Attila snatched a mouthful of grass, but otherwise stood like a sentry where Tyne had dismounted.
Tyne regarded the mare, his hands on his hips. “If this outing has caused Snow Princess to become lame, Amanda will ring a peal over my head that makes the bells of St. Paul’s sound like a polite summons to the family parlor.”
“I can walk,” Lucy said. Though hiking through the streets of Mayfair with her riding skirts over her arm was hardly an appealing prospect.
“Nonsense,” Lord Tyne replied. “You shall take Attila, and I will walk.”
They’d left their groom loitering with the other grooms at the gates of the park. “I could take the groom’s horse.”
“James brought out an unruly ruffian by the name of Merlin for this outing. He’d run off with you for the sheer pleasure of giving me a fright. Damned beast should go to the knacker, but James is fond of him.”
Tyne approached the mare and held up his arms. “Down you go, Miss Fletcher.”
Lucy unhooked her knee from the horn, gathered up her skirts, and eased from the saddle, straight into Lord Tyne’s arms.
* * *
Tyne had been ready to curse aloud, to damn all lame horses, all pebbles, and all parliamentary bills for good measure, until Miss Fletcher slid into his embrace.
He’d been striving mightily to achieve a tone of harmless banter and failing at every turn. Miss Fletcher had made the requisite charming responses, but she didn’t simper or flirt, she didn’t offer any bold conversational gambits of her own. The sum of the morning’s accomplishments had been to prove that she was a natural equestrian, and he was a failure as a flirt.
Fancy that.
Then Miss Fletcher slipped from the saddle on a soft slide of velvet and lace, and the fresh morning air became tinged with the fragrance of mint and possibility. She was warm from her exertions, and her arms rested on Tyne’s biceps, while his hands remained about her waist.
“Your skirt,” Tyne said, reaching behind her, “is caught on the billets. I’ll have you free in no time.”
The lady could not move, because she was pinned to the horse’s side by her habit. The moment was theoretically dangerous and exactly the sort of mishap that inspired gentlemanly assistance with a lady’s dismount in the first place.
Tyne eased the fold of velvet from between the lengths of leather, though his task required that he all but crush Miss Fletcher against the horse.
She didn’t appear to mind. In fact, she might have leaned into him, and she certainly kept her hands on his arms. For a moment, she was embracing him while he fussed with yards of damned riding habit and tried not to let a particularly eager part of his anatomy become obviously inspired by her closeness.
Which was no use. He had to step back, lest public improprieties ensue.
“I can walk,” Miss Fletcher said.
I very nearly cannot. “That won’t be necessary. If you’d hold the mare’s reins, I’ll switch the saddles, and we’ll be on our way shortly.”
That exercise took enough of Tyne’s concentration that he regained a measure of composure. Then, however, came the challenge of hoisting the lady onto Attila’s back. Because the gelding was considerably taller than the mare, a simple hand around Miss Fletcher’s ankle would not suffice.
“Step into my hands, and I’ll boost you up,” Tyne said. “Attila, you will stand like a perfect little scholar reciting his sums, unless you want to make the knacker’s acquaintance before sundown.”
Attila stood. Miss Fletcher gathered her skirts over her arm and lifted a dainty boot into Tyne’s cupped hands. She scrambled aboard Tyne’s horse and took up the reins, leaving Tyne to do further battle with the sea of velvet.
He tightened the girth a hole, took up the mare’s reins, and sent Attila a warning glower. “You will walk, with all pretensions to dignity, horse. Set one hoof wrong with Miss Fletcher aboard, and you will never lay eyes on a carrot or apple again, not if you live to be thirty and win the Derby in three successive years.”
“He’s trembling with fear,” Miss Fletcher said, patting the wretched beast. “A quaking mass of equine nerves, my lord. If you’ll show the way, we shall summon all of our courage, put our complete trust in your leadership, and brave all the terrors awaiting us. Is that not what an adventure requires?”
Tyne’s spirits lifted at the sight of her smile—for she was smiling at him, not at the stinking creature trying to impersonate a harmless lamb.
