by Anne Gracie
Opera dancers and young ladies of the ton—in his experience they were all the same under the skin. It all depended on the offer.
* * *
* * *
George’s horse, Sultan, picked his way fastidiously through the crowded London streets, superbly disdainful of all the activity—the dogs, the urchins, the barrows, carts and carriages. Oh, he didn’t like them—George could tell by the way his ears went back and swiveled and the way he tensed up from time to time, but months in London had taught Sultan that at the end of these tediously unpleasant streets lay a glorious run.
It was too late in the day to ride again in Hyde Park, unless one wanted to walk placidly along, bowing to acquaintances, and every now and then to break out wildly with a staid trot for five minutes. Neither of them, nor Finn for that matter, would enjoy that, so they were making for the wide-open spaces of Hampstead Heath. Of course it took much longer to get there, but it was worth it, and Emm had said she had the afternoon free.
And freedom was what George craved.
She rode ahead, Finn trotting along at her side, magnificently indifferent to the yapping street curs. Kirk followed close behind. His eyes were watchful, on the lookout for trouble, but his expression was dour as usual. He’d made this excursion with her many times before and generally enjoyed himself—though it was hard to tell with Kirk—but today he radiated grim disapproval.
It had started when she’d met him in the stable yard, mounted and ready. He usually fetched the horses and brought them to the house, and he’d taken one look at her and frowned.
“Does his lordship know ye’re going out in public like that?”
George grinned. “It’s Hampstead Heath. I want a proper ride.”
“It’s no’ fitting, Lady Georgiana, ye know that.”
“It’s a split skirt, see.” She flipped up one of the panels of cloth that just barely covered her breeches.
He snorted. “It’s a man’s saddle.”
“No, really?” she said sounding amazed. “And yet here I am, mounted and ready.”
He’d opened his mouth to argue, but she’d cut him off. “Oh, don’t be stuffy, Kirk. You know perfectly well I’ve ridden astride dozens of times—even when Cal’s been with me.”
“Aye, at dawn,” he said. “When there’s no’ a soul about. But it’s broad daylight and we’ll be riding through the streets. Ye’ll cause a scandal, Lady Georgiana.”
“Pooh, nobody will recognize me.” She pulled out a man’s cap and crammed it on her head, tucking in her hair, which was short anyway. She tugged the bill down, almost over her eyes. “See? Now come on.” She put an end to the argument by trotting out into the street.
He pursed his lips but followed, looking gloomier than ever.
“Have you ever ridden with a sidesaddle, Kirk?”
He didn’t bother answering, just gave her an expressive look.
“No, of course not. And why is that? For all that men tell us that sidesaddles are soooo much better for ladies and are as safe as houses, you won’t get a man on one—and why? Because they’re silly, that’s why. And it takes more skill to ride with them, not less, because sidesaddle you only have the reins and your crop and your balance, whereas astride you can control your mount with your thighs as well—”
“Lady Georgiana!” Kirk said in a pained voice.
George hid a grin. She’d forgotten; ladies didn’t have thighs, or if they did they weren’t to be mentioned.
“So if I want a really good ride, it has to be astride,” she finished. There was nothing better than to ride at a fast gallop, bent low over her horse’s neck, the wind in her face, and the feeling of being at one with the powerful animal beneath her. Bareback was even better—it was how she’d first learned to ride—but she wasn’t even going to try for that. Not in London. But one day, when she was free . . .
It wasn’t as if she disliked her current life. Not really. She didn’t much like London, with hundreds—thousands—of people living almost on top of her—or so it felt. And she didn’t like the dirt and smells. Why was it that London dirt seemed so much worse than country dirt?
And London noise never stopped. Even at night there were rumbling wheels, shouts, bangs and arguments, and though the country was also full of noise at night—the scream of a vixen, the hooting of an owl, the far-off barking of a dog—they were peaceful noises.
