Giles was even handsomer than he’d been as a youth. Lucy was doubtless plainer than ever, and sweeping her off her feet would be the work of a few weeks’ courtship.
* * *
Miss Fletcher had insisted that she and Tyne dispense with the bow-and-curtsey ritual. Tyne had wanted to object—a gentleman extended courtesy to everyone, not only to the people he sought to impress—but she’d pointed out that he did not bow to the housekeeper and would feel ridiculous doing so.
“You asked for a moment of my time,” Tyne said. “I trust Sylvie and Amanda are well?”
This was all Tyne knew to do with her—discuss the girls, be polite, keep his questions to himself. Freya’s comments came back to him, though: How was a woman to know Tyne esteemed her if he never gave voice to his sentiments?
Miss Fletcher was nothing if not tidy, though today her hair was arranged more softly about her face. Her dress was a high-waisted blue velvet several years out of fashion, and the color flattered her eyes. If he said as much, she’d likely box his ears with her book.
“Lady Sylvie and Lady Amanda are in good health, my lord. Both, however, could stand to improve their equestrian skills.”
Tyne had ridden like a demon almost before he’d been breeched. He missed that—riding hell-bent at dawn, his brothers thundering along beside him. Josephine hadn’t had much use for horses, or the stink, horsehair, and mud that inevitably resulted from time in their company.
“Did you or did not you,” Tyne said, “recently scold me into buying Amanda a mare to replace the equine sloth she was previously riding? If she can ride a pony, she can ride anything.”
“With the pony, she was on a lead line most of the time. A lady should be in command of her own mount.”
Miss Fletcher wore a lovely scent, not one Tyne had noticed previously. Minty with a hint of flowers.
“What were you reading?”
She edged to the left two steps, putting herself between Tyne and the discarded book. “I was merely browsing, awaiting your arrival.”
He reached around her. Myths, Fables, and Ancient Legends of the North by Roderick DeCoursy.
“Are you in want of adventure, Miss Fletcher? Looking for an exciting tale or two?”
She took the book from him. “And if I am? Do you suppose because I am a governess that I don’t enjoy a light dose of excitement from time to time? We can’t all be devoted to ledgers and parliamentary committee meetings.”
She was in fine form today, very much on her mettle. “Regardless of my boring proclivities, I will not subject my daughter to unnecessary risks. You are working up to a demand that I take the girls riding in the park.”
Ah, he’d surprised her. She didn’t retort until she’d turned to the shelves. “Most children on this square are taken for regular outings in the park on horseback. My request would have been reasonable.”
She was trying to reshelve her myths and fables, but the library had been arranged for Tyne’s convenience, and she was petite, relative to him. He came up behind her, took the book from her, and slipped it onto the shelf above her head.
She turned, and abruptly, Tyne was improperly close to his daughters’ governess. She regarded him steadily, neither affronted nor welcoming.
“What is that scent?” Tyne asked, leaning down for a whiff of her hair. “It’s delightful.”
She apparently found the toes of his boots fascinating. “Did you just pay me a compliment, my lord?”
He had the odd thought that she’d fit him much as Freya had were he to take her in his arms—which he was not about to do. He did, however, treat himself to another sniff of her fragrance.
“I did, and now that I know the heavens do not part, nor the end times arrive as a result, I might venture to pay you another. I’d take the girls riding, except I have no notion how well Amanda’s mare would deal with such an outing.”
He stepped back, though he wished he knew which myth or fable Miss Fletcher had been reading.
“Surely you bought a quiet mare for your daughter?”
“Shall we sit? I’ve been running all over Town today, and last night went later than planned.”
Miss Fletcher had fixed notions about what constituted excessive familiarity between employer and governess. She joined the family for informal meals, always arriving and leaving with the girls. She attended services with them. If Tyne took the young ladies to call on family, Miss Fletcher did not go along.
