The Duke's Bridle Path

by Burrowes, Grace

  This was a workable plan and afforded Philippe many opportunities to spend time with Talbot, which could result in opportunities to spend time with Harriet.

  Maybe.

  “You’d be gambling with his life, in other words,” Ramsdale said. “How is Miss Talbot to manage without her father’s presence on their property?”

  Harriet would manage, but this was the fly in the horse lineament: Harriet would have to work harder than ever if her papa took a leave of absence to resume employment on the Lavelle estate.

  “Another option is to buy the Talbot property and grant Talbot a life estate.”

  Ramsdale poured himself a cup of coffee. “Oh, right. Then when the old man dies, the young lady has some cash—assuming it wasn’t frittered away putting the property to rights—but her pride and joy is in your hands, and you have not the slightest interest in adding a stable to your assets.”

  “I would never deprive Harriet of her stable.”

  Ramsdale stirred cream into his coffee. “She would never take charity from you. Has it occurred to you that the poor woman might be in want of a dowry?”

  Philippe set his plate aside, and to hell with one’s patriotic duty. “Why should she need a dowry?”

  “So that she could marry a suitable successor to her dear papa. A man who could learn the business without displacing the woman who loves that business. A dashing horseman, a younger son who comes around pretending to be interested in buying a nag or two. Miss Talbot is comely, and she’ll inherit a fine Berkshire stable. She could aspire to a title if she was ambitious.”

  Which Harriet was not.

  Ramsdale took a sip of his coffee. His expression was thoughtful, and he was in riding attire. He’d tarried at the Talbots’ last night, and he’d never turned down an invitation to join Philippe in Berkshire.

  The earl was attractive, if a woman could overlook unruly dark hair, a lordly nose, and the shoulders of a blacksmith. Ramsdale and Harriet got on well. His title was ancient, and he needed heirs.

  As did Philippe. “I’m considering another option. Considering it seriously.”

  “Do tell.”

  “The Talbots breed first-rate riding stock, they take excellent care of their horses, and their location is perfect for starting youngsters who won’t have a career at the races. All they need is for polite society to take a little notice of them.”

  While Philippe needed for Harriet to take more than a little notice of him.

  “You are polite society personified. If you were any more polite, you’d have to carry a harp and halo with you on occasions of state.”

  “Precisely the point. I am in a position to draw notice to the Talbots and increase their custom.” Which was why this option, complicated though it was, had earned the majority of Philippe’s consideration.

  “You’ll become a horse trader? Waste your coin on spavined, underfed, racing stock that will never be up to your weight? Shall you raise malodorous hounds and wear those execrable pinks for five months of the year?”

  “Of course not. If I want to call attention to the fine stock in Jackson Talbot’s stables, if I want to establish before all and sundry that I approve of the Talbots’ operation, I have only to make one small gesture in the right direction, and all will come right.”

  Provided Philippe survived that small gesture.

  “You’ll dower Miss Talbot. Capital notion. She’s a fine woman and deserves every happiness in this life. I’m sure once Talbot recovers from the apoplexy your insult serves to his pride, he’ll remember to thank you.”

  “Ramsdale, have a little faith in your friends. I would happily dower Harriet—Miss Talbot—should the need arise. Until such time as it does, I’ll do the one thing I promised myself I would never, ever do.”

  Ramsdale sat back and crossed his arms. “You’ll marry her?”

  Philippe nearly spluttered tea all over himself. “You consider marriage a small gesture?”

  “Gentlemen do not discuss size.”

  While schoolboys discussed little else. “My plan was to ask for Talbot’s assistance in regaining my skills in the saddle. I’ll be home for the foreseeable future, Talbot was my first riding instructor, and I’m sure he’ll have a mount that will suit me, once I recollect the basics.”

  The silence in the breakfast parlor was so profound, Philippe could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  “You’ll get back on a horse merely to help a former employee find a few more customers?”

