“Proper schmoper,” Jemma sang and glanced out at the sleek, shining river. “You know very well my goal.”
“Oh yes, I know your ludicrous plan well.” Anne paused and nodded to Lady Violet and Lady Rand, who smiled widely at Anne and then eyed Jemma with barely veiled disapproval. Jemma smiled sweetly and took delight in performing one of her perfectly improper curtsies. The women’s faces became mirrored expressions of disdain as they scampered down the path away from the twins.
Jemma snorted merrily. If she was going to have to pretend to be too senseless to master etiquette, at least she could have fun doing it. And hopefully, she would gain a reprieve from the charade soon. Surely Grandfather would see she was not fit to make her debut; therefore, naturally, she could not possibly be ready to catch the eye and the hand of Lord Glenmore.
Anne huffed. “I don’t suppose you will change your course?”
Jemma shook her head.
“But you don’t even know Lord Glenmore,” Anne said for the hundredth time.
It was Jemma’s turn to let out a hearty sigh. “I’ve told you, it’s not him. Though I suppose it could be.” She’d not even met the man, after all. Apparently, it was de rigueur here in London—and among the grossly wealthy—for men to take Grand Tours, and since Lord Glenmore was grossly wealthy, he was, of course, on his Grand Tour.
Better for Jemma, too. She had enough to juggle trying to remember to act senseless at every given moment she was in the public eye so Grandfather would deem her unworthy of debuting. She needed that to occur. Now that she was nineteen, she had two more years until she turned one and twenty, and then it would be legal for her, as an unmarried woman, to own property. Two years to save her pin money toward that goal was not very long, considering how expensive things were. She felt a little stab of guilt for planning to thwart her grandfather’s wishes with the pin money he was giving her, but she promptly squelched the remorse. Grandfather had left her no choice. And attaining her goal would become much harder if it came to pass that Lord Glenmore asked for her hand and Grandfather disowned her after she either refused Lord Glenmore or admitted her lack of innocence to her grandfather. She didn’t see the taciturn man forgiving either thing. And if she had to move out—
“You’re woolgathering again,” Anne said, poking Jemma.
Jemma blinked. “I’m not. I’m thinking on my plan to lease a bakery in two years and all that could possibly go wrong.”
Anne quirked her mouth. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind about the bakery, Lord Glenmore, and marriage once you meet the man.”
“I won’t,” Jemma stated firmly. “I do not wish to give my heart to any other man again. Ever.”
“I don’t understand you,” Anne said, her tone a touch peevish.
“You’re right,” Jemma said. “You don’t totally understand.” And she never would. Jemma was far too ashamed to admit she’d stupidly given her innocence to Will, nor did she care to linger on the consequences of that decision. But it was even more than that. It wasn’t just Will that made her never want to give her heart again, though he was certainly the biggest reason. It was Grandfather’s treatment of Mother and now of Jemma herself. It was Father abandoning them. Men were wretched creatures and not to be trusted.
If only Anne would come to her senses, see the truth in the blaring light, forget wanting a husband and focus instead on the bakery, as Jemma was doing. Jemma stared at her twin, her opposite. They couldn’t be more different, yet she loved Anne with her whole heart.
“I love you, Anne.”
“Your sweet declarations will get you everywhere,” she said with a snort. “And I daresay you know it. I suppose you didn’t drag me to this park to walk this morning for no purpose.”
Jemma grinned. “I suppose I didn’t.”
“Well, let’s hear it,” Anne said. “What do you have planned for today on this, our final day of etiquette training?”
Both girls laughed at that, though Jemma quickly grew serious. Tomorrow marked six months that they had been in England, which would mean Grandfather would decide if they were ready to debut. This was it. This was her very last day to show him she wasn’t and that meant this needed to be her most outrageous breach of etiquette yet. “Do you remember last night at the dinner party when Lord Harthorne challenged the Duke of Scarsdale to live up to his boast that he was the best horseman?”
“How could I not? Sophia was livid that her husband agreed to race in the park today!”