“As long as you’re having an adventure, Miss Fletcher, my joy in the day is complete.”
“As is mine.”
That was ladylike banter, by God. In an entirely acceptable, though unmistakable, manner, she was bantering with her employer and possibly even flirting. Tyne tried not to smile the whole distance back to the house, and Attila came along, as docile as a perfect little scholar.
* * *
Because the mare was recovering from her stone bruise, Lucy was excused from riding out again with his lordship. In little more than a week, she’d face the choice of whether to keep her assignation with Thor, or let her single encounter with him fade into fond, if frustrating, memory. She had the odd notion that if she discussed her choice with the marquess, he’d offer her considered, disinterested advice, much as a true friend would.
But did she want to limit the marquess to the role of friend? He’d been charming on their dawn ride, attentive, considerate… very nearly swainly. He’d shared a longing to read to some lucky woman on a picnic blanket, to admire her bare feet…
“I find you once again among the fairy tales,” Lord Tyne said, striding into the library on Saturday afternoon. “Where are the children?”
He was looking all too handsome, blond hair slightly disarranged, suggesting he’d been at his ledgers. His blue eyes were impatient and held a hint of mischief.
“Sylvie has taken it into her head that Amanda and I are too old to join the nursery tea parties, and Amanda has decided that sketching embroidery patterns does not require my assistance or the distraction of a younger sibling. That they are amusing themselves, and separately, is a good sign, my lord.”
Tyne gestured to the other reading chair positioned before the hearth, and Lucy nodded her assent. He was so mannerly, so—
He plucked her book from her hand. “I knew it. Mr. DeCoursy has carried you off again. He will simply have to wait his turn today, for I’m intent on carrying you off as well.”
Lord Tyne was mannerly most of the time. “I’m not exactly a sylph, your lordship, and I object to being hauled about.”
“No, you do not, else you’d never have lasted a single waltz at the tea dances you were doubtless forced to attend. From my observation, too many fellows do little more than haul their partners about. Why the waltz hasn’t been outlawed for the preservation of the ladies’ toes is a mystery for the ages.”
He wore no coat, which was unusual for him, and a trial for Lucy. She knew now how strong those arms were, how muscular his chest. She had become fascinated with his wrists—sketched them for an hour last night—and they were on view because he’d turned back his cuffs.
“Perhaps some obliging fellow of a parliamentary bent might draft a bill outlawing the waltz,” Lucy said. “Do you happen to know an MP who might oblige?”
Tyne rose and shelved the book. “Why would I associate with such a prosy old dodderer when I can instead kidnap fair maidens and take them to Gunter’s?”
Maidens, plural. “You’d like to take the girls out for an ice?”
“Not without you,” he said, extending a hand to her. “If I take them by myself, I’m outnumbered. Any papa knows that’s bad strategy. I also lack your ability to settle their squabbles with a calm word.”
Lucy took his hand and rose, though she was capable of standing unassisted. She simply wanted to touch him and wanted him to touch her. The short time she’d spent in Thor’s company had awakened some mischievous inclination in her, or made her loneliness—and her employer—har
der to ignore.
“The girls squabble to get your attention,” she said. “If they were boys, they’d resort to fisticuffs for the same reason.”
“Some boys scrap for the pure joy of it. My younger brothers were always at each other, until Papa threatened to send one to Eton, one to Harrow, and one to Rugby.”
His younger brothers had likely been trying to get his attention. “Did you scrap for the pure joy of it?” She’d pictured Lord Tyne as a quiet, dignified boy—or she had until they’d ridden out together.
“I was the oldest, and thus the largest. I had to let them come at me in twos or all at once to make the fight fair. You will think me quite the barbarian, but I did enjoy horseplay as a youth.”
She smoothed her hand over his cravat, which was a half inch off center. “You scrap with the boys in the House of Lords now, don’t you?”
His smile was downright piratical. “You’ve found me out. Let’s mount a raid on Gunter’s, shall we? A spot of pillaging lifts the spirits of any self-respecting barbarian.”