  “No, Ramsdale. I’ll polish some neglected skills because it suits me to do so. I live in Berkshire, where every other farm aspires to produce the next champion stud. If in spring, I’m inclined to hack out in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, or join a lady for a morning gallop, that is entirely my business.”

  “Please tell me you’re not trying to impress that Warminster creature. All Mayfair will sigh in relief when she decamps for the Midlands.”

  Ramsdale hadn’t laughed at Philippe’s plan, which was encouraging. He also hadn’t tried to talk Philippe into changing his mind, which was no damned help at all.

  “You said it yourself, Ramsdale. Jonas has gone to his reward, and it’s time I got on with being the duke.” And if Philippe had to climb back onto a horse to impress his prospective duchess, then onto a horse he would climb.

  * * *

  Harriet handed off the second two-year-old to a groom and headed for the house, intent on finding a midday meal, or a midafternoon meal. The hours in the stable flew, until she became famished. Only when famished progressed to thirsty, light-headed, and snappish did she force herself to do something about her hunger.

  Snappish and young horses was a bad combination. Some bread and cheese, a mug of ale, and Harriet would return to the barn…

  She had batted aside a skein of blown roses drooping over the front steps when raised voices from inside the house came to her notice. Papa had a grand bellow, such as anybody who’d taught riding had to have. Harriet hadn’t heard her father using his arena voice for some time though, and this was not a happy bellow.

  The other voice was softer, but equally emphatic. Harriet let herself through the front door, and the voices became clearer.

  “You can’t… damned… foolishness, Your Grace.”

  Your Grace? She stripped off her gloves and sat to unbuckle her spur.

  “Damned stubbornness… simple request, Talbot.”

  Philippe, and he hadn’t stopped by the paddocks to greet her. Harriet had hoped the duke would return to London, and when next they saw each other, they could make light of a kiss shared for the sake of legend.

  Not a legendary kiss, not a kiss that had changed Harriet’s view of herself and her future, merely a gesture between old friends.

  She hurried down the corridor, tapped twice on the door to Papa’s study, and walked right in. The horses had taught her that: walk into the barn as if all was well, the day was beautiful, and great good fun awaited Harriet and her mounts.

  Horses, unlike stable hands, customers, and fathers, paid attention.

  “Pardon me,” Harriet said. “Your Grace, good day. Papa, I was on my way to the kitchen. Would you gentlemen care to join me in a sandwich?”

  “No, thank you,” Papa growled.

  The duke rose from the chair opposite the desk. “Miss Talbot, greetings. Sustenance would be welcome.”

  The two men Harriet cared about most in the world glowered at each other. Had they been a pair of yearling colts, she would have left them to their posturing and pawing.

  “You’re apparently having a difference of opinion,” she said. “You could be heard halfway to the mares’ barn.”

  His Grace snatched a pair of gloves from the desk. “Mr. Talbot is being unreasonable.”

  “The duke asks too much.”

  His Grace was not in the habit of asking anybody for anything. Even last night’s kiss hadn’t been the result of an overt request.

  Harriet’s gaze fell upon P
hilippe’s mouth, which was set in a determined line. She knew the shape and taste of that mouth, knew its skill and the pleasure it could bestow.

  “What has His Grace requested?”

  “It’s of no moment,” the duke replied. “I’ll just be going.”

  This was not good. Philippe had a temper—Harriet had seen it exactly twice. The first time, he had been thirteen and had come upon a bitch and her puppies in a shed at the back of the mayor’s garden. The space had been filthy, the mama emaciated, the stench unbelievable. He’d bought the entire litter and their mama on the spot and sent Harriet for a dog cart to ferry them to the Hall.

  The mayor had lost the next election.

  The second time had been years later. Philippe had come down from university on holiday and stood up with the local young ladies at a tea dance at the parish hall. Harriet’s mama had forced her to attend as well.

  Bascomb Hardy had deliberately tromped on the vicar’s daughter’s hem.

  Elspeth had been slow-witted, but sweet, an easy target for unkindness. Tearing the hem of her best dress should have meant that she missed out on the rest of the dance, the first that the ducal spare had attended.

