My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  “I did not give it, milady,” the groom replied, handing her the reins as he continued to check her saddle’s fit. He never once looked up at her, instead concentrating his attention on the saddle and the horse upon which she was perched.

  “Then, what should I call you?” she wondered, thinking she should feel at bit offended by his response.

  Alistair paused in his perusal of her saddle. “Comber, milady,” he replied, thinking it was doubtful anyone would connect the name back to the Earl of Aimsley. And he would answer to it. If he gave her a fake name, he feared he wouldn’t respond, and it would be more obvious he wasn’t who he claimed to be.

  “So, Mr. Comber, have you been in Hyde Park? During the fashionable hour?” Julia asked, thinking she had never noticed him, although she rarely noticed the grooms that accompanied her friends when they rode together. They seemed to blend into the background, or at least, went unnoticed because the girls’ attentions were always on the gentlemen dressed in riding habits with tall top hats and shiny boots made by Hoby, or Hessians, their tassels swishing with every step of the their horse. Though, on further reflection, she wondered how she could have overlooked a groom dressed like Mr. Comber. How could my mother subject her footmen and grooms to this color of livery? she wondered. Apple green and bright blue. My second cousin would wear such colors, she considered, and he’s an earl. But that was really no excuse.

  Sighing, she remembered the last time she had heard about apple green being worn by the Earl of Trenton. He was at Lady Worthington’s ball, before Lady Adele Worthington married Julia’s godfather and became Lady Torrington. According to her mother, Wellingham’s evening clothes had been apple green satin! When she first spotted him on the dance floor, Lady Mayfield thought the curly blond man to be a lady, for she had only seen him from the waist up. What manner of gentleman would wear an apple green topcoat and breeches to a ball? A peacock, Julia thought with a grin.

  “Really, Mr. Comber, I am fine,” Julia said as she wondered how much longer the groom was going to check her mount.

  “Then, if you’re ready, milady, we’ll be off,” Alistair replied as he gave Julia’s mount, Buttercup, a firm pat on its neck. He turned around and regarded his own mount, a smaller gelding that was obviously the oldest horse in Lord Mayfield’s stable. Blossom, he thought with a bit of derision. Who named a horse, Blossom? He almost put voice to his question and realized Lady Julia had probably been at fault. Or perhaps Lady Mayfield.

  Either way, it would do him no good to voice his opinion. Instead, he moved to the front of the horse, gave it a quick swipe up the middle of its head and moved to the left side. He ran his hand along its flank and, from a standing position, jumped up and swung his leg over the horse, landing perfectly in the saddle. After watching Lady Julia hoist herself up and get seated in a move that looked effortless, Alistair thought he should at least be able to do the same given he didn’t wear a riding habit. At least he didn’t have to hook his knee around the pommel and make sure his livery was perfectly splayed out along one side of his mount.

  Julia had to suppress a gasp at the sight of the groom’s move, his posture perfect and his command of the gelding apparent. “Easy,” she heard him say as Blossom moved a bit to the right upon being mounted. Blossom held perfectly still as his rider hooked his boot into the stirrups. The man had probably been born in a stable! She had never seen someone so comfortable around the beasts, so assured as he took up the reins and led his horse through a few moves before urging Blossom into a canter. Julia didn’t have to do anything as her own mount, Buttercup, simply followed Blossom down the alley and out onto Park Lane.

  Well, anything other than admire the backside of Mr. Comber.

  She nearly blushed as she realized she had never before noticed the backside of any of the other grooms who had escorted her to Hyde Park. The mans’s buttocks filled out his livery, nearly straining the silk.

  A sudden something-rather-pleasant sensation passed through her belly, and she was nearly forced to pull back on the reins. What had just happened? Julia wondered, urging her mount to move closer to her escort when she realized they weren’t the only riders on Park Lane making their way toward the park.

  Lady Evangeline Sommers, Lord Everly’s sister and newly wed wife of Lord Sommers, and her groom, were just ahead of them, and Lord Devonville and his wife, the former Lady Winslow, greeted her as she merged into the horse-and-rider traffic on Park Lane.

  “We missed you yesterday,” Lady Devonville said as she pulled her mount alongside Julia’s. “I do hope you were not ill,” she added as she gave the younger woman a raised eyebrow.

