How dare he! “You’re joking! Beat Waterloo? Never!”
“Then you’ll accept the race?”
This wasn’t like Papa at all. “You mentioned a wager.”
“If the stallion wins, his Lordship gives us Sable.”
She stared. He couldn’t mean—” Gives us!”
“Aye.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “And if the filly wins?” She wouldn’t, of course. No one could beat Waterloo.
“Then his Lordship gets the stallion.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak. “He gets Waterloo?”
“Aye, girl. But there’s no need to fear. You said the stallion can’t be beat.”
His Lordship straightened, his gaze sharp. “Tell her the rest, Durabian. She must know it all.”
Bridget swung round. “There’s more?”
Papa smiled, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye, lass. If the filly wins, his Lordship gets the stallion and”— Durabian swallowed twice—”and yer hand in marriage.”
Bridget reached out, grabbing a fence post for support. “Marriage! Papa, what kind of joke is this?”
Papa seemed to be avoiding her gaze. “No, girl, ‘tis no joke. We thought ‘twould liven the wager a bit. Ye ain’t afraid of losing, are ye?”
“Of course not. But if we take his Lordship’s filly—”
“I agree to the wager,” his Lordship said stiffly, “and to the race. If you do. And your father has agreed to sell me the filly back—if the stallion wins.”
“But he will,” she cried. “You know he’ll win.” He did know it. She read it in his eyes. Then why was he willing to race?
“Do you agree?” he persisted. “Is it a race?”
She looked to Papa. “Papa, do you want—”
“Aye, girl. I want this race.” He laughed, a hollow sound that made her instantly fearful. “This race’ll draw a big crowd. Bring us plenty business.”
Slowly Bridget lowered her gaze. She saw her fingers were gripping the fence post so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She unclenched her hand and opened her mouth, but nothing would come out. Her tongue felt numb, too swollen to work properly. How could they do such a thing, make such a wager without even consulting her?
She wet her dry lips. But she had always trusted Papa. “All right, Papa. If you want me to, I’ll do it.”
She risked one more look at his Lordship, but his face was closed, making him a stranger. Whatever this was— these two had set it up between them. There was more to it than a simple race, much more, but she knew men— they wouldn’t tell her the truth. Protecting her, they called it, not realizing—or not caring—that not knowing the truth was no protection, no protection at all.
Chapter Four
The day of the race dawned bright and clear. Bridget, brushing the great stallion’s glistening coat, sighed deeply. She was no closer to figuring out why Papa and his Lordship were doing this. But there was no need for her to be worrying about the wager. As fast as the perky little filly was, she could never beat the stallion. He wouldn’t lose. She wouldn’t have to marry his Lordship.
She paused, stopping the brush in mid-stroke. “Why?” she murmured to the horse. “Why are they doing this? I know something’s wrong. Why don’t they tell me what it is?”
The horse turned, nudging her with his nose. “Yes, I know,” she murmured. “You love me. I love you, too.”
She laughed, a laugh as hollow as Papa’s had been when they told her about this race. “At least Papa put us in the same wager. If we lose, we go together.”
What was she saying? Waterloo couldn’t lose. He just couldn’t.
Peering out the stable window, she swallowed hastily. The rail around the practice track was packed with people. Lords and their richly dressed ladies had driven out in their fancy carriages to watch. To watch her.
She glanced down at her breeches and boots, the same breeches and boots she always wore. She had put on a clean white shirt for the occasion. But she didn’t look anything like those ladies out there, those ladies that would soon be staring at her.
The stallion nudged her, rubbing his nose against her sleeve. She had to remember these people meant nothing to her, nothing at all. She was doing this for Papa.
She straightened her shoulders, rubbed the stallion’s nose, and said, “Let’s go. They’re waiting for us.”
From his place by the fence, Andrew looked out over the noisy crowd. He hadn’t cared much for Durabian talking the race up. But after what the man had said to Bridget, he couldn’t tell him no. And the publicity would help the stables. Damnation, though, he was still puzzled by Durabian’s desire to hold this race at all.