  Philippe had knelt at Elspeth’s feet, used his cravat pin to hide the damage, and invited her to partner him for the next set. To the young lady, he’d been attentive, charming, and kind.

  To Harriet, his ire had been evident from the tension in his shoulders and the determined quality of his gaze. At services the next week, Bascomb had sported a noticeably swollen nose.

  Harriet had learned to see her childhood friend with new and admiring eyes. Elspeth had married the blacksmith’s son, who’d also stood up with her at that tea dance, and they now had five rambunctious children.

  While Harriet had an argument to settle. “What is the issue?”

  His Grace paused by the door. “Stubbornness.”

  Papa remained seated, which was rude, also an indication of how much his hip pained him. “Unreasonable expectations.”

  The duke strode back to the desk, his boot heels thumping on the thin carpets. “You were the one who suggested it! You all but dared me to try. Now I’m taking you up on your offer, and you spout inanities about suitable mounts and busy schedules.”

  Papa used the arms of his chair to push to his feet. “Autumn is always busy at a stable. Much of the training will cease when the weather turns nasty, and we must work while we can, especially with the youngsters.”

  His Grace picked up Papa’s cane, the handle of which was carved into a horse head. “Talbot, you confound me.” The duke studied the cane for a moment, then passed it across the desk. “Miss Talbot, you mentioned food.”

  The mood had shifted with the passing of the cane. Harriet had no idea what had caused this argument, but the duke had decided to retreat.

  “Nothing fancy, Your Grace. A sandwich, a few biscuits, a peach or two.”

  The pair of peach trees had been a gift to Mama from the old duke, and the trees—unlike the rest of the facility—were having a good year.

  “I adore a succulent peach,” the duke said. “Talbot, good day. My apologies for any untoward remarks.”

  Papa subsided into his chair. “Likewise. Harriet, get the man something to eat.”

  With the horses, Papa was the soul of civility. He never commanded when he could invite, never insisted when he could suggest.

  Harriet had given up expecting the same consideration. “Yes, Papa.”

  The duke looked like he was about to renew the altercation with Papa—perhaps scolding him for his peremptory tone—but Harriet was hungry, and arguing with Papa solved nothing.

  “Your Grace, shall I serve you in the breakfast parlor?”

  “Certainly not. I’ve taken the majority of my meals here in the kitchen, and we need not stand on ceremony now. Or perhaps we should make a picnic of our repast. One never knows when winter will come howling down from the north two and a half months early. We must enjoy the fine weather while it lasts.”

  With that parting shot, he held the door for Harriet, who paused long enough to kiss her father’s cheek before joining the duke in the corridor.

  “You have offended my father,” she said. “We will sort that out once I’ve had something to eat. What did you ask of him?”

  “He has offended me,” the duke replied, accompanying Harriet down the steps. “Though I don’t think he meant to. He teased me the other night, and I took his remarks to heart.”

  The kitchen was empty, the cook being in the habit of joining the housekeeper for a dish of tea at midafternoon. Long ago, the boy Philippe had downed many a mug of cider in this kitchen. The top of his head nearly brushed the dark beams now.

  Philippe was not a boy. He was the man who’d kissed Harriet not twenty-four hours ago.

  She’d kissed other men and then wondered why anybody would seek to repeat the experience. Mouths mashed together, teeth banging, hands landing in awkward locations then not knowing what to do. A very great bother, and for no reason.

  “Are we drinking our ale from tea cups?” the duke asked.

  Some hen-wit had begun assembling a tea tray. “We are not.” Harriet set the tray aside. “I grow scatterbrained when I go too long without eating.”

  “Please do get off your feet,” the duke said, leading Harriet by the hand to the hearth. “I recall well enough how to slice bread and cheese. I wonder if you recall how to sit for five minutes on anything other than a horse.”

  The hearth stones were cool, even through the fabric of Harriet’s breeches and habit. Sitting down felt too good. Watching the duke impersonate a scullery maid felt even better.

