by Gaelen Foley
“Don’t worry—you can always have an affair if he’s horrible,” Delia assured her with a wave of her hand, horrifying Maggie, her first thought of Edward. “We’ll never tell,” Delia said blithely. “And look on the bright side. At least you’re not in Maggie’s shoes. She’ll probably never get married, the rate she’s going.”
The casual cruelty of Delia’s remark took all three others off guard. Maggie drew in her breath, hurt, while Portia blinked in astonishment, and Serena’s eyebrows shot upward.
Serena looked at Maggie and pressed her lips shut, as though holding back a cutting rejoinder to Delia. A spark of indignation flared in her dark hazel eyes.
Portia cleared her throat. “Oh, I don’t know,” she spoke up, sending Maggie a conspiratorial smile. “Any girl who’s got peers of the Realm dueling over her is sure to have her choice of husbands, I should think.”
“Indeed,” Serena said sternly, pinning Delia with a hard look. “I daresay even Sidney’s thinking of sweeping her off of her feet, as well, and he’s always been the most committed of bachelors.”
Maggie doubted it, but gave no reply. They all knew beautiful Lord Sidney was nothing but a flirt. For her part, she was too busy trying to school her face into a semblance of nonchalance while her very soul quivered with shame.
“Well!” Delia said crisply, recovering from her momentary falter at the ladies’ polite reproach. “We really should be moving on. This weather, don’t you know.”
“Yes,” Serena said blandly, “it looks like it might rain.”
“Good day, ladies. Hubert, drive on!” Delia barked.
Maggie forced a smile and waved goodbye, still badly stung by her sister’s rude remark, but touched by her friends’ defense. Portia sent her a wink as the two carriages rolled off in opposite directions.
Delia sat stiffly and did not make a sound for a good minute or two. “Don’t look so smug,” she finally grumbled. “They didn’t fight the duel over you, obviously.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Maggie paused, but found she could not hold her tongue. “Why do you always do this to me? Single me out like that just to mock me?”
Before Delia could answer, the sound of cantering hoofbeats approached from behind them, and they heard a deep familiar voice with a hint of an Irish brogue. “Good day, neighbors!”
Oh, thank God. Like the answer to a wish, Amberley appeared, clad in gentlemanly riding attire; slowing his magnificent dapple-gray thoroughbred to a rangy walk on Maggie’s side of the carriage, he greeted her with a bright smile.
Relief coursed through her at the sight of him after Delia’s unkindness. He had no idea how glad she was to see him.
“Well met, Your Grace!” she greeted him.
“Ladies.” He tipped his hat, and Delia grumbled at him with a sour look.
Maggie beamed, however, not caring who noticed her pleasure in seeing him. His gaze caressed her with affection in return as he made his tall horse keep pace with Delia’s open coach.
But his blue-eyed stare homed in on her; he instantly seemed to notice that something was wrong.
Maggie was already feeling much better with his arrival. His effect on her was magical, scouring away the hurt of a moment ago like a blast of clean water from a strong fountain’s jet. She did her best to dismiss Delia’s petty cruelty from her mind and gave him her full attention, instead—a far more congenial subject.
“What brings you out this afternoon, Your Grace?” she asked pertly.
Why, you do, my dear, his twinkling gaze seemed to say, but his smile broadened. “Oh, just tryin’ to get meself some Town bronze, if I’m to be a duke and all.” He glanced roguishly at Delia’s haughty face, and Maggie suspected he was playing up the Irish accent just to annoy her. “I hear ridin’ up and down this stretch o’ turf around five o’clock is one o’ the rules of good ton.”
“So they tell me,” Maggie replied.
“Did you have fun at the ball last night, Lady Margaret?” he inquired then, as though he couldn’t resist.
Maggie knew full well he was not talking about the dancing. “Oh yes.” A blush crept into her cheeks at the memory of the alcove. “The company was…particularly scintillating, I thought.”
