The Duke's Bridle Path

by Burrowes, Grace

  The peaches were perfect—ripe and juicy but firm. By the time Philippe had pitted and cut up two of them, Harriet had another pair of sandwiches put together. Hers were tidy—evenly sliced bread, cheese a uniform thickness, not too much butter.

  “Try a slice,” Philippe said, holding a glistening portion of peach across the table.

  Harriet reached for it, and he drew his hand back a few inches. “You’ll get sticky.”

  She nibbled from his fingers delicately, her eyes closing as she swallowed. “That is luscious. Of all the generosity the old duke displayed toward us, Mama treasured those peach trees the most.”

  Philippe shared the rest of the peaches with her, until his fingers were covered with juice and sharing a peach topped his list of erotic ways to spend an autumn afternoon.

  “I was hungry,” Harriet said, rising. “I get so involved in what I’m doing with the horses, I forget to eat. Shall we take our ale out to the porch?”

  “A fine notion.” In view of the arena and the barns, Philippe had a prayer of behaving. He had not come here thinking to renew intimacies with Harriet, but in her company, little else would wedge its way into his thoughts.

  He washed his hands while Harriet wrapped up the bread and cheese, then they carried their mugs to the front porch.

  “I love this time of year,” Harriet said, taking a seat on a wrought-iron chair. “The harvest is a happy occasion, the animals are fat and healthy, and the light is beautiful.”

  Harriet was beautiful, with her hair coming undone and her habit dusty to the knees.

  Across the stable yard, a groom was reviewing with a bay yearling filly the etiquette of work in hand. The groom walked a half-dozen steps and stopped. Walked a half-dozen more and stopped again, until the young horse recalled that she was to match her handler’s behavior, not barge about on the end of the lead rope like a half-ton kite.

  “She fancies him,” Harriet said. “Trusts his patience and his calm. Jeremy is like you in that regard, seldom discommoded regardless of the circumstances.”

  Philippe was discommoded—by the interview with Talbot, by the breeze teasing at the curls lying against Harriet’s neck. He’d come here for a reason, and Talbot had stymied him. Too late, Philippe had realized that Talbot’s health was more precarious than anybody grasped.

  Anybody save Harriet, perhaps.

  To teach regular riding lessons required hours at the arena rail, in the cold, in the damp, in the hot sun, the flies, the relentless wind. The horse master of Philippe’s youth had made those lessons the high point of Philippe’s day, but that man was no more.

  “I had best be going,” Philippe said. “Perhaps you’ll walk with me to the bridle path?”

  Harriet set her mug on the porch railing. “Of course. I’m looking forward to dinner on Friday.”

  Philippe set his mug beside hers. “Because?”

  “Because dinner at the Hall is always an enjoyable occasion,” she said, starting down the steps. “Lord Ramsdale passed along your invitation to Papa over the chess board.”

  Philippe would thank Ramsdale just as soon as he finished thrashing him for his presumption. “I’ll look forward to it as well, but I’ve been anticipating something else more joyously than another shared meal. Something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

  Did you enjoy our kiss? Did you spend half the night recalling it? Have you not brought it up because you hope I’ll never presume to that degree again?

  They ambled along the fence, to where the young horse was being put through her paces.

  “Jeremy,” Harriet said, “that’s enough for today. She’s being a good girl, and you want to stop before she’s bored.”

  Jeremy, who looked to be about sixteen, petted the filly’s neck. “Aye, Miss Talbot. Good day, Your Grace.”

  “Jeremy.”

  The groom led the horse away, praising her fine performance.

  “He’s one of the miller’s boys, isn’t he?” The entire family had height, white-blond hair, and prominent teeth.

  “One of eight sons. Jeremy works hard and loves the horses, but the first time he has to sell a favorite or put a bullet in an old friend who’s stepped in a badger hole, he’ll be back at his papa’s side, grinding corn.”

  For the rest of the distance to the tree-line, Philippe pondered how anybody—even a determined duke—could bring the conversation around to stolen kisses after an observation like that.