  Philippe was the duke—always would be—but part of him was still Harriet’s friend. One kiss hadn’t changed that. “The butter’s in the—”

  “Window box,” he said, brandishing a small crock. “Same as always.”

  He unwrapped the morning’s loaf of bread, unwrapped the cheese wheel, and put together sandwiches. The bread was sliced unevenly, the cheese was too thick, and he applied butter as if Papa had an entire herd of fresh heifers.

  Moving around the kitchen, he also showed off a pair of riding breeches to spectacular advantage.

  “What did you and Papa argue about?”

  “I mistook a jest for a sincere offer,” the duke said. “Where are the mugs?”

  “Above the dry sink.”

  Harriet felt as if she’d fallen half asleep and was having one of those waking dreams that arose from sheer exhaustion in broad daylight. Dozing in the barn, she sometimes imagined the barn cats and horses could speak, or that the coronation coach awaited her in the drive.

  A duke was preparing food for her, the same duke who’d kissed her last night.

  And yet here, in the kitchen, he was also simply her Philippe.

  Whom she’d like very much to kiss again.

  * * *

  A skilled artist should sketch Harriet seated by the hearth. She was like a setting sun, momentarily stilled above the western horizon.

  Her coiffure, which had likely started the day as a sensible braid wrapped into a tidy bun, was now a frazzled rope down the middle of her back. She sat immobile—no part of her moved, not her hands, not her booted feet, not even her gaze. She leaned back against the hearth stones and simply watched Philippe bumble about in the kitchen.

  This was why a man went to university—so he’d learn to make cheese toast, brew a pot of tea, and otherwise fend off starvation in the midst of plenty.

  Or perhaps, so he might tend to a woman who was clearly in need of nourishment.

  “Come sit,” he said, patting the back of a chair. “Tell me about your day and lie to me about my skill at sandwich making.”

  Harriet crossed to the table and let Philippe hold her chair. “You got the cheese between the bread, which is the important part. Papa’s hip must be paining him severely today.”

  Philippe took the opposite chair, the better to enjoy looking at h
er. “I gathered as much. When I joined you for a meal yesterday, he was in high spirits.”

  “He’d been at the brandy, you mean.” Harriet bowed her head to give thanks, and Philippe spent a pious little silence mentally undoing the rest of her braid.

  He was thankful, not only for his pathetic attempt at sandwiches, but also for a chance to spend time with Harriet.

  “As the weather cools, Papa’s joints are affected,” Harriet said, opening her sandwich and nibbling the buttered side. “Autumn also makes the horses frisky.”

  From Harriet, that was small talk—not flirtation.

  “I had hoped to prevail on your father for some assistance at the Hall.”

  She set down her bread and butter. “Is something amiss?”

  Such concern in her eyes, but nothing of longing, nothing of intimacies recalled. “I merely sought to consult with an experienced horse master. My current horse master will take a post at a racing yard at the first of the month.”

  “That started an argument?”

  “The argument began before I could pass that news along to your dear papa. This is good ale.”

  “The last of the summer ale.” Harriet swiped the tip of her tongue across her top lip, something she’d never have done in the dining room or breakfast parlor.

  Philippe consumed better cheese and coarser bread than he was used to and rearranged chess pieces in his mind. His plan had been to have Talbot brush up his riding skills here, where nobody at the Hall would know what was afoot.

  A duke could land on his arse in the dirt and usually walk away unscathed. His reputation before his employees was a more delicate article than his backside. Then too, a duke could change his mind more easily with a smaller audience.

  Say, an audience of one.

  He ate in silence while Harriet demolished her food. “You are a hungry woman. I should have made you more than one sandwich.”

  “You can slice the peaches. I’ll make more sandwiches.” She rose and set a bowl of ripe fruit before him, as well as a cutting board and a knife.

  “Will you make peach jam?”

  “Mama was the jam maker, though Cook assisted, of course. It’s a messy, tedious job, and I haven’t time.”