  Julia gave the marchioness a brilliant smile. “I was not. I was hosting Lady Samantha for the afternoon. The Fitzsimmons were in Kent for a house party, and I couldn’t abide her being alone when the weather was so unpredictable.”

  Indeed, the afternoon before had been so unsettled, but then, just as she had spied her current escort from her bedchamber window, the sun had appeared and brightened an otherwise dull afternoon.

  As had the sight of the groom.

  Lady Devonville’s attention had moved to the groom just in front of Lady Julia. “How kind of you. I was hoping Lady Samantha would be settled by now, seeing as how she has been out for two Seasons,” she commented, her voice indicating concern.

  Julia pondered how to respond before finally saying, “But Lady Samantha is not. I rather imagine she will wait until she has an offer from a gentleman with whom she feels affection. Even if she has to wait a Season or two more.”

  One of Lady Winslow’s eyebrows arced up in surprise at hearing the news that Lady Samantha was willing to wait for affection before agreeing to marry.

  “And she has a project to which she is quite devoted at the moment,” Julia added. Samantha had shared the news about her lady’s maid in a note to Julia only that morning; apparently, after Samantha returned to her uncle’s home the day before, Gabriel Wellingham had paid a call on Lily and informed her she was his illegitimate sister. Samantha didn’t seem the least bit upset at the news, for she wrote that she would see to Lily Harkins’ preparation for the Mayfield ball. While you see to your groom, I’ll be seeing to Lady Lily’s come-out, she wrote, with a postscriptum that mentioned she had contacted an agency about procuring a new lady’s maid.

  Lady Lily?

  “Oh?” Lady Devonville prompted, hoping for an explanation of Samantha’s project. Lady Samantha wasn’t considered a beauty among the ton, and with her dowry rumored at being on the low end in terms of value., it was rather doubtful the chit would receive any offers of marriage, let alone from someone who might feel affection for her.

  The former Lady Winslow was about to respond to Julia’s comment when Lord Devonville pulled up alongside his wife.

  “Come, my sweeting,” he said without a hint of embarrassment. “Lord Morganfield is up ahead in his phaeton, and he has his marchioness with him this afternoon.”

  Lady Devonville gave Julia an apologetic shrug and urged her horse to hurry on.

  Julia knew better than to feel offended by the sudden departure of Lady Devonville. The woman had afforded her a moment of conversation she appreciated given she was alone on today’s ride. But she did feel a hint of satisfaction knowing she had left the lady wondering about Samantha’s project when her husband, William Slater, suddenly appeared.

  Had the marquess overheard her comment to Julia? Was the marchioness about to say something about Samantha that was less than complimentary? Julia thought she was.

  Poor Samantha. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but she was brunette and brown-eyed and comfortable in her own skin. Confident, Julia thought suddenly. She would make a good wife to a man who appreciated her quick wit and assured manner.

  Julia had thought to invite her for the ride in Hyde Park, but Samantha had made it clear the day before that she had no intention of riding today – she wasn’t particularly comfortable in the saddle, and her aunt and uncle were
due back from Kent in time for tea. At one-and-twenty, Samantha wasn’t yet on the shelf, and probably wouldn’t be for a few years. If she wasn’t married or at least betrothed by then, Julia wondered if Samantha would accept a life as an old maid or take the first offer for her hand in marriage.

  Julia was deep in thought when she realized the groom had slowed so his mount was alongside hers.

  “Are you well, milady?” he asked, his eyes taking in her mount from head to tail, as if he expected something to be wrong with Buttercup. The horse might be old, but she wasn’t lame.

  Julia glanced around, her face blooming with color. Had she been so deep in thought over Samantha that her horse had nearly stopped? Or was the groom just being overly cautious? “I am fine, Mr. Comber,” she replied with a forced smile. How dare he? she found herself thinking, a bit of annoyance accompanying the uncharitable thought. But then she glanced around and realized more than a dozen riders had joined their parade to the park.