Lucy took his arm, which was ridiculous, but so was fisticuffs for the joy of thrashing one’s siblings, so was categorizing a barberry ice as plunder, and so was entertaining fanciful notions regarding one’s employer.
“Perhaps we ought to take a blanket to spread beneath the maples,” she said. “Raiding on such a lovely day might tire out your foot soldiers.”
“Excellent notion,” his lordship replied, pausing at the foot of the main stairs. “You will doubtless do a better job of ordering the infantry from their barracks. I’ll meet you here in ten minutes.”
He strode away with his characteristic energy, and Lucy watched his departure with uncharacteristic longing. Berkeley Square boasted no babbling brook into which she might dangle her bare feet, and his lordship simply wanted assistance with the children—not some sighing damsel for him to read poetry to.
What Lucy wanted was becoming increasingly unclear, though barberry ices were her favorite treat, and that was insight enough for the day.
Chapter Four
* * *
Tyne’s habit had been to avoid imposing on Miss Fletcher’s time unnecessarily. If he was taking the children to call on family, their governess could better use that hour to steal a nap, visit friends, or drop in on the lending library.
He’d apparently erred, for the children were much better behaved when Miss Fletcher was on hand to quell insurrections before they became outright revolts. The first attempted insurrection had come from Sylvie, who had wanted to bring along a platoon of dolls.
“You may bring one,” Miss Fletcher had said. “Provided you and your doll of choice are back downstairs in the next five minutes.”
The next sign of rebellion came from Amanda, who refused to sit next to a doll. Miss Fletcher solved that dilemma by placing herself beside Sylvie and Lady Higginbottom, the privileged doll of the day.
Amanda took her place beside Tyne on the backward-facing seat, which occasioned an outthrust tongue from Sylvie. Miss Fletcher pretended to be absorbed in retying her bonnet ribbons rather than remark Sylvie’s rudeness or Amanda’s return fire.
“You spend your entire day with these rag-mannered tatterdemalions, Miss Fletcher?” Tyne asked. “I marvel at your fortitude. What flavor of ice do tatterdemalions prefer?”
“What’s a tatter… tatter the dandelion?” Sylvie asked.
“An unkempt, roguish vagabond,” Miss Fletcher said.
“I want to be a tatter… a roguish vagabond when I grow up,” Sylvie said. “Lady Higginbottom and I will be the scourges of the high toby too.”
“Then you and your doll will be taken up by the sheriff,” Amanda retorted, “and bound over for the assizes. If I’m lucky, you’ll be sent to the Antipodes to serve out your days in hard labor.”
“What manner of sister,” Tyne observed, “would rather send her only sibling halfway around the world than join her in an adventure? I do wonder if such a sister should even share an ice with her family.”
“Sorry, Syl,” Amanda muttered.
“We wouldn’t hold up your coach,” Sylvie replied. “We’d brandy our pistols and protect you.”
“Brandish,” Amanda said, gesturing with her parasol. “Brandy is that nasty potion Papa keeps on the sideboard in his study. Brandy makes your throat burn and your nose run.”
Miss Fletcher cast Tyne an admonitory glance: Your adolescent daughter has sampled the brandy. You will not roar and carry on about it in front of Lady Sylvie or me. Her gaze held sympathy and humor, and Tyne was reassured. He had sampled his papa’s brandy at a much younger age than Amanda was now, and it had made his throat burn and his nose run too.
Another good sign, in other words, that Amanda was exhibiting normal youthful curiosity.
“We’re here!” Sylvie shouted, bouncing on the seat. “Lady Higginbottom wants a lemon ice. I shall have maple.”
“Elderflower,” Amanda said as the coach came to a halt.
“Miss Fletcher? You might as well give me your order now.”
“Barberry,” she said. “Which treat would you like, my lord?”
The treat he longed for was a kiss from Miss Fletcher, which was all wrong. They were in a coach with two children and a doll, she’d done nothing other than smile at him, manage the children, and share a few moments bordering on the parental. In her plain straw bonnet, she was hardly alluring, and yet…
She was his Miss Fletcher, and he’d held her in his arms, and now his imagination was like a horse newly escaped from captivity.
