His Lordship's Filly

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Andrew, who had hung back to see how Bridget dealt with the stable hands, now stepped forward. After this afternoon he should have known better than to worry. She could handle herself anywhere. “Yes?”

  “Please, Andrew, give orders that no one is to ride Waterloo. No one but me.”

  He swallowed his smile. “I don’t need to give such orders,” he said. “You give them.” He turned to the gaping stableboy. “Ned, this is Lady Haverly, my new wife. You’ll obey her without question.”

  When the boy stilled, his mouth hanging open, Andrew went on. “The lady knows all there is to know about horses, so you needn’t fear for her.” Better for Ned to fear for himself, Andrew thought in amusement. If the boy didn’t pay attention to Bridget, she’d no doubt blister his ears. He fastened Ned with a stern eye. “Do you understand?”

  “Aye, milord,” the boy said, the merest hint of a smile on his lips. “I understands. The lady gives orders. I obeys ‘em.”

  Andrew nodded, turning to see Bridget actually smiling at the lad. “Then we shall get along well,” she said. “Take good care of my stallion. I’ll be out here often to see that you do.”

  * * * *

  The rest of the afternoon passed in uneventful fashion. Bridget spent some of it putting away her new clothes and unpacking her boxes from home.

  She managed to get her breeches and boots out from under the books and hidden in a back corner of her closet before the maid Andrew insisted on sending her arrived. Peggy was a shy young girl, only lately gone into service, but trained as a lady’s maid.

  “Your other new gowns’ll be here soon,” Peggy said, hanging up the two dinner dresses they’d brought back with them from shopping and then moving to the forest green riding habit. “Ah, this, milady.” She lifted a fold of the heavy velvet to her cheek. “ ‘Tis a lovely gown, it is. And just the color for you.”

  She stepped to the bed to fold the nightdresses and then put them away. “ ‘Tis grand of his Lordship to buy you so many nice things.”

  “Yes,” Bridget agreed. Peggy seemed very interested in the clothes she was putting away. Did even servant girls dream of female fripperies? “I suppose it is.” She glanced around the spacious room. “He’s told me I can decorate this chamber however I please.”

  The maid’s eyes widened. “Oh, milady. What great fun! Why, you can have some of them Chinese cupboards like the Regent has. All lacquered black and with them great dragons and such painted on them.”

  “Dragons?” Just in time, Bridget stopped herself from asking why any sensible person should want dragons in her bedroom. The Regent’s Chinese taste must be the fashion just now. “I don’t know,” she said. “The room’s not so bad. Maybe I’ll just leave it as it is.”

  “Oh, milady!” Peggy’s round face reddened with disappointment. Obviously she thought redecorating would be quite the thing. “But wouldn’t that be hurting his Lordship’s feelings, him being so nice to you and all?”

  Bridget paused. She hadn’t thought about that. The girl might have something there. Andrew had been very kind about all this. She certainly didn’t want to offend him. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “I’ll think about it. Maybe I will do it in another color.”

  Peggy clapped her hands in delight. “There’s a shade of green, milady. A pretty green that’d go lovely with your reddish hair. I seen a lady wearing a gown of it just this morning when I was out on an errand. And then you could put a touch of peach color here and there—to lighten things a bit. Oh, it’ll be that beautiful, it will.” She dropped her gaze shyly. “Just like you.”

  Bridget opened her mouth to reply that she was far from beautiful, but she closed it again without saying anything. Something about the girl reminded her of the country, she was so open and friendly. With a start of surprise, Bridget realized that she had never had a woman friend. Her only friends had been horses. “Thank you,” she said. “Come, help me change for dinner, will you? Which of these two new gowns do you think is best?”

  Chapter Eight

  Andrew didn’t go out again that afternoon, but anyway, it was too late for Bridget to slip into her riding clothes and take the stallion for a gallop through a city she barely knew. So she contented herself with thinking that the next morning her first order of business would be a good long ride. But that brought her to the question of where. Where could one really ride in this city with its thronged streets, its crowds of people all busy about their tasks?