And yet, the girls were blossoming in her care. Tyne had no doubt she would give her life for them, and surely her ferocious loyalty excused Tyne’s vague fancies regarding a woman in his employ. He tugged the bell-pull and prepared to embark on a small adventure of his own.
“You’re ringing for tea?” she asked.
“Am I to starve for the sake of your etiquette, Miss Fletcher? Supper is hours away, and I’m peckish. Perhaps you could stand some sustenance yourself.”
She looked tired to him, as if an afternoon spent curled up with that blasted book wouldn’t have gone amiss. She perched on the edge of the sofa, like a sparrow lighting on an unfamiliar windowsill. Had some loss or heartache made her so careful with social boundaries? The idea explained much, including a love of fairy tales masked by a brisk lack of sentimentality.
“A cup of tea while we discuss an outing for the girls would be permissible,” she said.
“Two cups,” Tyne replied. “They’re quite small. If Englishmen were sensible, they’d drink their ale from tea cups and their tea from tankards. We’d all get more done that way, and the streets would be safer.”
“Back to Lady Amanda’s mare, if you don’t mind, sir.”
Tyne did mind, but he was nothing if not persistent. Freya had been right—fate would not hand him a marchioness and the girls a step-mama. He hoped his Valkyrie kept their appointment in two weeks, mostly so he could thank her for inspiring his determination where Miss Fletcher was concerned.
“You refer to my daughter’s lovely mare,” Tyne said, “whom the auctioneer assured me could canter from one moonbeam to the next, never putting a hoof wrong. I’m not of a size to ride the mare myself, else I’d take her out the first few times. If she should shy at the sight of water or prove unruly in traffic, Amanda will take a fall, and matters will deteriorate apace.”
“Can’t the grooms take her out?”
“My grooms disdain to ride aside, and Snowball is a lady’s mount.”
“Snowdrop, my lord.”
“Mudbank, for all I care. I propose that you take out the mare, Miss Fletcher. I will ride with you, so the horse can accustom herself to the company of my gelding. If all goes smoothly after several trial rides, Amanda can join me for a hack.”
A fine plan, so of course Miss Fletcher was scowling. She didn’t pinch up like a vexed schoolteacher, but her brow developed one charming furrow, and her lips—she had a pretty mouth—firmed.
“My habit is hardly fashionable, my lord.”
“But you do have one, and you have neglected your adventuring sorely. Ride out with me, Miss Fletcher, and call it an adventure.”
A tap on the door saved Tyne from elaborating on that bouncer. No lady had considered any time in his company adventurous, with the possible exception of Freya. The first footman wheeled in the tea trolley, and Tyne waved him off.
“Miss Fletcher, would you be so good as to pour out?”
Her scowl faded as the dawn chased away the night, to be replaced by a soft, amused smile. “Never let it be said I allowed you to starve, my lord. Have a seat. You prefer your tea with neither milk nor sugar, if I recall.”
That she’d noticed this detail pleased him, thus proving that he was addled. “You are correct, while you prefer yours with both.”
Her smile became a grin, and she fixed Tyne’s tea exactly as he preferred it.
* * *
Lucy was lucky to get on a horse once a month, if Marianne wanted to hack out on Lucy’s half day. The outings invariably left her sore and fr
ustrated.
Sore, because she didn’t ride often enough to condition her muscles to the exertion.
Frustrated, because as a girl growing up in Hampshire, she’d ridden almost every day when the weather had been fine. The weather this morning was very fine indeed, though brisk enough that the horses would be lively.
The prospect of starting her day with a gallop in the park had her in a happy mood, despite her out-of-date riding habit, despite the early hour.
“Up you go,” Lord Tyne said when Lucy had been ready to lead the mare over to the ladies’ mounting block.
His lordship looked fixed on the task of assisting Lucy into the saddle, and she was in too good spirits to argue with him. His grasp around the ankle of her boot was secure, and when he hoisted her into the saddle, she got an impression of considerable—and surprising—strength.
She took up the reins as his lordship arranged her skirts over her boots, a courtesy her brothers had never shown her.
