by Deb Marlowe
The men were soon descending into the pit, excited voices echoing back up as they disappeared over the edge. Glory pulled a book from her saddle bag and settled onto the dead tree.
Hope stood at the edge and looked out over the valley for a while, then wandered over and sat next to her in the shade.
“Not going down this time?” Glory asked.
“Once was enough.” Hope shuddered. “It took me days to get clean again.” She raised a brow. “You’ve not been down. Are you not tempted to go down with them?”
“Not at all,” she said vehemently.
“Prepared, did you?” Her sister glanced at the book.
“Always.”
“Well, put it away for a moment and tell me what you think of Lord Keswick.”
“Why?” She closed the book. “He is your guest. I should think it matters what you think of him, not me.”
“Well, I find I quite like him.” Hope sounded surprised.
“He’s amusing, I’ll give you that. Quick.” He’d been quick to change the subject of conversation when he wished, too, she’d noted. She tilted her head at her sister. “You’ll never guess who does not like him,” she teased.
“Who?”
“Tensford’s mama.”
Hope blinked. “He told you so?”
“Yes—and he thought better of me when I told him I’d earned her disapproval, as well.”
“Well, now I know I like him.”
They both laughed.
“You seemed comfortable with him,” Hope said tentatively. “I was thinking, perhaps we could invite him to the dancing lessons, to—”
“No.”
“But, it might give you a chance to practice with a real gentleman—”
“No.” She said it flatly. With a tone of utter finality. “If you even tell him about the lessons, I will quit them.”
“Glory—”
“No, Hope!” Her skin crawled at the thought of stumbling and lurching around the handsome viscount.
“Very well.” Her sister sighed. “I did want to thank you for allowing me to include Miss Munroe, though. The poor girl could use some companionship. Her mother is a bit of a . . . an eccentric, shall we say. She does not like people about. I think the girl is often lonely.”
“Miss Munroe seems nice enough,” Glory admitted. She straightened as the sound of voices drifted from the pit. “They are coming back up.” Standing, she pulled Poppy close and tucked the book away again. Gripping the extra strap that hung from her saddle for support, she stepped up onto the tree where she’d been sitting. She placed her good foot into the stirrup and hopped into the saddle, pulling her right leg up and settling it around the pommel and into the special cradle.
Hope watched, frowning.
“I’m going to walk Poppy for a bit, to be sure her hoof is fine.”
Hope only nodded, staring with narrowed eyes, then strode back to greet the men.
Glory took a slow turn around the top of the hill before making her way to the excited group.
“You barely look dusty, my lord,” she said, leaning down toward the viscount with a grin. “Did you not lend your shoulder to the efforts below?”
“No, no. The men were at their break. But they were kind enough to share their meat pies and I shared my own supplies.” He patted a pocket where she assumed a flask resided.
“A fair trade, and no risk to your boots.”
“No risk to mine, nor any to Tensford’s, since I am wearing an old pair that he lent me. My own are still in the process of recovery.”
Too late, she recalled that she should not know about the condition of his boots—or his attachment to them. Before her sister or Tensford could think more on it, she smiled at the earl. “Where are we off to next, Tensford? You are spoiled for choice if you mean to show off your improvements.”
“I thought the new barn, perhaps.” He shot a look at Keswick. “You might be interested in the architectural challenges of the thing. We are digging the back end into the hillside. It will help in keeping the dairy cool.”
“What? Cows, too?” Keswick asked. “You’ve gone absolutely native, my friend.”
“I’m afraid it is true. I’ve got a prime herd of Old Gloucesters, now.”
Laughing, the pair mounted up and set off. They rode all over the estate and Glory managed to stay mounted for all of it. Keswick spent a great deal of the day at Tensford’s side, as was to be expected, but Glory found herself riding next to him as they turned for home.
“Have you really been to Astley’s Amphitheatre?” she asked after several minutes of companionable silence.
He nodded. “Many times.”
“What is it like?”
He thought about it. “It is . . . an assault on the senses. But in the best way. It’s all music, light and sparkle. Trick riders and dancing dogs and massive military reenactments. It’s always a spectacle.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she said wistfully. “At least I will have one thing to look forward to, when they drag me to London.”
“You’ll be presented next year?”
She nodded glumly.
“I thought all girls were wild to have a London Season?”
“Most are, I suppose. I’d rather just stay here.”
He held silent a moment. “Your brother is Lord Kincade, is he not?”
At her nod, he frowned. “I am surprised he and his countess did not bring you out this year. They sponsored your sister last year, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“Then, why not you?”
“Because I refused. I would not put the future of a frog from your swampy bog into Lady Kincade’s hands, let alone my own.”
“It’s not my bog,” he objected.
She laughed. “I know.” She shrugged. “It’s just that I’m content to wait. Hope is the one who insists my life is incomplete without a debut—I don’t want to disappoint her, but I’m happier the longer her duties keep her here.”
“Granted, a young lady’s experience of London is far tamer than any man’s, but there is still plenty to recommend it.”
“Tea, calls and balls?” She made a face.
“I’m sure they are exactly what your sister has in mind,” he said sympathetically. “Those are the best venues for the sport.”
