The Duke's Christmas Vow: Regency Romance

by Arietta Richmond

  “Thank you.”

  Behind her, she heard the crunch of hooves on gravel, as the grooms brought the Duke’s stallion around from the other building.

  She turned as the Duke reached her, and walked with him to the doors, her hand resting on Sage’s neck as she did. The mare turned her head and gently nudged Charity, then obediently walked on.

  They stepped out into the faint light of the breaking dawn, and Charity studied the sidesaddle on the mare. It was a perfect fit on the mare’s back, and was a beautiful piece of the saddler’s craft, with a suede seat and intricately carved flaps.

  A saddle of far higher quality than her own, at home.

  She ran her fingertips over it, then adjusted the stirrup, before taking the reins from the Duke, and flipping them up over the mare’s neck, preparatory to mounting.

  “Do you wish a mounting block? Or a hand lift?”

  Charity smiled as she looked at him.

  “No thank you. I long ago learned to mount by myself – I have fallen often enough from being a little too adventurous, so I needed to be able to get back in the saddle, in the field. Of course, if a horse is very tall, I might need help – but Sage is of a perfectly reasonable size.”

  She checked that the girths were suitably firm, made some adjustments, and then lifted her left foot to the stirrup, before pushing up smoothly, her right leg passing between her left leg and the horse’s body before she settled onto the seat, and lifted her right leg over the pommel. Once her skirts were adjusted to fall as they should, she accepted the riding whip which the Duke offered her. Not that she would need to use it for anything other than the gentle taps to indicate direction – a good rider never needed to apply excess force.

  As she took it from him, their fingers brushed, and, even through their gloves, that touch felt as if heat seared her. She forced herself to ignore the sensation.

  The Duke went to his stallion, and was soon mounted, just as a groom came out with a solid gelding, and mounted up.

  “I will follow at a reasonable distance, Your Grace, so that I can see you, for propriety’s sake, but you will have some privacy to talk as you wish. Call if you require me for anything.”

  “Thank you, Simms.”

  The Duke waved in the direction of the lane, and Charity urged Sage forward. The mare went willingly, with an eager bounce to her stride which said that she would love to run, but was far too well trained to do anything difficult. Charity shifted herself slightly, gently testing the feel of the mare, her sensitivity to the touch on the reins, to the subtle movements of weight on the saddle, and was very pleased with the responses. This horse was a true delight to ride.

  She drew up alongside the Duke as they passed into the lane, and he turned to meet her eyes. There was warmth there, and pleasure in the moment. She could simply sink into that gaze, and forget everything else, should she permit herself to.

  “I see that you were completely honest when you claimed yourself a skilled rider. You have an excellent seat, and a sensitivity, an awareness of the horse, which only comes from long experience.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Sage is a delight! She is so very responsive.”

  She could feel her cheeks heat in response to his praise – there were not many things that she excelled at, and therefore few chances in her life for praise. And few men would praise a woman for riding well – they were more like to praise beauty than more practical skills.

  They rode on in companionable silence for some time, allowing the horses some time at the walk to warm up, before going any faster. As they turned the bend in the lane, the Duke glanced at her, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Shall we move a little faster now?”

  In answer, Charity urged Sage forward, and the mare did a perfect transition straight from the walk to a gliding canter. The Duke moved almost in perfect synchrony, and they flowed on down the lane. He was so close that she could have touched him.

  “Can we go out onto the fields?”

  “Of course, Lady Charity.”

  “Ahh… when I’ve walked here, I’ve used the stile – is there a gate? Or do we jump?”

  She was pleased to see that he looked rather startled at her question – obviously, he had not expected her riding skill to extend to jumping something the height of the stile. She could not help it – she laughed, truly happy in that moment.

  He grinned at her, but his voice was steady when he answered.

  “There is a gate, not far past the stile. It’s not a good stile to jump, for the lane is too narrow there to give the horse a decent approach.”

  “The gate then – I would not want to risk Sage by attempting a jump where there is inadequate lead in. Did I shock you, Your Grace?”

  “Only a little. Every time I speak with you, you prove to me, again, that you are not a simpering fragile flower – and very glad of it I am.”

  “And I am glad that you are pleased by that, rather than horrified. It is an unusual response…”

  They reached the gate, and he leant down from Valiant’s back to open it, then shut it the same way once she was through. Charity looked across the rolling fields towards the sea, and a strange madness took her – she turned the mare and sent her forward in a gallop, feeling the wind pull curls of her hair free of the pins, but not quite stealing the hat from her head.

  For the first time in her life, she was enjoying herself – with a man. A man who, she was quite certain, saw her only as a friend – for surely, so blunt and unconventional a woman as Charity could never be his choice for his Duchess. She should, therefore, not allow herself to come to care for him – but she suspected that, to some extent at least, it was too late – she already cared.

  *****

  The groom reached the gate just in time to see his master and the Lady set off at a blistering pace across the fields. Rafe glanced back, noted that the man was at least where he could see them, then turned all of his concentration to the woman ahead of him – rich dark red hair, a rich burgundy habit, on a rich blood bay mare – she looked spectacular. And he was going to have to do his damnedest if he hoped to catch up with her.