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “If you could—”
He was already taking the girth up one hole. “The stirrup is the correct length?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He walked around to face the mare. “Behave, madam, else it shall go badly for you.”
So stern! For an instant, Lucy thought his warning was for her. Then the marquess stroked his gloved hand gently over the mare’s neck, giving the horse’s ear an affectionate scratch.
“Miss Fletcher tolerates no disrespect,” he went on, “and any high spirits must be expressed within the confines of ladylike good cheer.”
Ah—he was teasing. He was teasing Lucy, for one could not tease a horse.
“Walk on, Snowdrop,” she said. “An entire park awaits our pleasure. If his lordship thinks to interfere with our enjoyment, it will go badly for him.”
His lordship swung into the saddle without benefit of a mounting block and walked his gelding alongside the mare.
“We’ll start slowly,” he said as the horses clip-clopped down the alley, “because you ladies have not kept company before. Attila, stop flirting.”
The gelding, a substantial black with a flowing mane, whisked his tail.
“He’s a good lad,” Tyne said. “Up to my weight, calm in the face of London’s many terrors, but he’s shamelessly spoiled for treats. About the mare, he cares not at all. For the slice of apple in your pocket, he’ll be your personal servant.”
“I brought carrots.”
“Carrots might earn you an offer of eternal devotion. Where did you learn to ride?”
As they navigated the deserted streets of Mayfair at dawn, Lucy saw a new side to her employer. He was an attentive escort, pleasant company even, asking her one polite question after another and listening to her answers.
Actually listening, to the story of how she came to be able to write with either hand.
“I was determined not to fall behind my brothers in my schoolwork, and yet, my wrist was broken, not sprained. I had to learn to write with my left hand or suffer the torments known only to younger sisters with very bright older siblings.”
“You were allowed to climb trees?” his lordship asked as the horses walked through the gates to the park.
“If one is to invite one’s dolls to tea in the treehouse, one had best be a good climber. Shall we let the horses stretch their legs? Snowdrop has been a pattern card of equine deportment.”
Attila, on the other hand, was prancing, apparently ready for a gallop.
“Let’s trot to the first bend in the Serpentine and then find room for a more athletic pace.”
Tyne was being careful with her, giving her and the mare a chance to become cordial. Attila was having none of it and all but cantered in place as Lucy cued Snowdrop into a ladylike trot. A few other riders were up and about, but today was Thursday. Most everybody of note had likely been at Almack’s late the previous evening. They would miss this glorious morning in this gorgeous park.
Attila had taken to adding the occasional buck to his progress, which his lordship rode with the same equanimity he showed toward parliamentary frustrations, feuding footmen, and cross little girls. Truly, not much disconcerted Lord Tyne, a quality Lucy hadn’t much appreciated in recent months.
“This way,” Lucy called, turning Snowdrop onto a straight stretch of bridle path. “Tallyho!” She urged the mare into a canter, and joy welled, for the horse covered the ground in a beautiful, smooth gait.
Tyne let Attila stretch into a canter as well, and the gelding soon overtook the mare, though Snowdrop refused to be baited. She kept to the same relaxed, elegant pace, and every care and woe Lucy had brought with her into the saddle was soon cast away.
When the horses came down to the walk, Lucy was winded, while Tyne had plenty of breath to scold his horse.
“You, sir, are a naughty boy. You wanted to show off for the ladies, though how you expect to gain anybody’s respect by bucking and heaving yourself about in such an undignified manner beggars all comprehension. You should be ashamed of yourself, and”—the gelding began to prance—“anticipate the cut direct from Miss Snowdrift if you ever attempt to stand up with her again.”
Tyne’s chiding tone was offset by an easy pat to Attila’s shoulder.
“Do you always talk to your horse, my lord?”
“Is there a proper English equestrian who doesn’t?”
“No,” Lucy replied, “and the conversation is invariably witty and charming.”