  She posed the question to Andrew at dinner where he had thoughtfully ordered their places set side by side instead of at opposite ends of the huge table. “Andrew, where do people around here go to ride?”

  He paused, a forkful of roast duck halfway to his lips. “Well, we have several parks,” he said. “But Hyde Park is where the ton usually goes to ride. Around five in the afternoon the crush there is as great as on the street.”

  She bit her lower lip in exasperation. She was liking this miserable city less and less; ho one here seemed to behave with any sense. Though that was hardly Andrew’s fault, still, a little of her irritation crept into her voice. “But if it’s so crowded at that time, why does everyone go then? Why don’t they go at some different hour?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully while he finished chewing a mouthful of food. “Well, Bridget, it’s rather like this. Lords and ladies don’t ride to ride so much as they ride to be seen.”

  These people sounded more and more ridiculous. “Seen? But why should they want to be seen?”

  He gave her a strange look. “The ton has odd ways, Bridget, I realize that. But I cannot explain them all to you. It would take far too long. So I suggest you just let me guide you in matters that have to do with this part of our life.”

  She frowned. Of course she would let him guide her in those matters. To do anything else in such a situation would be foolish. But now he was using that awful condescending tone, as though he knew everything and she knew nothing at all.

  Well, she might not know much about being a lady— from the looks of it, this lady business was a silly muddle anyway—but she knew about horses. She knew more about horses than he did. She’d pit her knowledge in that area against his any day of the week—and she’d win, too.

  And at least now she knew where she could go to ride. Maybe she’d take young Ned with her to the park. He looked like a bright boy. Maybe she’d put him in charge of Waterloo. The stallion would need companionship since she wouldn’t be with him as much as she had been before. And it would be good for the boy, too, give him some standing in the stable. A servant’s status depended to a great degree on the extent of his responsibilities, and being Waterloo’s groom would gain Ned the respect of the others.

  * * * *

  The evening passed slowly. Sitting in the library while she and Andrew read separate volumes, Bridget’s thoughts strayed more than once to the fine new nightdress that Peggy would soon be laying out for her across the great bed. Would tonight be the night that Andrew would—

  She stole a look at him over the top of her book. He looked very handsome, very grand, and for that reason, if perhaps for no other, very distant. Could he mean for theirs to be a marriage in name only? She should have asked Peggy about that—about how married lords and ladies comported themselves. And why they felt it necessary to sleep in separate beds. That seemed a foolishness—a waste of heat and of beds.

  Mama’s books had told her a lot, but there was so much she didn’t know about society. Because of the books and the woman Papa had hired to teach her to read, she’d learned to speak the right way. At least, Andrew should have no complaint about that. But the stories in Mama’s books, stories by men like Shakespeare, weren’t about happy married people, but about people suffering from terrible human emotions like jealousy, rage, and revenge. There was nothing in those stories that could help her deal with Andrew. Nothing at all.

  This sitting and saying nothing was definitely getting on her nerves. She put her book aside and looked at him di
rectly. “Thank you for having Waterloo brought into the city for me. It’s good to have him here with me. I missed him, though we were just separated for one day.”

  “I know you missed him. I know you’re very fond of him.” Andrew smiled at her. “He’s your horse, of course, and he’ll always remain your horse, but I would like to ride him some time. If that’s agreeable with you.”

  She hesitated, unsure whether to tell him. “Yes, Andrew,” she said, finally deciding he should know the truth, “that would be all right with me, but I feel I should warn you—Waterloo’s a woman’s horse.”

  Andrew put his book down and gave her a puzzled look. “Come now, Bridget, what do you mean? There’s no such thing as a woman’s horse. A horse is a horse. And that’s all it is.”

  She might have known he’d take that attitude—men could be so stubborn sometimes—but she knew what she was talking about. Hadn’t she raised the stallion herself from a tiny little foal? She sighed—that superior look on Andrew’s face told her that there was nothing to be gained by arguing with him. Not a word she said would make any difference. He’d already made up his mind.