But there were things she liked about this life. Cal had initially dragged her into the family, kicking and fighting—she’d never had a family and was sure she didn’t need one—but to her amazement, she liked it, liked the feeling of belonging, liked the companionship of her aunts Lily and Rose, who were more like sisters. And her aunt by marriage, Emm, who was sister, friend and mother all rolled into one—Emm was a blessing. She’d even come to like Cal, bossy-boots that he was.
The great-aunts—well, Aunt Dottie was a darling, but she could do without Aunt Agatha. How dare she offer her up to that cold, snooty duke?
The farther they got away from London, the more George’s mood lifted. The traffic thinned; the noise and dirt and chaos of the city fell behind them. Browns and grays gave way to a thousand shades of green, and the air felt cleaner and fresher. She took great deep breaths of it and felt lighter and more energized.
Sultan too felt the difference and started to dance a little with anticipation. She felt the leashed power rippling through him and gathered her reins.
“Careful now, Lady George,” Kirk murmured. “He’s verra fresh still.” Lady George, not Lady Georgiana—she was forgiven her breeches, then.
Kirk, the silly old dear, was certain Sultan was too strong, too spirited, too male for a lady, and had said so repeatedly. She’d lost count of other men who’d told her the same thing, in various ways.
But she’d bred Sultan, had been there when he was born, had raised him from a colt and trained him. They understood each other.
Besides, George, titled or not, was barely a lady.
An ill-trained, boyish, impertinent hoyden . . . She pushed the thought aside. She didn’t care what the duke said about her.
The heath stretched before them. There was not a soul in sight. She tugged down her cap. “Come on, Kirk, race you to that big old oak on the edge of the forest.” And without waiting, she took off. Her dog, Finn, streaked after her.
* * *
* * *
“Now, isn’t this better than spending the afternoon at Jackson’s?” Hart gestured to the scene in front of them, an endless sward of green, fringed by a tangled, shadowy forest.
“I thought you meant Hyde Park, not out in the dashed wilderness.”
Hart snorted. “Hyde Park? At the fashionable hour?” He couldn’t imagine anything worse.
“I don’t mind doing the pretty, catching up on gossip with all the lovely ladies.” Sinc pulled his collar up. “Better than being in the middle of nowhere getting blown to bits in a freezing gale.”
Hart laughed. “Stop complaining. It’s a brisk breeze, nothing more. Besides, it’ll blow the cobwebs away.”
“Cobwebs? On me? Don’t be ridiculous. My valet would have a fit. What am I saying? I would have a fit!”
“Come on, let’s ride to the top of the hill. You’ll feel better when you can see for miles.” He headed off at a leisurely canter.
Sinc followed, grumbling. He’d planned to spend his afternoon drinking blue ruin with his cronies at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon; Sinc was more interested in the convivial side of the sport than the energetic aspects. But it hadn’t been hard to entice him out for a ride instead. Of course he’d insisted on going home to change into more appropriate attire—Sinc was never less than nattily dressed—but now Hart realized his friend had gone to an extra degree of trouble because he’d expected to be flirting in Hyde Park, not cantering across the heath high above the city.
Hart rei
ned his horse in at the crest of the hill, and stood gazing out at the silhouette of London in the distance. He could just make out the dome of St. Paul’s. He was trying to pick out other buildings when the sound of galloping hooves caused him to turn his head.
About fifty yards away, a gleaming black stallion thundered across the turf, a magnificent creature moving like the wind, all speed and power and grace. A thoroughbred, with clear Arab ancestry.
A boy—a youth—clung to his back, crouched low over the stallion’s neck, like a jockey in a race. He rode as if he were born on the back of a horse. No gentleman he, not with that cloth cap, slightly too big for his head, and those worn breeches and boots. An apprentice, perhaps. Or a young groom. Who was the fool who paid a youth to exercise a glorious animal like that?
Behind the lad loped a lanky gray dog. At some distance behind, came a thickset man—another groom, perhaps? It wasn’t clear whether he was with the black stallion or not.
As he watched the movement of stallion and rider, something pinged in Hart’s mind, a flash of memory, a fleeting impression, as if he’d seen this horse, this rider some other time . . .