  “Very good, milady,” Mr. Comber replied, urging his mount to move up ahead so he was directly in front of her. Alistair glanced around, secretly smiling as he realized no one had given him a second look. Livery really was the most effective disguise when it came to hiding amongst the ton! He had to admit to a level of concern over Lady Julia’s behavior, though. Her attention was obviously not on the present when he realized she had fallen too far behind after her brief visit with Lady Devonville.

  Alistair had to suppress a smile at the thought of the marchioness. As Lady Winslow, she’d been widowed after only a few years of marriage, her much older husband, a baron, expiring after what had been rumored was an intense afternoon at a brothel in Covent Gardens. How could a man choose a prostitute over the delicious lady who was at least twenty years his junior? Alistair wondered. She couldn’t be more than five years older than Alistair. And he might have made a move to bed the woman himself, had he not been on the Continent, but the Marquess of Devonville had obviously had his eye on the lady for some time – and his eye on the calendar – for on the one-year anniversary of her husband’s death, William Slater had claimed Lady Winslow as his own, seeing to it no other man would occupy her bed. The two were married within weeks of their courtship, within weeks of his own daughter’s marriage to the Earl of Gisborn.

  Alistair dared a glance back at Lady Julia. Her eye’s widened and she turned her head to regard a nearby rider, her face suddenly blooming with a pink blush. What had she been thinking to bring on such a delightful blush? Alistair wondered, his gaze darting about to see what rider might have captured her attention.

  His own attention was diverted to Lord Wellingham, though, and he realized the earl was probably the source of Lady Julia’s blush. Damnation! The peacock of an earl was too damned handsome and too cocky for his own good, Alistair thought with annoyance. Would the earl expose him if he realized his identity? When last they spoke at the tavern, Alistair was left with impression the earl would be on his way back to Bilston within the next month. He wondered if this ride in the park might be Gabriel’s last before heading for Staffordshire.

  Alistair had heard the recent on-dit suggesting the man had met his match in the Marriage Mart and wasn’t nearly as coveted as husband material as he had been the Season before. Gabriel had as much as admitted it when they last spoke. The man was rumored to be a hot-head in Parliament and a poor lover in the bedroom; Alistair had to suppress a smile at the thought of the blond, blue-eyed, very rich and very spoiled earl finding difficultly when it came to landing a wife. His purse alone should have ensured a bride of utmost quality. How could Gabriel have made such a cake of courting Elizabeth Carlington? Perhaps Lady Julia will grant him a dance or two at this Season’s balls if the earl returned to London, he considered.

  His gut suddenly clenched.

  The thought of Lady Julia with the Earl of Trenton made his blood boil. She couldn’t, Alistair thought with a shake of his head. No matter how spoiled or how self-centered he imagined Julia to be, the woman deserved better than a rake like Gabriel Wellingham. The earl might have been a friend, and perhaps he really was a bit humbled by all that had happened with regard to Lady Elizabeth, but …

  When Buttercup suddenly slowed for no apparent reason, Alistair was forced to come out of his reverie and glance around. Buttercup tossed her head as if to remind him that he was riding her, and that he needed to pay attention.

  Alistair realized why right away.

  The gates to Hyde Park were directly ahead, and dozens of riders, several phaetons, a few carriages and one barouche were attempting to enter all at the same time. “Whoa,” he called out, raising his right arm as he did when he was in the army, halting the men who rode behind him.

  Julia, still in a reverie of her own, saw her groom’s raised arm and immediately slowed her mount. Who did Mr. Comber think she was? A member of the calvary? But she realized just how effective the man’s motion had been. For if she hadn’t slowed Blossom’s forward movement, she might have been crushed by a barouche that had pulled up along her right side, apparently in a hurry to get through the gates and onto Rotten Row before the mass of other horses around her could make their entrance. She was about to call out to scold the driver of the barouche when she heard Mr. Comber call out, “Hold up there!”

  The barouche slowed a bit, the driver hauling back on the reins. “Now, see here, you,” Lord Barings called out, gesturing toward Alistair in a less than polite manner. “Out of my way!” The barouche surged forward, and Alistair was forced to pull back on his reins. He glanced back at Lady Julia, alarmed at how close the wheels of the barouche were to the legs of her mount. “Milady!” he called out, hoping to get her attention. But Lady Julia’s expression indicated her anger at the driver of the barouche. She wisely pulled back on her own reins and allowed the barouche to pass completely before joining Alistair.