  Still, she couldn’t refrain from making one last comment. “I am only telling you what I know. He threw that Jerry, didn’t he? At least, that’s what Ned told us. You heard him.”

  Andrew’s smile grew larger and more self-important. “Yes, but I suppose the lad Jerry wasn’t much of a rider. At any rate, we’ll see. I’ve never known a horse I couldn’t ride.”

  Bridget swallowed her smile. Let him believe what he wanted to believe. He would anyway, no matter what she might say. But on Waterloo’s back—or more accurately, flying off it—he would soon discover she was right.

  In the meantime, she said, “Of course not. I know you’re an excellent rider. By the way, I was thinking of putting Ned in charge of Waterloo. Making the boy his personal groom. What do you think of my doing that?”

  Andrew shrugged, his expression nonchalant. “Whatever you decide, Bridget. The stallion is yours.”

  That was one good thing. He didn’t mean to interfere with Waterloo. “Fine,” she said, giving him a grateful smile, “then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Andrew picked up his book again, and with a smothered sigh, she picked up her own. The evening stretched on before her, long and somehow lonely.

  * * * *

  When the clock struck ten, Andrew shut his book and turned to Bridget. “Are you tired, my dear?”

  “A little.”

  It was the first time he’d called her by a term of endearment, and somewhat to his surprise, he found it falling naturally from his lips. He decided to be direct. “Then I suggest you go on up and ring for Peggy. She can help you get ready for bed.” He looked down at his book again. “And I’ll be up a little later.”

  “Fine,” Bridget said, getting to her feet. “That’s what I’ll do then.”

  Strange, Andrew thought, that he should find the situation rather embarrassing. She was the one without experience, not he. But he had not been accustomed to thinking of her as a female; indeed, he’d schooled himself not to think of her in that way. So this wrenching around of his perceptions might take some time. Still, he had always thought her beautiful, though no more beautiful in her new gown than she’d been in her leather breeches. The thought of those breeches sent the blood rushing to his face. He had wanted her then, too, though he’d denied it to himself. Well, now he didn’t need to deny it.

  He swallowed hastily, bringing his gaze back to her face. “That is, I’ll be up if you don’t mind.” Some fine way to begin a marriage! He should simply have taken it for granted that she would expect him to come to her.

  But then everything about this marriage was bewildering. He had never expected to win a wife in a horse race—actually, a wife and a stallion. And he had really no idea how to go about helping Bridget fit into what he was now perceiving was really a very constricted society.

  Their chance meeting with the Lindens, though Bridget had handled it well, had made him aware, quite forcefully aware, that the ton would find his marriage subject for gossip and innuendo. And Bridget a topic of rare amusement.

  He sighed. He didn’t want her to be hurt, but he didn’t quite know how to protect her. There were too many people like the Lindens out there, ready to talk about anyone, ready to make Bridget a laughingstock for things she didn’t even understand.

  She had reached the door and turned. The smile she sent him was shy, but definitely inviting. “I’ll be waiting then, Andrew.”

  Smiling back, he watched her go, his beautiful young wife on her way to their wedding chamber. She was a wild thing, his Bridget, free and independent. Like the filly Sable, she wanted her own way, to follow her own path. With patience and loving care he had tamed Sable. But Bridget? He didn’t know.

  Chapter Nine

  Early the next morning, in the big silk-draped bed, Bridget stirred, sighed briefly, and reached a hand out to the space beside her. But the space, though still warm, was empty. She stretched and opened her eyes. Andrew’s getting up must have brought her from the depths of satisfying sleep. She looked toward the door to his room, but it was closed tight. Probably he had gone softly out, not wanting to wake her.

  She stretched luxuriantly and smiled. The rising sun coming through the bed curtains set the golden coverlet to gleaming much like the precious metal itself. The whole chamber shimmered in a warm golden sheen, but nothing could be warmer, more golden, than the wonderful glowing feelings she had experienced in this very bed last night—in Andrew’s arms.