Well, it would be over soon. Sable would lose the race—he’d buy her back. And the story would spread around—Peter had already begun to do that—that Andrew had expected to lose the race and was willing to pay the price to see how well the filly could do.
His jockey, young Jackie, was one of the best riders around. Not as good as Bridget—there was no one as good with a horse as her—but good enough.
Andrew shifted irritably, wishing this silly charade were over. Why hadn’t Durabian just asked him for a loan? And why that ridiculous addition to the wager—about him taking Bridget to wife? At least he’d insisted that they keep that part of the wager secret and the Irishman had agreed.
The girl, after her first look of shocked amazement, had seemed to take the wager in stride, acting rather like it was some huge joke. Still, he couldn’t imagine her pleased with the prospect of marriage to a man she’d only known for a month.
A rather startling thought, that, and not one designed to raise his sense of self-importance. Although several young women of the ton had already made known to him their willingness, indeed, their extreme willingness, to become his wife, he hadn’t really been thinking of marriage. He couldn’t imagine Bridget as wife to any man. She was too set in her ways, too manlike in her behavior. Why, he could hardly imagine her wearing anything but breeches and boots. And to bring her into the ton as his wife . . .
He shook himself slightly. Of course that wouldn’t be necessary. Plucky and fast as Sable was, the stallion was sure to win. Durabian wouldn’t have made the wager otherwise.
Peter came hurrying up, his eyes bright with excitement. “I’m glad I’ve given up wagering,” he said with a grin. “For if I did it still, I’d have to put my money on the girl. And you are my best friend.”
Andrew managed to smile in return. “So would I. Have you dropped the hints as I asked?”
Peter nodded. “Oh yes. I told the Linden girl, the stickish one.” He looked at his watch. “Told her five minutes ago. By now she’s told her fat mama and at least half the crowd.”
Andrew frowned. “And I look foolish.”
“Not so. They all think you wonderfully eccentric.”
Just what he needed! And the Lindens yet. Once they started talking, all London would be achatter.
“Is there much betting?”
Peter frowned. “Not really. The blacklegs aren’t offering very good odds. The stallion’s by far the favorite. I saw Wichersham.” He grimaced. “I kept my distance, you can be sure. But I couldn’t help hearing the fellow boast how he’d tame the animal if it were his.” His eyes clouded over. “Makes a man’s blood run cold just to hear him talk. And to think that he might have got ahold of Diablo—”
“He didn’t,” Andrew said firmly. “And he won’t—as long as you leave off wagering.”
“I have,” Peter said vehemently, crossing his heart in the old childhood gesture of promise. “And I will. Look! Here she comes.”
Bridget, her head held high, led the stallion toward the track where Jackie waited on the filly. Bridget was keeping her gaze away from the crowd, and she avoided his gaze, too. Lord! Andrew thought, he’d give a lot to know what the girl was thinking now.
* * * *
Bridget didn’t dare look at all the people. She kept her eyes straight ahead, feeling Wa
terloo’s warm comforting breath against her ear.
We’ll just trust Papa, she told herself. That’s what we’ll do. He knows what he’s doing.
Waterloo nickered softly, sensing her uneasiness. He hadn’t seemed quite himself this last hour, but then she wasn’t herself either. He was probably picking up her feelings. That would explain it. But his ears weren’t pricked as usual—and he didn’t show his normal interest in the crowd.
Papa was waiting by Sable. He helped her mount Waterloo and then he whispered, “Don’t worry, Bridget, ‘twill all turn out for the best. Ye’ll see.”
That worried her almost as much as Waterloo’s strange behavior. Usually before a race Papa was all smiles, jovial and happy. He should be that way today. After all, he knew Waterloo was bound to win. So why did he look so sober? So—
“We’re ready to start this race,” the appointed timekeeper shouted. “Horses to their places!”
Bridget kneed the stallion into line. He seemed sluggish, slow to respond to her commands. Was there something really wrong with him today? She started to turn back.
“Ready! Set! Go!”