But then Sinc arrived. “Brrr. It’s even colder up here. Can’t we go home yet?” And the thought was lost.
Hart couldn’t take his eyes off the stallion. “What a magnificent beast.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Very nice,” Sinc said as stallion and rider flashed past. He hadn’t much interest in horseflesh.
“Dammit, I’m going to buy that horse.” Without further explanation, Hart urged his horse forward and was riding in pursuit. Sinc shouted something, but his words were taken by the breeze, and in any case, Hart was entirely focused on catching up with the stallion.
He slowly gained on the rider and his mount. The boy glanced back over his shoulder, a flash of light eyes and a black scowl.
“Hey, there, I want to ask you something,” Hart called.
The boy ignored him. The stallion picked up speed.
Hart urged his horse faster. “Wait! I want to buy your horse,” he yelled as he drew nearer. “Who is the owner?”
Horse and boy took a sharp turn to the left and plunged down a steep slope. Hart followed. They splashed through a soggy patch, green and weedy.
Mud from the stallion’s hooves splashed in Hart’s face. He didn’t bother to wipe it off. The boy’s determination to avoid him was annoying, but the chase itself was exhilarating.
They headed back up a hill. The stallion pulled steadily away and made for a densely forested area. He was stronger and faster than Hart’s mount, and with the lighter weight of the boy, Hart didn’t have a chance.
“Stop, damn you! I only want to talk,” Hart yelled in frustration.
At the edge of the trees, the boy looked back. Hart caught a flash of white teeth as the lad gave what might have been a cheeky wave or—Hart narrowed his gaze—a rude gesture. As the boy and horse disappeared from sight, a light laugh floated back to him on the breeze.
Swearing to himself, Hart rode slowly back to where Sinc was waiting, hunched gloomily on his horse.
“Have fun, did you? I’m just about frozen solid. Though naturally, being your oldest friend, I’m only too delighted to become an ice block in your service.”
Hart ignored the sarcasm. “Little mongrel refused to stop. All I wanted was the name of the owner.”
“Is that all? Well, you could have asked me. Would have saved you all that gallivanting about. And me from turning into an icicle. You do know your face is spattered with mud, I suppose. As for your boots . . .” Sinc shuddered.
“What? You know who owns that horse? Who is it?”
“Forgotten your handkerchief?” Sinc scrutinized his friend’s face. “I have a spare if you need to use it. Can’t be seen with mud on your face.”
Frustrated, Hart pulled out a handkerchief and scrubbed at his face. “There! Now, who owns that damned horse?”
“You missed a bit. Just here,” Sinc said, gesturing to his own face.
Hart rubbed at the spot indicated. “Now, before I strangle you, tell me who owns that blasted stallion.”
“Oh, she won’t sell,” Sinc said.
“She? You mean the owner is a woman?” Fool woman, to entrust such a valuable and spirited animal to a mere youth. Though he had to admit the boy could ride. Superbly, as it happened. When he bought the stallion, he might even offer the lad a job.
“Yes, of course. Didn’t you know?”
“How would I know?” He blinked. “Are you suggesting that I’m acquainted with the owner? Who is she? Where might I find her?”
Sinc gave him an odd, amused look, then jerked his chin to where the stallion and his rider had disappeared. “You just saw her.”
Hart looked, but he could see no woman. “Where?”
“On the horse’s back. Leading you a right merry chase by the looks of it.”
Hart stared. The rider was female? Gad, but she could ride. In fact . . . His eyes narrowed . . . There had been something familiar . . .
“Who—?” he began.
“If you ever bothered to ride in Hyde Park, you would have met both horse and owner together. She and her family ride there most mornings—early. Practically crack of dawn,” Sinc added with a theatrical shudder.
Hart raised a skeptical brow. “Then how is it that you’ve seen them? You rarely rise before noon.”
“Coming home, of course. Often witness the grisly hours of dawn on the way home from a night out.”
“And who is this family that rides out so intrepidly at such an hour?”
