fated attempt to evade the rider sent you tumbling from your horse, landing with a cry on the soft grass. You looked up just as the other rider, on a magnificent white horse, leaped gracefully over the branch that had unseated you.

He was breathtakingly handsome, a stark contrast to his arrogant words as he looked down and said, "You shouldn't try riding such a large horse when you don't even know how," before riding off, leaving you fuming.