  Harriet walked past the break in the trees, right onto the bridle path itself. “Will Ramsdale join us on Friday?”

  “I assume so.”

  “I don’t think he and Papa got very far with their last chess game. Both queens and kings were still on the chess board when I brought Papa the morning mail. What did you want to ask me about, Your Grace?”

  She watched the retreat of the groom and filly, her question all but idle.

  “Did you know your braid is coming undone?” The ribbon had nearly slipped off the end of her plait. Philippe moved behind her, tugged the ribbon free, and held it before her. “I’ll do you up. Hold still.”

  Harriet gave him her back while Philippe undid and then rebraided her hair. He hadn’t put his gloves back on after their meal, and so he was free to torment himself with thick, silky, lavender-scented skeins of cinnamon-brown curls.

  “Do you do this sort of thing often?” Harriet asked, gaze on the hedgerow before her.

  “What sort of thing?” Stare at the nape of a woman’s neck until his tongue ached?

  “Braid a lady’s hair.”

  Philippe completed his task and tied the hair ribbon snugly about the end of the plait. “Like that kiss we shared, this is a first for me. I doubt my work will hold for long. Your hair is too… soft.”

  Harriet turned, and because Philippe wasn’t about to step back, they stood quite close. Nobody would see them here between the hedgerows. The moment was perfect for another kiss, if she wanted another kiss.

  The moment was also perfect to tell a presuming duke to take his kisses and bugger off.

  “You had a question for me,” Harriet said, smoothing the fold of his lapel. She looked up, her gaze simply honest—no reproach, no flirtation.

  He caught her hand in his. “Harriet… would you mind…?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind…?” Her lips were parted. Philippe had touched peach slices to those lips. His dreams tonight would surely include ripe, succulent, sweet peaches.

  She leaned nearer. “Your Grace?”

  “Would you mind… teaching me to ride?”

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Harriet had been on many a horse who at the last instant refused a jump. She’d sink her weight into the stirrups—or stirrup, if she was riding aside—fix her eye on the next obstacle and anticipate the magnificent rise of more than a half ton of muscle and might beneath her—

  And find herself clinging to coarse mane and scrambling to regain her balance on a beast that had barely, barely managed to remain upright.

  The duke’s question left her similarly disconcerted. Her momentum had all been in the direction of a kiss, not… not… What had he asked her?

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Harriet stood so close to him that she could see how agate and slate came together to put the silver glint in his eyes, so close she could feel his breath fanning across her cheek. Her fingers had gripped his sleeve, and his hand rested on her shoulder.

  “Will you teach me to ride again?” he asked. “I needn’t qualify for the race meets. I simply want to acquit myself competently in the saddle of a morning in Hyde Park. I’d like to ride my acres as my father did. It’s time, Harriet. Your father was right about that.”

  He brushed her hair back from her brow, and Harriet wanted to smack his hand. “Time for you to learn to ride again? You rode competently as a boy.” More than competently, he’d ridden joyously.

  His lashes swept down. “That was before Jonas’s accident.�
�

  Before Lord Chaddleworth had died. His horse had either refused or slipped at a stile, and his lordship had come off, straight into the wall. He’d never regained consciousness and taken less than two hours to expire.

  Harriet’s ire slipped from her grasp, like wet reins in the hands of a beginner. “Oh, Philippe. Of course, I’ll help.”

  He rested his forehead against her shoulder, and Harriet wrapped her arms around him.

  “Thank you, Harriet. Your father refused me, after he’d been the one to goad me into trying. I thought perhaps…”

  This was a conversation to have heart-to-heart rather than face-to-face. Harriet rested her cheek against Philippe’s chest and found the rhythm of his life’s blood steady but pronounced.

  “You thought Papa judged the task impossible,” she said. “For him, it likely is. He can barely stand for ten minutes, and that’s with the aid of his cane. Trudging through deep footing is hell for him, and his pride pains him as badly as his joints.”