“She was only livid when he refused to relent and allow her to race alongside him. Which, come to think of it, illustrates one of my points as to why marrying is a ludicrous idea. You give control of your life to a man when you give him your hand.”
Anne pursed her lips. “To be fair to His Grace, Sophia is with child. I hardly think racing is a sound idea.”
“It should still be her decision whether she races or not,” Jemma argued. “But I digress and time is short.” Up ahead where two large oak trees met, she could clearly see the Duke of Scarsdale and Lord Harthorne on their horses. Sophia and a gathered group were standing in front of the men.
Jemma took a deep breath. “I’m going to race against Lord Harthorne and His Grace!”
Anne’s jaw dropped open. “Jemma, you cannot! They’d never let you, anyway.”
Jemma frowned at Anne. “I can and they will. Oh, they may protest, but I’m going to challenge them. Their pride will be at stake, and I’d bet the pin money I have saved that neither gentleman will cry off. In fact, I shall wager with them! That will be perfect! I’ll gain money to add to my bakery fund and cause a scandal with the same act!”
Anne rolled her eyes. “I vow I’m the only sister alive who would not pitch a fit at such antics. Your rebellion could very well ruin my chances of making a good match.”
Jemma sobered instantly. She honestly hadn’t thought of that. She’d been so focused on how to get what she wanted that she’d not considered the consequences to her sister. “If you want me to think of something else I will.”
Anne patted Jemma’s hand. “No. There is no other way, though I’m loath to admit it. Grandfather does not appear to be the sort who will bend in his wishes for you or me. He wants us both married.”
“To rich lords,” Jemma added.
“According to Mother,” Anne said.
“Yes, it was according to Mother, who ought to have known. But I also overheard the servants gossiping when we first arrived, and they confirmed everything Mother had always said.”
Anne furrowed her brow. “What did you hear?”
“That he was cold, inflexible, and determined to bend us to his will as he’d failed to do with Mother. Especially in light of Mother’s defiance in eloping to Gretna Green with Father.”
“Why did you not say anything to me?” Anne asked.
“It was nothing Mother hadn’t already told us, so you already knew.” Jemma shrugged, and Anne scowled at her.
“Still, I wish you would have told me.”
“Do you tell me everything?” Jemma demanded, suspecting Anne had been keeping a secret of some sort. Either that or her sister truly needed to see a physician. She’d claimed a megrim every day for the past two weeks and had disappeared behind their bedchamber door for hours. And locked the doors!
Anne’s cheeks pinked, confirming Jemma’s suspicion, and then she cast her eyes away. “I will tell you my secret when I’m ready.”
“How enigmatic of you, Anne, dear! I hate to say that England has been good for anything, but it has been good for you. You seem to be coming out of your shell.”
“Jemma!” a woman called from the distance.
Jemma glanced up the hill to where the Duke of Scarsdale and Lord Harthorne were and waved at Sophia, the Duchess of Scarsdale, who was her dearest friend. Jemma linked her arm with her sister’s. “Come. The time to perform is upon me.”
Anne fell into step beside Jemma, and Jemma automatically matched her pace to her sister’s slower,
uneven one. A breeze blew around them, making the loose tendrils of Jemma’s hair tickle her neck. She brushed her hair back as she walked and thought how to goad the men into taking up her challenge. “I think I’ll profess that I can best any man on horseback.”
“I’d be remiss if I did not say you shouldn’t, so I’ll say it. But I know you won’t listen.”
“That’s true,” Jemma replied.
“Do you truly think you can best His Grace and Lord Harthorne?”
“I don’t see why not. I always beat everyone in America. Why should the gentlemen of England be any different? Besides, I’ve seen His Grace ride. He’s excellent, but I’m better.”
“Well, you’ve never seen Lord Harthorne ride.”
That was true. She hardly knew the man. She’d only been around him a few times, but he was a titled lord for goodness’ sake who fancied himself a poet. From what she had heard, he was rather good, but that was not the point. “I hardly think he spends much time fine-tuning his skills on a horse. Of course, he probably can handle a horse well enough to hunt and ride, as is required of his social class, but from what I’ve observed of most men of the ton these past months, they would rather breed horses and watch other men race them than actually learn to race them themselves.”