Sinc grinned. “The family you almost married into.”
There was a short silence as Hart took it in.
Sinc chuckled. “Yes, that was Lady George Rutherford you chased all over the heath just now. Told you she was an original.”
Chapter Three
In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquility; and though prepared . . . to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the house, he was used to be free of them there.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
It was a hot afternoon. George, Aunt Dottie and Emm were crossing Berkeley Square on a quest to Gunter’s for ices, when they heard a series of shrieks and yaps. Human shrieks, canine yaps.
An elegantly dressed older lady was jumping up and down, appalled, flapping her hands and shrieking at a pack of dogs that were swirling and snapping and shoving at one another in a noisy canine whirlpool several feet away.
“It’s Milly Prescott,” Aunt Dottie exclaimed.
“FooFoo!” Mrs. Prescott cried. “Oh, stop it, you brutes! My poor little FooFoo!”
George saw what the problem was. In the middle of the pack of dogs was a small, dainty Pekingese, pink satin ribbons in her hair, receiving the eager attentions of a dozen scruffy mongrels.
“Sit and stay!” George ordered Finn, who was showing considerable interest in the proceedings. Reluctantly he lowered his behind, almost to the ground. George waded into the swirling pack, snatched up the little dog and handed it to the lady. Then she roundly dispersed the other dogs, who retreated a few yards away and waited hopefully.
One brave, enamored beast broke through and leapt up eagerly at FooFoo. Mrs. Prescott screeched, George roared at the would-be swain, and Finn jumped forward with a snarl. All the dogs retreated another few feet.
“Oh, you brave, brave girl, Lady Georgiana! I wonder you weren’t bitten—such a heroine you are! Thank you, thank you,” Mrs. Prescott exclaimed. “Oh dear, I’m all of a flutter! Those terrible brutes just appeared from nowhere and started attacking my poor little baby.”
George glanced at Emm and Aunt Dottie, who were trying not to smile.
“Um, they weren’t attacking her,” George said.
“They were, they were, didn’t you see? Oh,
my poor little FooFoo, are you all right, my darling?” She examined the little dog anxiously, straightening her ribbons and murmuring, “Mummy’s here now, precious. Those nasty dogs won’t bother you again.”
“Actually they will,” George said. “Unless you keep FooFoo locked up for the next few weeks.” The dogs had retreated but were waiting, all eyes on little FooFoo, who wriggled and squirmed to get down.
“Locked up? Why ever should I do that? FooFoo loves her walkies in the park.”
“Yes, but she’s in season at the moment,” George explained. And when the lady didn’t seem to understand, she added, “She’s in heat. Those dogs know it. They can smell her.”
Mrs. Prescott pulled a horrified face. “Smell her? But she was bathed this morning with my own special soap. And why would that make them attack her? They didn’t attack me and I use the same soap.”
George couldn’t think how else to explain. Not in any polite way. She cast an appealing look at Emm, who stepped forward. “What my niece means, Mrs. Prescott, is that your dog has entered her breeding season.” Emm patted her own burgeoning belly in gentle emphasis.
Mrs. Prescott blinked at Emm’s belly, then gasped in understanding. “No, it cannot be! My little FooFoo is far too young for that! She’s still a puppy.”
“She’s not a puppy anymore, and those dogs know it,” George said bluntly. “So keep her away from all other dogs for the next few weeks.”
“I will, oh, I will. Thank you so much, dear, brave Lady Georgiana. Good day to you, Lady Ashendon, Lady Dorothea.” Mrs. Prescott hurried away, little FooFoo clamped firmly to her bosom, gazing wistfully back at her admirers, her feathery tail gently wagging.
“She was widowed last year,” Aunt Dottie explained. “She’s childless, and her husband was a cold, hard man who never let her keep a pet. FooFoo is her first.”
“The way those dogs were going at it,” George said frankly, “FooFoo might just present her with some more.”
Emm burst out laughing. “George, darling, you are such a breath of fresh air. Don’t ever change.”