She frowned. “Sport?”
“The hunt.”
“Is there hunting available? Outside London?”
He laughed. “You truly are a horse lover. No, Lady Glory, I meant husband hunting. Isn’t that the primary reason for a girl’s Season?”
She recoiled. “Not for me.”
She registered the skepticism and mischief in the blue depths of his eyes and the devilish curve of his mouth—and imagined that quite a few debutantes must want him in their sights. She was certainly affected, though she knew better. But there was something rebellious in him that called to the dark places in her. “Is that what you do during the Season, my lord? Hunt for the perfect wife?”
“Gads, no.” He shuddered. “I prefer to live my life without entanglements.”
“No one lives completely free of entanglements.” She might have scoffed. Just a little.
He eyed her benevolently. “Take my advice and keep them as few as possible. It greatly reduces the—” He stopped himself.
She raised a brow.
“The disappointments.”
She sighed. “That sounds like advice that would be far easier to follow, were I a man.”
“Well, yes. Everything is easier for a man,” he conceded. “And more fun, too. But London does have distractions, even for young ladies.”
“Beyond the marriage mart?”
“Definitely. I was thinking of the museums, the parks, the Tower, Vauxhall—and more, depending on your circle of acquaintance.”
Her curiosity was peaked now. “But what do the gentlemen get up to without the ladies? Gambling, I suppose,” she said, answering her own question. “And lightskirts?”
He made a disapproving noise. “And what do you know of lightskirts?”
“My brother kept one, before his marriage. I heard his valet talk about it to the other servants.”
“Listening to servant’s gossip? Never a good idea,” he admonished.
“I’d never learn any of the really interesting tidbits, did I not. And in any case, I rather hope my brother kept his mistress, if only so that he will have someone to be pleasant to him. Heaven knows his wife is not.”
He snorted. “Perhaps you would do better here in the country. Talk like that in Town and they’ll be whispering about you.”
“Do they whisper about you?”
“Always.”
“Then I won’t mind. But what do the men do without us? I’d really like to know.”
“Oh, gambling to be sure. Betting on cockfights and cards, fencing matches and sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
“All of the fun, in short,” she said darkly.
“Yes. But also politics and scientific lectures. Clubs. Carriage racing, and driving. Riding.” He cast an admiring glance across at her. “I’d dearly love to take you riding in Hyde Park, just so you can show the other ladies how it is meant to be done.”
“I think I’d dearly love to go to London as a young gentleman instead of a young lady.”
He laughed out loud. “Oh, now that would be a prank of epic proportions.”
She straightened in her saddle, mind suddenly racing.
“Oh, no,” he said, abruptly serious. “Put it from your mind right now.”
“You could help,” she began.
“No. It is too wicked, even for me. You would ruin yourself and cast your family into disgrace too. Is that how you would like to repay Hope for all of her kindness?”
She slumped. “No.”
“Then do not consider such a thing. But I was serious about taking you out to the park. What do you say? Shall we make an agreement? If I am in London when you come up, I’ll take you riding—and we’ll go to an evening at Astley’s. Are we agreed?”
A thrill of pleasure raced up her spine. Triumph made her scalp tingle. For a moment she gloried in it—his casual acceptance and easy friendship. But the feeling faded. She imagined herself in London. The stares. The whispers. The expressions of dismay and distaste as heads turned away.
It was not her world. It never would be.
She imagined Keswick’s face when he saw her dragging her leg along, shuddered at the thought of him seeing her attempts at a dance. What if she fell in front of a ballroom crowded with people? He would turn away in embarrassment and disgust, just like so many others.
She couldn’t bear the thought of it.
Ahead of them, Tensford paused at a fork in the trail. “I’d like to introduce you to the Beales,” he called back to Keswick. “They are tenants and hold one of the largest farms on the estate. Sarah is known for her cider. I’m sure she’ll find us a glass or two.”
“Cider sounds like just the thing.” Keswick followed readily enough, but Glory hesitated.
When they stopped and looked back, she gave them all a wave. “Poppy is beginning to favor that foot. I think I’ll take her back.”
“There’s no sign of it in her gait,” Keswick commented.
“I can feel it. All of you go on. I’ll see you at the house.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but she caught Hope’s thoughtful look as she rode off.
It was better this way. She could dismount and see to Poppy without Lord Keswick’s sharp eyes on her and she could get to her room without Hope’s interference.
And just perhaps, she might stay there until the house party was done and Lord Keswick had gone.
Chapter 4
On the third full day of his visit, Keswick’s restlessness got the better of him. Tensford was heading out to his new barn this morning, to oversee the placement of the trusses, but Keswick declined to go with him. He’d enjoyed seeing his friend so happy and productive, but he needed some distance from it. Very privately, he admitted to a bit of envy. After all, he had little chance of entering a similar state of engagement. At least, not one he could share with anyone. Not for a long while. Not until . . .
Well, not until.
Lady Glory might have provided a distraction, but she was in hiding. He didn’t know what the issue was, but he could tell that it was upsetting his hostess, and he knew he hadn’t seen the girl since they’d all ridden out on that first day.