Anne nodded. “That does seem to be a true statement, for the most part. However, His Grace is of the ton, and he’s an excellent rider.”
“Well, he’s the exception. Clearly. The man does flaunt his shipping empire in the face of the ton without caring that they disapprove, and Sophia did say he had a very unusual childhood.”
“Perhaps Lord Harthorne is also an exception.”
A picture of the man flashed in her mind. He had unfashionably long russet locks that made her fingers positively tingle at the thought of smoothing back his curls from his forehead so she could ascertain whether mirth or ire lit his coffee eyes.
“Jemma—” Anne nudged her “—you’ve a dreamy look on your face.”
Jemma blinked, appalled at Anne’s suggestion. “I do not,” she snapped. “And if I do, I’m dreaming I will best the man. Come.” She fairly dragged Anne behind her the rest of the way up the hill, not wanting to talk about Lord Golden Tongue anymore. She didn’t stop her stride until she stood face-to-face with Sophia.
As always, Sophia looked perfect with her dark-brown hair, coal eyes, and flawless porcelain skin. Jemma touched her own freckle-covered face. No one would ever describe her complexion as flawless with all her freckles, not that she cared. She was far too wise to care what a man thought about her freckles or anything else. Or at least she was far too wise now...after Will. And even if she did care, which she certainly did not, it wouldn’t matter. No man would want a bride who was no longer an innocent. Thank God she didn’t care.
Sophia kissed Jemma on her freckly cheek. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Jemma and Anne said in unison.
Sophia waved toward her husband and Lord Harthorne and gave Jemma a conspiratorial look. “Have you come to watch these two race?”
Jemma took her cue and glanced at the men, some four feet off, who were talking with a small group that had gathered. Her gaze lingered on Lord Harthorne for a moment. For all the time he surely must’ve spent sitting in a chair composing poems, he looked exceptionally fit in the leather breeches that encased his obviously powerful legs. A moment of doubt that she could have possibly misjudged him and his ability to ride a horse filled her, but she ruthlessly pushed it away. This was her last chance, and she could not afford doubt.
“No,” she said, making her voice loud enough that both His Grace and Lord Harthorne would hear her, as well as the group of lords and ladies gathered in front of them. “I’ve come to join the race,” she announced.
Lord Harthorne was the first to turn. He swiveled in his saddle and cocked a russet eyebrow as his gaze locked on her. Awareness of him made her skin prickle. She’d only been around him three times, but each time her skin had done the same thing. She didn’t care for it one bit. Will had once made her skin prickle, and once in her life for such foolishness was quite enough for her.
Lord Harthorne offered an open, friendly smile, and she frowned in return, suddenly irrationally fearful that he could somehow sense he had an odd effect on her. He combated her frown with a smirk before pulling his reins toward the right and maneuvering his horse to face her. Behind him, conversation carried. He speared her with an amused look. “Are you frowning so fiercely at the prospect of losing to me?”
“Certainly not!” she muttered. “I’m so sure I can best you and His Grace that I want to wager five pounds. And I’ll race astride the same as the two of you!”
She expected him to be appropriately shocked by her outrageousness, but he appeared almost bored as he offered long, languid strokes to his horse’s side. The smirk on his face was unchanged.
He stopped rubbing his horse and glanced around, as if looking for something or someone. “It appears, Miss Adair, that you are missing a horse on which to participate in this race. Pity that. I’d give ten pounds to see the look on Scarsdale’s face when a lady, an American to boot, bested him. He’s a pompous man and considers himself quite undefeatable, which is exactly why I’m forced to race him and remind him he’s a mere mortal.”
Jemma frowned. He was supposed to scoff at her and tell her she could never best him or his friend. And preferably in a loud voice so more people would take note of her shocking breach of etiquette. He wasn’t playing his part at all. Of course, he wasn’t aware he had a part, but still...