  Philippe’s hand cradled the back of Harriet’s head, and thus they remained, embracing, for the time it took a golden leaf to twirl down through the afternoon sunshine. She willed him to understand that his request touched her—getting back on the horse was more than a metaphor for seizing one’s courage after a setback.

  Getting back on the horse could be the defining challenge of a lifetime.

  “My pride pains me as well,” Philippe said. “Might I further impose and request that our lessons take place here?”

  “You will save me the time needed to hack over to the Hall,” Harriet said, “and Papa will likely watch from the porch or a handy window and pass along pointers to me at supper. I’ll swear the lads to secrecy, and nobody will be the wiser.”

  For a time. No power on earth could permanently still the tongues that wagged in a stable yard.

  Philippe’s embrace eased. “I should have asked you in the first place, but you have much to do already. You’ll tell me if I’m imposing?”

  Never. “I enjoy teaching, and you used to enjoy riding. This will be easier than you anticipate.”

  He brushed a kiss to her cheek. “I am in your debt. Shall we begin tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Rain or shine, Your Grace. Two of the clock, and wear your oldest pair of boots.”

  “I have my orders.” He bowed over her hand and then strode off down the path.

  Harriet perched on a fallen log and sorted through her feelings as more leaves drifted to the golden carpet covering the grass.

  She was proud of Philippe for taking this step.

  She was proud of herself for being a good enough friend that he’d trust her to help.

  She was happy that her stable would have the honor of reacquainting the Duke of Lavelle with his equestrian skills.

  The next leaf smacked her in the mouth and refused to complete its descent. She brushed it aside and set it on the log.

  Proud and happy weren’t the entire list. Harriet was also confident that she could help Philippe—she’d coached other riders past a loss of courage and worked through the same problem herself more than once.

  She was also determined. Very, very determined.

  The duke would get back on his horse, and Harriet would have more kisses.

  * * *

  “I am a very, very bad man,” Philippe informed Saturn.

  The dog panted happily at his heels as they strode along the bridle path.

  “There I stood, thinking untoward thoughts, while Harriet offered me her moral support and compassion. I am the lowest scoundrel ever to steal a kiss.” Though that’s all he’d stolen—a kiss, a hug, a tender embrace that for Harriet had likely been between old friends, and for Philippe had been the sweetest torment.

  “I’m not nervous,” he went on. “Not about sitting on a horse again.”

  He was, though, looking forward to time with Harriet more or less alone, but for the presence of an equine.

  He reached the boundary between the ducal estate and Talbot’s property. Philippe hopped a stile rather than deal with the gate. Saturn wiggled under the gate, which was a bit of a squeeze for such a grand fellow.

  “I should have made it apparent that Harriet will be compensated for her time.”

  Saturn stuck his nose into the carpet of leaves and began snuffling intently.

  “I will insist on paying her in good English coin, and she’ll have nothing to say to it. I’ll be quite the—”

  Philippe tripped over a tree root hidden by the fallen leaves and nearly went sprawling. The dog regarded him pityingly, then went back to his investigations.

  “I’ll be quite the duke,” Philippe finished. “Though I’m not quite the duke.” He was a spare pressed into service out of necessity, plain and simple. There were worse fates—bashing headfirst into a plank wall and expiring, for example.

  He increased his stride. “Riding isn’t difficult. The horse goes on the bottom, as Talbot used to say. The rest of it—the hands, seat, legs, and whatnot—are details.”

  Important details. Philippe had been on a runaway pony once. Amazing, how an equine who’d barely moved when pointed away from the barn could cover ground in the opposite direction.

  “But I stayed on. The little fiend was utterly winded by the time we trotted into the stable yard. Had to walk him for an hour.”

  An hour of ignominy, for all the lads had known exactly what had happened. Talbot had pretended Philippe had meant to go tearing hell-bent across field and furrow, but the stable hands, Philippe, and the demon pony—Butterball—had known differently.