Connor grinned.
“La, but you are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you, Your Grace?” Delia interjected, jolting Maggie back down to earth.
“Whatever do you mean, Lady Birdwell?” he asked.
“I should’ve thought you’d had enough of my sister for a while after the way she clung to you like a nettle all evening.”
“Never,” he said with a charming smile. His glance at Maggie assured her it was all right; what she’d told him last night in the alcove about Delia’s habit of undermining her must have prepared him to expect this sort of thing from her sister. “I’d throw her dance card away and keep her to myself all evening if it wouldn’t shock the world. But I fear she’d be the one getting sick o’ me.”
Maggie’s smile widened while Delia absorbed this, looking startled and rather more annoyed. Even if he was only being gallant, Maggie appreciated his ready defense of her. Delia, alas, began to fume. Her milky complexion started turning red.
“Lady Margaret,” said the duke, “I hope you’ll save me another dance at next week’s ball. You were such a patient partner for so clumsy a dancer as myself.”
The man did not have a clumsy bone in his body, Maggie was sure. If he did, she had yet to find it, but his innocent look told her he was only rubbing it in for Delia’s sake.
He was so delightfully naughty.
Maggie mumbled an assurance that of course she’d dance with him again, but couldn’t help smiling, even though she already knew from experience that every compliment he paid her would only make the queen bee’s sting sharper.
“Actually, we won’t be attending next week,” Delia announced, much to Maggie’s surprise. “All these gowns of yours are getting very expensive, sister.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows. Papa had left her money of her own.
“She’s very lucky to live with us, you know,” Delia informed Connor before Maggie could remind her of this. “When Father died, she had nowhere else to go. Not that she’s at all grateful to me and Edward for that.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the duke said, ignoring the barb and trying to change the subject, bless him. “When did your father die?”
“Last year,” Maggie said, giving her sister a warning look.
“She’s been with us ever since. And believe me,” Delia said, “without my influence, she’d have even less Town bronze than you, if that were possible.”
“Ah, then that must explain why the two of us get on so well together. Just a couple of diamonds in the rough, aren’t we?” He winked cheerfully at her, and Maggie quite fell in love with the man.
Though he maintained his easy smile, the stubborn set of his jaw hinted at immovability on this point.
He sent her sister a hard but polite glance, clearly informing the marchioness that he would not hear Maggie abused in his presence.
Delia turned to Maggie with a stare full of skeptical astonishment.
For her part, Maggie could’ve kissed him for his willingness to stand up for her, though, admittedly, she had long since noticed that the Irishman did not shy from confrontation.
It seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, so it was with her sister. And Delia did not like being contradicted.
The hostility brewing between the two hung in the air with a roiling tension, like the distant storm clouds starting to take shape in the north.
Though she’d laughed at first, Maggie began to feel intensely uncomfortable about this, considering she was the one caught in the middle.
At the same time, her conscience sent her a pang of distress. Don’t drag him into this, it whispered. He’s got enough problems of his own. He doesn’t need more enemies, what with somebody out there already trying to kill him.
“Absurd,” he replied.
“No, it’s true—”
“No, it’s not!” Maggie exclaimed.
“We do what we can for her, but she’s so weak and sickly.”
“Is she, now?” He slid Maggie a sparkling glance. “Looks the picture of health to me. Radiant as a rose.”
“A rose, eh? One that reached its peak two Seasons ago, and is now nearly withered.”
“You’re older than me!” Maggie reminded her with a glare, but Connor played along.
“Hmm. Let’s have a closer look.” Leaning down from his horse, he gave Maggie a good, long inspection. “No. With all due respect, Lady Birdwell, ye need your eyes checked. Take it from me.” He sat up tall in the saddle again. “I’ve a great deal of experience assessing female beauty, and I say Lady Margaret Winthrop is one of the loveliest girls I’ve ever beheld.”