Sable leaped forward, Waterloo right behind her. It was too late now to say anything. She had to race. Bridget leaned low, urging him on. “Come on, boy, you can do it!”
The first lap the horses kept even. The roaring of the crowd beat against her in great waves. Crouching over the horse, she tried to puzzle it out. Something was clearly wrong—Waterloo wasn’t acting like himself. He should be ahead by now. Should she rein him in? Should she stop the race?
But that would make his Lordship the winner by default. And his winning would mean marriage to him and— She couldn’t think of that. “Oh, please, Waterloo,” she begged, “faster! You’ve got to beat her!”
But the second lap was no better than the first, and on the third the filly pulled away from them! Bridget could feel Waterloo straining, trying his best, but it was as if some huge load was weighing him down, holding him back. No matter how the great horse tried, he could go no faster.
The filly won the race by a nose. Bridget could hardly believe it. She wanted to run somewhere, to hide her grief. Thank God these people didn’t know about the second part of the wager. Maybe, maybe his Lordship would forget that part of it. But then she would lose Waterloo. And she wasn’t sure she could bear that.
His Lordship wasn’t a bad sort. She liked him better than any man she knew. Maybe being married wouldn’t be so—
Papa was waiting when she dismounted. “Smile,” he said, smiling himself, though a trifle strangely. “Trust me, Bridget, ‘tis all fer the best.”
She couldn’t see how that could be, but she had always trusted him, and she could do no less now. “Yes, Papa,” she said, and forced herself to smile.
* * * *
Andrew stood stunned. Sable had won the race! But how could that be? Peter was tugging excitedly at his sleeve. “Come on! They’re waiting.”
Andrew, following through the crowd, tried to smile at the congratulations he was receiving. But he still couldn’t believe it. Waterloo was his! And Bridget.
How was the girl going to react to this? Well, he’d find out after the crowd had dispersed. Then he’d offer to release her from that part of the wager. She was a proud one, too proud to be forced into marriage because of a horse race.
Still, though he might be able to prevail on the Irishman to forget the Bridget part of the wager, he knew Durabian would insist that the stallion was now Andrew’s. Since that part of the wager was common knowledge, the man couldn’t welsh on it without losing his reputation. They’d gotten themselves in a pretty tangle, and all because Andrew had wanted to help.
* * * *
Finally the crowd was gone. Andrew had sent Peter on, waiting alone. He wanted to put the girl’s mind to rest, but he couldn’t do it when someone might overhear. Besides, she’d avoided him after the race, walking the stallion up and down to cool him off and then taking him back to the stable.
As the last carriage headed back toward London, Durabian came toward him. Now, Andrew thought, tell him right away. “We’ll forget the part about the girl,” he said with no preliminaries. “It isn’t—”
“Ye can’t!” Durabian glanced around almost fearfully. “Ye’ve got to take her!” He grabbed Andrew by the arm, his fingers tightening almost painfully. “Please, milord, I got me reasons—good ‘uns. Bridget, she’s got to be safe, too.”
Andrew read the fear in the old man’s eyes. Safe from what? There was something awfully wrong here. “But I—”
“Please, milord. I’m counting on ye. And do it quick! Get a special license and make her legally yer wife. Right off!”
“But man, she’ll hate me.”
Durabian shook his head. “She might be a little tetchy at first, but she’ll tame down. Please, milord, ye’ve got to take her. I’m begging it of ye.”
“But—”
“Hush! Here she comes.”
As she went toward them, Bridget risked a glance at his Lordship’s face. He looked almost as bad as she felt. Probably he didn’t want the marriage either. Maybe—
“His Lordship’ll pick up the horse after the wedding,” Papa said before she could open her mouth.
“After?” Her heart fell. So they meant to go through with it.
“Aye. He’s getting a special license. So ye’ll be wed tomorrow.”
“We won’t be calling the banns?” How could they rush her like this? She’d thought she would have at least a few weeks to get used to the idea.
“No,” Papa said. “It’ll be by special license. Ain’t that right, yer Lordship?”