  “Are you unharmed?” he asked, his voice rising over the din of nearby activity.

  Julia was about to admonish him for speaking so loudly. The entire ton within a four block radius had probably heard him. But she saw his worried expression and thought better of it. “I am fine, Mr. Comber,” she replied with a hint of boredom. This wasn’t her first visit to Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, after all. Her leg had actually been touched by Lord Baring’s phaeton on her last visit, a move she thought might have been deliberate on the part of the viscount. He had given her a look that spoke volumes, as if he was apologetic at what had almost happened as well as happy it had. The nerve of some married men, she thought with a sigh. And the nerve of her groom! The man was suddenly at her side, his eyes taking in the traffic in all directions as if every piece of equipage was out to crush her.

  “Pardon, milady,” Alistair spoke as he held out his arm. “Lord Fendleton seems in a special hurry to gain entrance to the park, and I dare not allow us to be in his way.” As if to prove his words, the Duke of Fendleton suddenly barreled past Julia on her right, barely slowing in time before almost rear-ending Lord Baring’s barouche that had just passed her. Julia’s mount wasn’t as calm as Julia, though, and nearly reared at the sudden appearance of a team of four horses pulling a town coach.

  Julia quickly got Buttercup under control, but Alistair realized they needed to get out of the traffic. He motioned to Julia as he moved to his left, making a path for them to enter the park from a different vantage. Once they were past the iron gates, she watched as Alistair once again took stock of the traffic around them before relaxing in his saddle. Was the man always this tense on a ride? she wondered. Or is he really just concerned for my sake? The last thought caused a little flip in her belly, the pleasant sensation bringing a smile to her face.

  Unfortunately, Lord Tuttle spotted the smile and thought it was meant for him. Damnation! The man had already directed his mount toward her. Apparently, Mr. Comber had noticed the viscount’s move in her direction and slowed his mount so he was along her left side as Tuttle merged on her right.

  “Lady Julia
,” Lord Tuttle greeted her as he tipped his overly-tall beaver. “So good to see you today,” he added, not giving her groom a single glance.

  “And, you, Lord Tuttle,” Julia responded, her eyes still directed at the traffic ahead.

  Lord Tuttle seemed undeterred at the cut. “I did not see your beauty among those in the park yesterday. It made for a rather gloomy ride,” the bounder commented, obviously oblivious to Julia’s indifference.

  “Oh, I am quite sure that was just the weather,” Julia replied with a shake of her head. And then she dug one heel into Buttercup so her mount surged forward, leaving Lord Tuttle and her groom side-by-side.

  Alistair dared not glance at Tuttle directly. He was sure the rake would recognize him from their days at Oxford, even if Lord Tuttle had only lasted two years at the institution. The rake had developed an appreciation for drinking and gambling, racking up debts that would probably bankrupt the viscountcy before he had a chance to inherit it. Any interest Tuttle showed toward Lady Julia was probably due to her dowry.

  Alistair held his breath as he tried to see in what direction Lord Tuttle’s attention was directed. Had the man taken the hint and given up on trying to impress Lady Julia? Or was he about to make a move to rejoin her? Alistair was about to glance in the man’s direction when his own attention was suddenly diverted by a horse that was pulling a sporty phaeton just to his left. The horse, a stunning Thoroughbred he thought might belong to the Earl of Trenton, was moving much too fast for the leisurely pace established by the typical afternoon ride in the park. He was about to call out to the driver to slow down when he realized his warning would be too late – the grey horse was almost alongside Lady Julia’s mount in an instant, spooking the bay. To the right of Julia was just a bit of room she might steer her mount toward in order to allow the high-perch phaeton to pass.

  Calling out his alarm, Alistair spurred his horse forward, hoping to come up along Julia’s left in an effort to protect her from the wheel of the phaeton. “Milady, track right,” he yelled out, pulling back on his own horse’s reins so he wouldn’t collide with Buttercup’s back end. His own mount, confused and with no place to go, started to rear. Cursing, Alistair got him under control just as Julia looked to her left and realized the problem. She deftly glanced right and moved her mount in that direction, allowing the phaeton to pass without the wheel catching her riding habit.