“Do you imply that I could be witty and charming, Miss Fletcher?”
Despite his bantering tone, Lucy suspected the question held some hint of genuine curiosity. “I dare to imply that very possibility, my lord.” He was also an athlete, with natural ease in the saddle, strength, skill, and fitness Lucy would not have suspected based on the time he spent penning correspondence or drafting bills.
Another feature of his riding was tact. He reminded his horse to behave; he chided; he did not bully.
“I speak honestly when I say that you ride well, Miss Fletcher. We must get you into the saddle more often, because you clearly enjoy yourself there.”
A governess did not expect such consideration. “I love to ride—really ride, not merely mince along on some doddering nag wearing a saddle. I sometimes forget that.”
“Why is it,” Tyne said, “the voice of duty can drown out all other worthy considerations? We must make an agreement, Miss Fletcher, to remind one another that an occasional gallop in the park, an afternoon with a good book, a picnic even, are all that makes the duty bearable sometimes.”
The gelding snorted, the mare swished her tail. As the horses walked along beneath greening maples on a beautiful morning, Lucy realized once again that her employer was lonely and that part of his devotion to duty—like hers—was a means of coping with the loneliness.
“I will honor that pact,” Lucy said, “though picnicking with two high-spirited children isn’t exactly my idea of a treasured joy.”
“Who said anything about dragging that pair along? I meant picnicking in the company of a congenial adult of the opposite sex. Perhaps even—one delights to contemplate the notion—reading to her on a blanket spread upon the soft spring grass, or sharing a glass of wine with her while she cools her bare feet in the summer shallows of an obliging brook.”
Oh, how lucky that lady would be. Tyne had a beautiful reading voice, and his grip on a wineglass had the power to rivet Lucy’s attention. She had discovered months ago the pleasure of sketching his lordship’s hands, trying to capture their grace and masculine competence with pencil and paper.
As he tormented her with further descriptions of his summer idyll, Lucy’s imagination went further: What would his hands feel like on her?
“You are quiet, Miss Fletcher. Has the company grown tedious? Shall we have another gallop? And I do mean a gallop. You and Snow-moppet are fast friends now, and I know you want to see what she can do.”
“One more run,” Lucy said, “and then we must re
turn to the house, for the children will be rising.”
Lord Tyne aimed Attila back up the path they’d cantered over earlier. “The children have highly paid, highly competent nursery maids to attend them, a staff of four in the kitchen to feed them, and various other domestics to ensure there’s no falling out of windows, climbing of trees, or other wild behavior. After you.”
He gestured with his riding crop. Attila pretended to spook, and Snowdrop lifted easily from walk to canter and from thence to a tidy gallop.
Some of Lucy’s joy in the outing had fled, because she was soon to reunite with her duties. She’d change out of her habit and into the drab attire of the governess, correct the children’s manners at the breakfast table, and turn her attention to… irregular French verbs.
The mare seemed to share Lucy’s diminished glee, for her gallop was less than exuberant by the time the path joined one of the park’s larger thoroughfares. Lucy slowed Snowdrop in anticipation of that turn and realized the mare wasn’t simply tiring, she was… off stride.
“Miss Fletcher!” Lord Tyne called from three lengths back. “Something is amiss with your mount. She’s favoring the right front, blast the luck.”
He was out of the saddle in a smooth leap before Attila had come to a halt. The gelding stood obediently as Lord Tyne lifted Snowdrop’s right front hoof.
“She’s picked up a dratted stone. Why the bridle paths are strewn with gravel, I shall never know.” He produced a folding knife, flipped it open, and applied the tip to the offending stone. “Some lord or other ought to introduce a bill forbidding the use of gravel on bridle paths. The poor beast could have been seriously injured. Walk her a few paces, if you please.”
He set down the mare’s hoof and tucked the knife away.
Lucy directed Snowdrop across the grass rather than along the gravel path. “She’s not right,” she said. “She’s not lame, but she’s not right.”
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 30