Haverly looked uncomfortable. “Yes, that seems best.” He looked at her, meeting her eyes squarely. “I’m sorry about this unseemly haste, Bridget, but it does appear best to get the deed done. Afterwards you and Waterloo can come live with me.”
She nodded. It was like a dream, a bad dream.
“I’ll be a good husband to you, Bridget, I promise. And I’ll leave the horse in your hands.”
She almost broke then, fighting hard to control her tears. It wasn’t fair that men should have the running of a woman’s life. Not fair at all. Still, his Lordship was being kind. Some men would have taken the stallion for their own. She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “Thank you, milord.”
“Andrew,” he said, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “My name is Andrew. Please call me by it.”
* * * *
Some minutes later Andrew told his driver, “Home,” and leaned back in his carriage. He could hardly believe any of this was happening. In the space of a few minutes he’d acquired a superb stallion and a prospective wife. And he still wasn’t sure how it had happened.
Why had Durabian been so emphatic about his taking Bridget to wife? It had seemed as though the man thought some harm would come to her if he didn’t get her married off immediately. But what harm? Certainly Durabian was man enough to protect her from anyone, except possibly the Prince Regent. And he couldn’t imagine Prinny, whose current taste ran to grandmothers, wanting to bother with Bridget.
Well, whatever his reason, Durabian’s urgency was clear. His haste for the wedding showed that. The poor girl should have been given some weeks to prepare, but instead he had conceded to her father’s evident apprehension and agreed to this imminent marriage.
Tomorrow at this time Bridget would be his wife—and a lady. Lord, how the ton would gossip then! Thank goodness they’d kept that part of the wager secret. The ton would think him even more eccentric, but the onus would fall on him, not Bridget. Lords had been known to marry commoners before, all sorts of commoners. So that was nothing new.
He shook his head. He had a great deal to do. Mrs. Purvey would have to set her staff to work preparing the room adjoining his. It was decorated in yellow and hardly a suitable foil for an occupant of Bridget’s coloring, but she should have a chamber of her own. Later he would have it redecorated in more comple
mentary shades. Or better yet, give the redoing of it into her hands.
Good grief! As soon as he reached the city, he must go directly to the dressmaker’s. The girl would need a gown to be wed in—something simple but elegant, something white.
The thought gave him pause. Was Bridget the innocent she appeared to be? He frowned. He’d had ample experience with women, but none of it had prepared him for a woman like Bridget. She was an unknown quantity—he didn’t know how to handle her. Well, he’d get to that later.
Let’s see. She’d definitely need clothes. She probably only owned one gown, if that, so she’d need the whole array—morning dresses, walking dresses, evening dresses, a riding habit. She’d need boots and slippers, too. And bonnets and gloves. All the little frewfraws that delighted feminine hearts.
Thank goodness she spoke well: the effect, no doubt, of her mama’s books—over which her father said she pored daily—a good ear for language, and the efforts of the teacher Durabian had hired for her. But perhaps he should engage a dancing master. The rest he could teach her himself—the proper eating utensil, the proper reply to introductions, the proper curtsy.
He frowned. He liked the old Bridget. She had a rough, untutored honesty, a freshness that appealed to him. What would she be like when she lost that freshness? When she became like the other ladies in the ton?
He sighed. It was next to impossible to imagine Bridget as a lady at all. But he could imagine her in the room next to his, even in his bed. He gave himself up to thinking about the pleasanter aspects of this marriage.
Chapter Five
The next day Bridget stood before the vicar. Haverly—no, she was supposed to call him Andrew now—stood at her side. She felt like some other woman, not herself at all. For one thing this gauzy white gown he’d given her to be married in seemed almost indecent after the safety of her familiar leather breeches. And the flimsy little satin slippers and thin stockings were practically useless for keeping her feet warm. The patterned Indian shawl was pretty and it did help to keep her from catching a chill, but a jacket would have been much better. Much more sensible, too. It was hard to see how ladies could do anything at all wearing these peculiar clothes, clothes that made it practically impossible to move.
His Lordship's Filly Page 3