“Why, thank you, Your Grace,” Maggie said, beginning to feel rather desperate for this whole conversation to end.
Oddly enough, Delia eyed the duke with an air of newfound appreciation, almost respect. It was rare indeed for anyone to give the redheaded tyrant a run for her money, and he did not give an inch.
He smiled back at her, unflappable.
Very well, Delia seemed to say to herself. That game failed. Next tactic. “Perhaps Your Grace is right,” she conceded. “The physician may be wrong about her health. But, really, it’s her wits that are the problem.”
“Delia, please!”
“She’s quite thick in the head,” she continued. “Always has been. You should’ve seen her as a child. It took the little simpleton the longest time to learn how to read.”
Connor shrugged. “Maybe she had better things to do. Like playing with her dollies. I’ll bet they were better companions than other children nearby,” he said pointedly, meaning Delia, of course.
And was he ever right about that.
Delia tossed her head. “All I know is that it was quite distressing to our parents. For years, they weren’t even sure if the little widgeon could speak.”
“Because you never let me get a word in!” Red-faced and bristling now to think of her childhood and all the years of torment she’d endured as Delia’s little sister, Maggie pushed away the anger churning inside her, and instead changed the subject. “What a beautiful horse that is, Your Grace,” she said with determination.
“Isn’t he, though?” Connor leaned down and patted the powerful animal’s sleek neck. “This is Hurricane. Thoroughbred racer. He can be a right handful, but he’s behaving himself in front of you ladies. Fine Irish stallion, he is.”
“Like you, Your Grace?” Delia drawled.
“Delia! That’s enough,” Maggie said, mortified by her sister’s comment.
Delia whipped around and narrowed her eyes. “What are you going to do about it?”
Maggie stared at her, but with Amberley right there on his horse, witnessing all, bolstering her courage, a strange thing happened.
She felt infused with a fight she usually nullified within her, and decided on the spot that she would not be humiliated for one moment longer by her sister.
Not this time. Not in front of him.
“Your Grace?” She glanced up to find Connor studying her with a stalwart expression of readiness.
“Yes, my lady?” That battle-ready look, that loyal stare—why, it quite stole her breath. For a moment, Maggie was in awe, having it directed at her.
The warrior needed no words to make her understand he was prepared to lay his strength at her feet, if she but gave the order.
No one, Maggie trusted, had ever yelled at Delia like the major seemed quite prepared to do if she but gave him the nod and stepped out of the way.
But no. This was her fight. One she had avoided for far too long in the interests of keeping the peace.
There came a point, however, where even the most well-bred lady had to stand up for herself.
And that moment was now.
If she refused, the man she desired would lose all respect for her, she feared. More importantly, she would lose all respect for herself.
“Would you kindly excuse us?” she asked him, trembling with wrath. “I wish to speak to my sister—privately.”
He furrowed his brow as if to ask, Are you sure?
Maggie nodded while Delia scoffed. “Oh no! I’m in trouble now,” she said sarcastically.
Connor narrowed his eyes at Delia. “Well then. I shall bid you two ladies adieu.” As he gathered the reins, his hands low over the stallion’s withers, he sent Maggie a bolstering glance. Then he chirruped to his horse and guided Hurricane away, cantering off toward the Serpentine in perfect form.
* * *
Have at it, girl, Connor thought as he rode away, glad in that particular moment that he didn’t have any siblings. You shouldn’t take that from anyone.
God, he never would’ve believed Maggie’s sister could be so obnoxious unless he’d seen it with his own two eyes. Poor Maggie…
Poor Edward!
He hoped he hadn’t goaded the lass into anything she was not ready for, but he hadn’t been able to resist antagonizing her sister a bit when he’d heard her saying such nasty things about gentle little Maggie.
All the same, as he glanced back uneasily over his shoulder, he knew deep down that, as difficult as this might be for the girl, putting Delia in her place would be the best thing for her.