She was different, that one. Pretty, yes. That auburn hair and those cognac eyes held definite appeal, but more than that, he was drawn to her wit and unexpected conversation. She didn’t look at him with either fear or fascination, didn’t watch him with wide eyes as if he were nothing but a walking collection of rumor and whispers of a thousand wicked acts. He suspected she had grit. And perhaps a bit of intractability, hidden away beneath the surface—and the disaffected bits of his soul always did like a bit of company.
He’d actually ridden out alone a couple of times, hoping to run into her somewhere on the estate. He was sure she must ride often. He’d never seen someone so comfortable in the saddle. But he never saw her and her mare remained in the stables.
He sighed. It was likely better this way. She was young. Too innocent for the likes of him. She didn’t know how to play the game and she would end up getting hurt. Because someone always did—and he’d stopped allowing it to be him, long ago.
He needed something else to distract him. Heaven knew he could not show the least bit of interest or passion in something solid and real. No, even here, away from his father’s spies, he would do best to keep his occupations shallow and preferably full of dissipation.
Unfortunately, dissipation was in short supply at Greystone.
So, he went looking for it.
He got up an illicit card game out behind the stables, drawing in the stable hands, a few of the grooms and a local lad or two. They played for pennies, but there was still a feeling of the forbidden about it, and spirits and pleasure ran high. They had a surprisingly good time at it, in fact, until rivalries ran deep as well, and fisticuffs broke out between a stable hand and a stonemason’s apprentice who both were sparking after the same kitchen maid.
Keswick had to take his responsibilities as a good guest seriously. Even he couldn’t be responsible for more than a broken nose, and assorted scratches and bruises, so the next day found him wandering to the village in search of amusement. He found it at the Crown and Cock.
The offerings began with the sign outside, an artistic and hilarious depiction of a finely feathered rooster, wearing a proud expression and a crooked crown. They continued with the discovery of the tavern’s much vaunted honeyed mead, a specialty whose secret had been known only to the tavern keep’s family for a hundred years. Mr. Thomkins was grateful for his enthusiasm for the brew, and tolerant of his enthusiasm for Betsy, the serving maid.
The girl was perfectly willing to provide the distraction Keswick was looking for. He let her sit in his lap and run her fingers through his hair as he considered going along upstairs with her. The straightforward transaction Betsy offered was the only sort he could tolerate in his life right now—and perhaps, ever.
But this was Gloucestershire, not London, and he was Tensford’s guest. And truthfully, the thought of a quick tup with a serving wench inspired mostly . . . ennui. Gads, but it was a sad state of affairs when an arse like that only made him feel like a world-weary sack.
It had nothing to do with shining amber eyes and the echo of a quick laugh and smart mouth. He told himself so repeatedly, and went back to the tavern the next day to prove it. He even allowed Betsy back on his knee. If she wanted to press her ample bosom against him while she shared the local gossip, he was in no mood to prevent her.
But as the afternoon wore on and the dinner hour approached, he extricated himself. He wanted to be back at Greystone for dinner.
Lady Glory was going to have to come out of her room sometime. He was not
going to be so foolish as to miss it.
* * *
Glory took part in her dancing lesson as usual, but only because she knew Lord Keswick was not in the house or anywhere near to it. He was at the Crown and Cock again—all of the servants were abuzz with the news. He’d spent yesterday there, as well, sampling all of the wares available. She’d heard two of the housemaids whispering about it in the corridor, scandalized and delighted.
Their snickers filled Glory with curiosity and more than a little envy. She was so heartily sick of her room that even the Crown and Cock sounded interesting. And was Keswick truly sampling the barmaid’s charms, as well as the mead? Was he kissing her with honeyed lips? Her imagination went wild, thinking what it might be like to be kissed by him. To kiss him back. Her fingers could trail along the sharp edge of his jaw, but surely his lips would be soft . . .
Were a man’s lips soft? Hope was the only creature she could remember kissing her, since she was small, and those were mere pecks on the cheek. A man’s lips couldn’t be so different. Could they? She suddenly blazed with indignation that Betsy likely knew how Keswick’s lips felt when Glory herself would likely never know a man’s kiss.
Men were such irritating creatures. And so were barmaids. And so was she, for that matter, for caring what they got up to.
At least his absence gave her some freedom in the house. She lingered to speak with Hope and Miss Munroe after the lesson, but declined to accompany them upstairs to Hope’s stillroom. The squire’s daughter wished to select a few of the lavender sachets Hope had been teaching some of the tenant wives to fashion. Having been present for the birth of the idea and the experimentation and design of the things, Glory was already heartily sick of lavender sachets.
“Will you come down to dinner tonight?” her sister asked softly as Miss Munroe headed for the stairs.
Glory shook her head.
Hope sighed. “You’ll have to see him out of the saddle at some time,” she said before she followed her guest.
She still didn’t want to. But she knew Hope was right. It was just sheer stubbornness at this point. She’d restricted herself to quick rides, very early in the morning, and had been spending most of her days upstairs, trying not to go mad. Despite the damage to her leg, she was not used to so much inactivity and confinement. She had endured it, however, because she obstinately refused to risk heavier damage to her pride.