  A kind of wild delight filled him, and he gave Valiant his head, the crisp winter air streaming past, and the ground disappearing beneath them as if they flew. It was a long time since he had given himself to speed this completely.

  He did not catch her – not until she slowed as they approached the cliffs, and brought the mare back to a steady walk. As he came up beside her, she turned her face to him, alight with the same kind of wild joy he felt. She was, in that instant, stunningly beautiful – much more so than those carefully primped young women back at the house could ever be.

  It struck him then, that, if he must choose one, from amongst those in his house at present, he would choose her, above all others. But… would she wish it? Any of the others, he knew would fall at his feet in an ecstasy of greedy delight if he chose them – but Lady Charity? He did not know what she would do, what she would want. She had not, at any time, shown any sign of wanting to be chosen. He had the horrible suspicion that she viewed him with nothing more than friendship – which, admittedly was more than many society weddings might boast of, between husband and wife.

  But he had come to realise that he wanted more than that. He wanted this comfort, this ability to enjoy the moment, as he had with her, but he wanted love, as well.

  It was a shocking thing for him to wish, and most of his gentlemen friends would mock him if they knew – but it was a truth he had to accept – this house party had proved it to him, even more than the preceding year had.

  And he would not push marriage on her, if she did not truly wish it, although if he offered, he suspected that she would be made to accept, no matter what she wished – for his mother had mentioned that rumour had it that she needed to marry, due to her father’s advanced age, and their financial circumstances. He did not wish to force her to anything.

  She deserved far better than that, was wo
rth far more than as simply a bargaining chip – she was worth being loved, properly.

  He pushed the thoughts away, and focussed on the moment, on the light in her eyes, and the happiness in her face. Everything else could wait until later.

  “That, Your Grace, was wonderful! Sage is so fast, it felt as if we were flying.”

  “Perhaps you were – perhaps horses are capable of magic.”

  Where had that whimsical conceit come from? It did not matter, for she laughed again – a sound so melodic and full of joy that he wanted to hear it again.

  “Perhaps they are. I suppose that we should go back soon – but I can’t say that I look forward to the day – I believe that Lady Anne has arranged for the afternoon to be a kind of musicale – probably so that she can demonstrate what she believes to be her superior musical skills. Oh! I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

  “Most likely not… but it is the truth. The very idea makes me shudder – for they will all expect me to sit through every minute of it, and praise their abilities.”

  “A dreadful fate, Your Grace.”

  He found that they shared a conspiratorial smile, and all unthinking, he reached out and touched her cheek as the two horses continued to walk along the clifftop path, tightly side by side. She took a sharp breath, and he allowed his hand to drop. What did she think of him, for that touch?

  He looked out at the sea. The rising sun laid its path of gold over the waves, and the sea birds wheeled above it. He turned back to see her watching him.

  “Let us, then, delay that dreadful fate – let us walk along the cliffs here for a little longer, before we make our way, more sedately than we came, back to the stables.”

  She met his eyes, and nodded, then a mischievous smile curled her lips.

  “I am sure that poor Simms will appreciate it.”

  A wave of her hand indicated the groom, who only now approached them across the fields.

  He laughed, and they allowed the horses to walk on.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time that they arrived back at the stables, the morning was advanced enough that Charity suspected that her mother might be awake – which meant that others could be, too. She slipped down from Sage, and spoke to the mare for a minute before handing her off to the grooms, who led her away to a well-deserved brushing and feed.

  “Thank you for this morning’s ride, Your Grace. I had best hurry inside, and prepare for the day.”

  “Thank you for your company, Lady Charity. Perhaps we might do this again, tomorrow, or the day after?”

  “I would very much like that, Your Grace. Do let me know when…”

  “I will.”

  He bowed, and she hurried away, worried now that one of the other young women might see her, in the riding habit, and enquire.

  She slipped in through the servants’ door and up the servants’ stairs – the footmen and maids smiled as she went past – perhaps Maggie had been talking to them, and they understood Charity’s desire to remain inconspicuous. She gained her rooms without meeting anyone, and Maggie called for her bath, and for a breakfast tray.

  An hour and a half later she went downstairs, wearing a plain daygown, and with a book in her pockets. Hopefully, the parlour would not be crowded yet, and she might simply sit in the bay window seat and read. But that hope was to be denied.

  Her mother sat on one side of the room, discussing the embroidery she held with the Duchess, and nearly all of the young ladies were present, although not all of their parents. They clustered in groups, and Charity wondered, for a moment, what they found to talk about. In one corner of the room, the Duke stood with his gentlemen friends. He appeared to be absorbed in conversation, but she had the oddest feeling that he was acutely aware of everything happening in the room.

  She walked in, and caught her mother’s eye, then went towards the bay window, still hoping to simply sit quietly. It was not to be. Halfway across the room, she was intercepted by Miss Woodfield, who was trailed by her sister, Lady Anne, and two other ladies.