  She raised herself on one elbow. There on the floor lay her new blue nightdress, the one embroidered in dainty white roses. Probably she should get out of bed and pick it up. But she slid back under the warm covers, smiling. The nightdress would still be there later. She was a lady now, and ladies could sleep late if they chose.

  She turned on her side toward the place where Andrew had lain. The pillow still held the indentation of his head, and she fancied she could still smell the faint elusive masculine scent that was all his.

  She laughed softly. At first last night Andrew had seemed embarrassed. That was odd because she knew for certain that she was not the only woman he’d bedded. That first day he’d come out to the stables, that day she’d heard the boys telling tales about him—one of the best men in the ton, they said, good with horses, and with beautiful young ladies fluttering about him like moths to a flame, and him burning them all.

  She smiled to herself. If those young ladies had known the Andrew she’d known last night, they would have thrown themselves even more willingly into the fire. She sighed, her smile slowly disappearing. She liked Andrew, she liked being his wife. And what they’d done last night—well, Papa had been quite right. She liked that, too, she liked it quite a lot.

  But still, it didn’t seem right—Papa tricking Andrew about the wager. She’d tried to tell him she was sorry about it, but he’d hushed her with a kiss—that was after her nightdress hit the floor—and said to never mind, he was sure they’d deal quite well together. And then he’d shown her how they would deal.

  Their lovemaking was much better, actually, than the way the horses did it. Not nearly as quick or as violent. And for the first time in her life she felt sorry for a horse—who couldn’t possibly know those wonderful, golden, shimmering waves of warmth that spread over her entire body.

  Finally she pushed back the silken covers. It was late to be lying abed—late for her, anyway. There were things she meant to do today: to speak to Ned about caring for Waterloo, to go for her long-awaited ride on the stallion, to send Peggy for yard-good samples so they could begin to think about redecorating the room. And she hoped that she and Andrew could ride out to see Papa to tell him the stables were safe. And he, too.

  She washed and dressed, not even thinking till she was almost finished that she should have rung the bell for Peggy. Well, time enough to start being a lady tomorrow.
She ran the brush through her hair and went downstairs.

  The breakfast room was empty except for the patiently waiting footman. “His Lordship?” she asked. “Has he gone out?”

  The footman nodded. “Yes, my Lady, but I heard him tell Mr. Purvey he’d be back directly.”

  “Thank you.” Bridget picked up a plate and surveyed the sideboard. She really must ask Andrew the reason for so much food.

  * * * *

  At that moment Andrew was outside White’s, engaged in conversation with Peter, who had run into him as they approached the club’s sacred precincts. “My word,” Peter exclaimed, showing his teeth in a devilish grin. “If it isn’t the man all London’s talking about! Shall we go in and have a glass together?”

  “Yes,” Andrew said. “From the sound of things, I shall need it.”

  Peter’s grin grew even bigger. “You mean you aren’t finding married life to your liking?”

  Thinking of last night, Andrew experienced a surge of warmth. “Married life is—so far at least—quite to my liking. This is something else.”

  “How do you suppose the news got about so quickly?” Peter asked as they found a table. “Why, six or eight people must have informed me already this morning.”

  Andrew dropped into a chair, glowering. “It’s those abominable Lindens! Too bad they can’t be shrunk and put on display at Farrington’s Folly like Lady Elizabeth’s shrunken heads.”

  “A charming idea,” Peter agreed, summoning a waiter. “But one I’m afraid will never achieve the Lindens’ assent. Besides, can you imagine the monumental task of shrinking Lady Linden?” He paused to order, remaining silent till the waiter left. Then he said, “I take it you ran into the messengers of scandal sometime yesterday.”

  Andrew nodded. “Yes, I did. On Bond Street. And that miserable slip of a daughter shrilled out that Bridget was Durabian’s daughter. All heads turned, you can believe, to see what all the yapping was about.”