The skin of her arms prickled again, and she rubbed them. “So you’ve no objection to my riding astride or my racing you and His Grace?” She raised her voice as loud as she could without being too obvious.
The conversation behind him stopped this time, and all eyes turned on her and Lord Harthorne. He smiled innocently, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Had you expected me to object?”
Drat the man! He was too perceptive for his own blasted good. “Certainly not. I barely know you. How am I to know how you will react?” Some emotion flickered in his eyes, gone before she could discern it.
“If that’s true, you’re very wise for one so young.”
So young? If it was true? “I’m nineteen since last week.”
“Happy belated birthday,” he said with what sounded like genuine pleasantness.
“Thank you,” she growled.
“Nineteen. You must be fretting that you’re not married. Is that why you want to race? To shore up your spinster money?”
She was about to flay him for his attitude when he began to chuckle. He was teasing her! Her own mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “You— Why, you’re...you’re outrageous,” she sputtered.
He tipped his hat to her. “So I’ve been told many times. I’d rather be shocking than boring, wouldn’t you?”
Her jaw fell open at his pronouncement as Anne gasped beside her. “Why, Jemma said that very same thing two weeks ago!”
Lord Harthorne’s smile turned into a grin. “I know. I was there at the dinner table where she professed it.” His gaze locked on Jemma once again. “I was three seats down but well within earshot to overhear your declaration.”
Why, the devil! He’d remembered her words and used them to bait her. Two could play that game. “I didn’t take you for the sort of man to purposely embarrass a lady,” Jemma chided.
He froze in the action of handing his hat to Sophia and gaped at Jemma. “I’m terribly sorry. Truly, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You may make it up to me by agreeing not only to race me but to wager with me,” she replied, a smile playing at her lips despite her best effort to school her features.
A bark of laughter escaped him. “Clever,” he said, his voice appreciative. “You’ve effectively trapped me and left me no honorable course but to agree to all your terms. But you still don’t have a horse.”
Sophia winked at Jemma. “She can borrow
mine.”
The duchess waved a hand, and a servant walked Sophia’s gleaming black horse over to them. Jemma had confided in Sophia about her plan to race this morning because she was afraid if she’d tried to take a horse without a sidesaddle the stable master would have alerted her grandfather. She wanted him to find out, of course, but not until after the deed was done. Jemma hadn’t worried overmuch that Sophia wouldn’t agree to help. Sophia hadn’t always been a duchess. There was a time, before she’d married His Grace, when she’d worked as a barmaid in her father’s pub. She didn’t hold with the notion that women of the ton had to obey so many rules of etiquette.
“How did I know you’d say that?” Sophia’s husband groaned.
“Because, darling, you know me so well.”
“Then it’s set,” Jemma exclaimed as she strode to Sophia’s newest horse. “I’ll ride Fairfax.”
“Fairfax doesn’t take to strangers,” Lord Harthorne supplied in a cheerful tone.
Jemma frowned. Did the man think she didn’t know how to handle a horse? “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” Jemma replied and held out a cautious hand to Fairfax.
Sophia had warned Jemma of Fairfax’s nature, but Jemma wasn’t worried. Animals loved her. “Hello, boy.” She moved to touch his side, and he whinnied and nipped at her hand. She jerked her hand back amid Scarsdale’s deep chuckling and Lord Harthorne’s notable silence. Heat flamed her cheeks but she refused to forego her plan. She would make the beast like her. “Come now, boy.”
The horse whinnied louder, and Scarsdale’s chuckle grew louder, as well. Sophia hushed her husband and he immediately complied, but the snickers from the onlookers behind him continued. That was perfectly all right. The horse’s defiance would make her victory even sweeter and more gossip-worthy.
The thud of boots hitting the ground made her jump, and as she glanced behind her, Lord Harthorne was suddenly there, blocking her from the rest of the party. He leaned toward her, and she thought he was going to touch her, so she tensed. Instead, he reached around her and placed a gentling hand on the horse, who immediately quit moving.
My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) Page 3