  “Lady Charity, I must ask you to resolve a debate between myself, and my sister.”

  “A debate, Miss Woodfield?”

  “Yes, Lady Charity. The fact of it is that I believe that I saw you, very early this morning, attired for riding, and returning from the stables. My sister declares that it cannot have been you, for you would never have a riding habit of such rich colour and quality.”

  Charity swallowed, hard, and forced herself not to speak. Not only had they seen her, but they had managed to turn even so simple a thing as a riding habit into an insult. And a trap.

  She could answer that it was indeed her – defending by doing so her ability to have something of that quality, but revealing that she had been slipping out to ride, or she could deny it, and basically confirm, by doing so, that her family was so paupered that she could never afford such a thing.

  They waited, their faces bland, but their eyes filled with a predatory gleam. Charity considered, and then the same madness took her that she had felt that morning – a sense that, if she simply threw herself into the challenge before her, it would all magically end well. She drew herself up, and forced a smile to her face.

  “Miss Woodfield, let me end your debate in one sentence. Your sister is mistaken, for yes, it was me that you saw.”

  With that, she brushed past them, in a manner which bordered on the unacceptably rude, and continued to the bay window seat. She may have just damned herself to future interrogation, but at least she had retained her pride. Behind her, she heard the buzz of their chatter. It seemed that they had not expected courage – well, that was reasonable – she was not renowned for courage.

  She was, in fact, almost shaking. But she hid it, and settled onto the seat, pulling out her book, and pretending that they did not exist. It was a pretence which did not succeed for long. They followed her, standing around the window seat in a manner which enclosed her, and felt almost threatening.

  “And why were you riding – and with whom?”

  Lady Anne’s voice was sharp, hard.

  Charity breathed deeply, barely preventing herself from declaring baldly that it was none of Lady Anne’s business. Instead, she gritted her teeth, and held her smile in place.

  “Lady Anne, I do not believe that you are my guardian, or chaperone, to ask such things. I ride because I enjoy it, and the Duke was kind enough to allow me the use of one of his horses.”

  Lady Anne and the Misses Woodfield exchanged annoyed glances. Charity waited, wondering what their next ploy would be. Looking past them, she saw the Duke approaching. He spoke to others as he moved through the room, but she knew, as soon as she saw him, that he was coming to see what Lady Anne and her clique were saying to Charity. Knowing that made her feel warm inside, and safer.

  “Surely you did not go out alone, Lady Charity! That would be most improper.”

  “She did not. I accompanied her, as did a groom, for propriety.”

  The Duke’s voice was warm, and almost amused as he rather firmly pushed himself into their little circle. The young women fell back a little, with expressions ranging from shock, to disbelief, to outright envy. Lady Anne turned to him, and her face transformed into that false sweet smile which Charity had seen her use so often. How she could conceive that anyone believed her sweet was beyond Charity’s comprehension, but she obviously did.

  “Your Grace! That was most… gentlemanly of you. I also enjoy riding at times – perhaps we might put together a riding party? If you have horses available, of course? And… at a more… sociable hour of the day?”

  Charity almost gasped at the woman’s audacity.

  The Duke regarded her rather as if she was an insect, found unexpectedly in his food. He took some time before speaking, and Lady Anne began to shift about as if suddenly aware of just how forward she had been.

  The Duke met Charity’s eyes for a moment, and it was immediately obvious that he had as little interest in Lady Anne’s sug
gestion as Charity did. Equally, she knew that he was about to agree to it. Duty drove him, and to refuse would be even more impolite than Lady Anne had been in asking.

  “Lady Anne, I believe that would be possible. It will depend on how many are interested, and their riding skill – for I do not have a large number of ladies’ horses here. If you would consult with my mother with respect to when such an outing might fit into the plans, we can see what can be arranged.”

  Lady Anne simpered, and made glowing exclamations of delight, all of which the Duke greeted with a face which spoke strongly of boredom. Charity almost laughed at the sight.

  Somehow, he shooed them away to speak to the Duchess. Once they were far enough away that they would not hear his words, he spoke softly to Charity.

  “I gather that they somehow discovered that you had been riding this morning?”

  “Yes, they saw me returning to the house.”

  “How unfortunate. But I am sure that we will manage – because I am quite certain that you ride better than any of them. If they hope to use this as a way to attract more of my attention, they will fail. Do not let them disturb you – I am quite aware of how mean and petty minded they are.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  His words left her feeling warmed through, for his faith in her ability was a rare gift. He took her hand and bowed over it, then turned to move away, to continue circulating amongst the guests. But as he did, something fluttered to the floor, shifted by the breeze of his movement. Charity bent to look.

  A feather.

  She lifted it, and slipped it into her book, her smile becoming wide, and genuine. It was him, leaving her feathers to find. What that might mean, she did not know, but she liked him all the more for it.

  *****

  The following day it rained again, and the rain turned to light snow in the evening. Charity claimed a megrim, and stayed in her rooms, working on a feathered brooch, and a new feathered pin for her mother’s hats.