  “I got back on and learned to keep a firm hold of the reins. A simple enough concept.”

  The break in the trees that led to the Talbot paddocks came into view, and Philippe’s belly did an odd leap. Saturn lifted his leg on an oak sapling, which gave Philippe an excuse to pause, reconnoiter, and say a prayer.

  Let me not be put to shame.

  “Watch over me, Jonas. If I follow your example and go early to my reward, the title ends up with dear cousin Oglethorpe, and the peerage will never recover from that abomination. Ada will kill us both all over again for abandoning her to his charming company.”

  Saturn finished watering the hedge and went trotting forth as if he well knew Philippe’s destination, rotten beast. He’d been a puppy at the time of Jonas’s death—Jonas’s personal hound.

  “I’m coming. We have plenty of time, and it’s not as if Harriet has nothing else to do.”

  When Philippe emerged between the Talbot paddocks, Harriet was in fact striding along behind the two-year-old filly Jeremy had been working with the previous day. The filly was in long reins, Harriet marching smack up against the horse’s hip.

  This was a step in the direction of carrying a rider, allowing the horse to learn how to go along in a bridle without having to carry a rider’s weight. Philippe had watched Talbot educate many a young horse in this manner. A surprising degree of fitness was required to manage the horse while marching about in deep footing, but Harriet managed it easily.

  The horse turned, and Harriet came more fully into view.

  “Gracious devils, have mercy upon me.”

  She was wearing breeches and tall boots, only an oversized riding jacket preserving a modicum of modesty. She spoke to the horse as they halted between two jumps, for this was also the phase of training at which voice commands could be taught.

  “Walk on, Rosie, there’s a girl.”

  The filly minced forward as daintily as a cat. Harriet steered her all about the arena, around jumps, past stable boys grinning on the rail, down the middle, and over to the mounting block, all the while guiding, chiding, and encouraging.

  “And ho, Rosie. Ho.”

  The filly came to a smooth stop in the center of the arena, and after she’d stood quietly for half a minute, much patting and praising ensued. Jeremy left the rail to take the horse back to the stable, and Harriet waved at Philippe.

  “Your Grace! Good day.
”

  So she had noticed him. “Harriet. Very nicely done.”

  “She’s a good girl. Is it two of the clock already? How time flies when the weather’s fine. Come along, your mount should be ready.”

  Philippe joined Harriet at the arena gate. “Before you start lessons, don’t you typically discuss compensation?”

  Her coiffure was in good repair, which ought to have helped Philippe keep his mind on the business of the day. Instead, he wanted to take down her braid and bury his hands in her hair.

  While he was kissing her.

  While she was kissing him back and clutching him in that lovely firm grip of hers.

  I have lost my mind.

  “We can discuss remuneration once I’ve done something to earn it,” Harriet said as they reached the barn. “This is Matador.”

  A mountain of gray horsehair stood in the middle of the aisle. An equine nose tipped with pink protruded from the hair—a nose about a yard long. Two big brown eyes regarded Philippe from beneath two hairy ears.

  “Hello, Mastodon.”

  The horse’s lower lip drooped, giving him an air of permanently injured dignity.

  “I’ll need to use the ladies’ mounting block to board him,” Philippe said. “He does move without hoisting sail? Stops, turns, backs up—the whole lot?”

  “He’ll do as you tell him,” Harriet said, unfastening the crossties. “Let’s see what you recall.”

  “Now?”

  Harriet went about disentangling the reins from the throatlatch, then had to hop to loop the reins over the beast’s great head.

  “It’s two of the clock, Your Grace, and I have much to do.”

  Whose ideas was this? “I’m a duke. I can’t be seen riding a plough horse.” Though dukes weren’t supposed to dither, fuss, or prevaricate either.

  Harriet stroked the horse’s neck. “Matador is a retired drum horse. He’s attended more funerals of state than you have, and you should be honored to have the use of him. He would still be in work, except his partner succumbed to colic and nobody could find another to match Matador’s size and coloring.”