“I’ll want a nice, refreshing serving of patience,” Tyne said, climbing from the coach. The children spilled forth, while Miss Fletcher made a more dignified exit. She perched on the step, her hand in Tyne’s.
“Girls, you will mind your father, or there will be extra sums for all of next week.”
“I like sums,” Sylvie said. “So does Lady Higginbottom.”
“Capital cities, then,” Miss Fletcher said, making a graceful descent. “We are in a public venue, and our deportment reflects on the dignity of your papa’s house. Best behavior, or his lordship won’t be inspired to invite us out again.”
Was she warning him to be on his best behavior?
Miss Fletcher shot him a wink and dropped his hand. “They’ll try hard for about five minutes, but cakes and ices have never been known to settle children down.”
Nor did winks settle down grown men. Tyne placed the order and took Sylvie’s hand as they crossed the street to the grassy, shaded square, a groom carrying their treats. Miss Fletcher chose the spot under the maples for their blanket, and Tyne allowed himself one moment to wish that the children might have been gamboling away the afternoon with some obliging cousins out in Kent, while Tyne…
Gamboled away the afternoon with Miss Fletcher in a secluded meadow far, far from the Mayfair gossips. In little more than a week, he had to choose whether to keep his assignation with Freya, and the lonely, bored part of him that could be intrigued with a single kiss was inclined to do that.
The part of him that had daughters to raise, parliamentary bills to put forth, and a lovely governess underfoot wasn’t inclined to pursue a fairy tale when the genuine article was already sharing his household.
The ices were consumed, and the children resumed bickering until Miss Fletcher suggested they entertain themselves with the ball she’d thought to bring along.
“Amanda will soon be too dignified to kick a ball about in the park,” Miss Fletcher said. “She should enjoy playing with her sister while she still can.”
“When the family removes to Tyne Hall this summer, we’ll get up some cricket games with the cousins,” Tyne said. “My sisters all play, and the best pitcher of the lot is my brother Detrick’s oldest girl.”
Another pair of girls joined in the game of kickball—Lord Amery’s oldest and some cohort of hers with a deadly accurate left foot. Much yelling and argument about rules ensued, as it should when children played out of door
s.
“When you remove to Tyne Hall, I ought to seek another post,” Miss Fletcher said. “The girls are moving on from their mother’s death, and you should find them a governess whom they won’t associate as closely with their grief.”
What the hell? Tyne had been lounging about on the blanket, propped on one elbow.
He sat up. “Your logic eludes me. The time of grief was more than two years ago, when their mother went to her eternal reward. Your tenure with the girls has been a period of improving spirits, better sleep, and a happier papa. Why should I now tear the children away from somebody who has brought them such boons?”
Miss Fletcher’s gaze remained on the girls, who were trying to kick the ball straight at a dignified old maple, and—with the exception of the left-footed terror—mostly failing to hit their target.
“Are you a happier papa?” Miss Fletcher asked. “If you are happy enough to consider courting another marchioness, that’s reason enough for me to seek a different post. I have overstepped with your children, because I knew they were without a mother’s love. Your new wife will fill that role, and the children’s loyalties would be torn if I stayed on.”
“Good God, now you have me married to some woman I’ve never even courted. Have you been reading too many fairy tales, Miss Fletcher?”
“Perhaps—or not enough of them. Promise me you’ll think on this, my lord. I can assist with the choice of a successor governess, if that’s not getting above my station. There’s no hurry, but you should give the notion some consideration.”
Tyne considered the notion for two entire seconds and found it dreadful. “You have it all wrong, Miss Fletcher. One doesn’t pike off as soon as the bonds of affection have been secured. I know not what experience put that ridiculous idea in your head, but you will only hurt the children if you leave us now. Amanda is facing the hardest years of a young lady’s life, Sylvie will need a steady anchor as her sister makes her bow, and I won’t have my daughters cast aside because your courage has failed you.”
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 31