In his experience, people treated you about as well as you let them.
It angered him, though, that her sister would take advantage of Maggie’s easygoing nature and, even worse, exploit her lower status as a dependent in her household, rather like he’d seen Aunt Lucinda do to Aunt Florence.
Well, it was time for his little English rose to put a stop to that nonsense.
She could handle this, he knew. Connor had seen the kind of backbone the girl could show. She had certainly had no trouble standing up to him.
As he neared the Serpentine, where the rising breeze drove ripples across the surface of the water, riffling them almost to the point of causing whitecaps, he could hear the water sloshing up around the graveled edges of the man-made lake over the cadence of Hurricane’s hoofbeats.
He checked the stallion’s rocking canter, murmuring reassurances as they approached a chaotic cluster of riders ahead. Hurricane’s ears twitched obediently at the sound of his voice, but he seemed to sense Connor’s authority.
It was always a dicey proposition, taking a stallion out in the world as an ordinary riding horse. The temperamental beast needed exercise, however, and it felt oddly important to Connor to prove to Hurricane that he could be more than just a racehorse.
That he could go about in the world, be among ordinary folk.
At any rate, even if Hurricane got a little lively, Connor was a highly seasoned rider.
His grandfather had raised horses back in Ireland after retiring from the military, and Connor had pitched in around the stables from the time that he could walk. Then, at age twelve—being lighter than the trainer—he had started helping with the sometimes perilous task of breaking green horses.
He had been away at war when Grandfather had given Hurricane to Granduncle Rupert as a gift for his sixtieth birthday. Hard to believe that was just three years ago, Connor mused, and now both men were gone.
Hurricane had been but a weanling then, and now here he was, a splendid three-year-old racing colt, whickering amorously to every mare they passed.
With the knot of riders approaching ahead, Connor urged the stallion onto the grass, then he saw a wide, empty stretch of green alongside the road and felt the pull of temptation.
“That looks like fun, doesn’t it?” he murmured to the horse.<
br />
The gray tossed his head, his dark mane flying.
“Let’s give it a go, shall we, boy?” Loosening his firm hold on the reins, Connor squeezed Hurricane’s sides with his heels.
The response was instantaneous, explosive. The gray leapt into a gallop like he was born for it—which, of course, he was.
They flew. Connor reveled in the wild burst of speed the thoroughbred unleashed, leaning slightly over the horse’s withers.
In the blink of an eye, Hurricane had crossed the greensward. As they hurtled toward the next grove of trees, Connor gently reined him in, pulling the racehorse back to a restless trot.
“Good boy, good boy,” he said heartily, while Hurricane tossed his handsome head with pride, wanting more. “By Jove, I think you’re ready for the derby.”
“Amberley!” someone called just then from the Ring.
Connor looked over as a rider waved, then guided a tall, slender chestnut away from the busy park lane and swept toward him at a canter.
“Easy,” Connor told the stallion, slowing to a walk, and watching the gray’s black-rimmed ears for any signs of rebellion.
Hurricane danced sideways a bit as the chestnut approached, but it must have been a gelding, for the other horse held little interest for the stallion.
As the rider approached, Connor recognized Gable, Lord Roland.
“Damn, but that’s a fine bit of horseflesh you’ve got there,” his new friend said, running an admiring gaze over the gray.
“Thank you.” Connor grinned. “He’s fast.”
“I’ll say! Did you run him at Ascot?”
“Missed it. Next year.”
“Ah. Listen, I’m glad I spotted you. I’m headed over to see my father and I thought you might like to come along, if you’re available.”
Connor shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to do. But are you sure now’s a good time for him? I don’t wish to impose.”
“It’s a fine time. In fact, it may be your only chance for a week or so. Last night, when I offered to arrange a meeting for you, I had forgotten that my parents are leaving on Sunday to visit my aunt in the country.” Gable suddenly yawned. “Oh, pardon me.”