Vivian Roycroft Read online

  Even if he was a foreign prince.

  Perhaps she could discipline her heart, like an errant horse, and constrain it with firmness. Perhaps she could forget Fitz, or at least let him go, and turn her thoughts to another. She'd never ridden with the hounds, but she'd never shied at a fence, either. Perhaps…

  Well. Perhaps.

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday, March 16, 1813 continued

  An unseasonable sky of that perfect pale blue ensured the fashionable crowd riding Rotten Row was thicker than normal, despite the cool air and the stiff breeze plucking at the gentlemen's hats, the ladies' skirts. Jewel-toned riding habits flashed above bay, chestnut, grey, and black, more than one horse pranced at that breath of spring, and Sassenach, despite the grey hairs scattered across his muzzle, proved he could still passage with the best of them. The aging warhorse insisted upon carrying himself well, a testament to his quality and blood, and His Grace lowered a hand, scratching the warmblood's strong withers with one gloved finger. Impossible not to love the old stallion. As for the rider, well, people could decide as they chose.

  Lady Grantholm trotted by, her grey palfrey flicking her tail at Sassenach in passing and the lady's demure glance his way a closely related expression. He returned her smile — how could he not? — but made no move to hinder her nor entice her near. The sweet, svelte debutante with the winsome blue eyes had married Lord Grantholm, twenty years her senior; if she now found her choice not to her liking, well, that wasn't the sort of game to whet his appetite.

  Besides, ahead of him…

  Three young ladies rode in a line, their horses brushing shoulders and noses as if old friends. Two of the ladies rode their geldings adequately, or at least their saddles, crafting pleasing pictures for beau monde society to admire. But Miss Beryl handled her chestnut mare with a deft, educated sureness that spoke of many hours in the saddle, guided by some patient instructor, and many more on the ground, getting to know her horse in the stable. Her back was straight as a sword blade, her shoulders and head erect, and her hips — oh, indeed — were fluid and supple as they followed the mare's motions, facing their forward direction as squarely as if she rode astride. The slender cane she held on the mare's off side barely moved.

  Her riding habit, of a cerulean blue that matched the sky, only deeper and more passionate, was neither old nor in the latest fashion. Interestingly, it didn't sport any of the militaristic influences that had flourished on Rotten Row since the Spanish victories — no cording, frogging, nor braiding. Not that there was anything wrong with such decorations, and the young ladies riding with her demonstrated how well they could look upon shapely female forms. It merely said something interesting about Miss Beryl's self-confidence that she felt comfortable wearing a riding habit that didn't follow the current trends.

  Just as interesting, judging from the placement of the gentle bump beneath her blue gown on the mare's side, Miss Beryl rode with a short stirrup, her left leg almost as bent as the right. Or actually, her entire outline seemed off, as if her saddle had rolled to the left. And yet her hips pointed straight ahead; he'd watched those long enough for absolute certainty.

  Hoofbeats approached from behind, the steady thud-thud-thud of a good round trot, and Miss Beryl's chestnut mare flicked her ears back and pranced with excitement. The hoofbeats drew nearer; sudden movement to the side, energetic and rhythmic, a flash of black and buff, and Fitzwilliam, riding a liver chestnut hunter, slanted across the sand-covered roadway toward the line of ladies. He glanced aside in passing; their gazes meshed; and Fitzwilliam touched the brim of his tall hat before turning away. Grim ferocity best described his expression; it seemed the young man had taken the bait. Pleasant thought, that, and a score to the good.

  The three ladies twisted in their saddles at the same moment, as the liver hunter settled into a walk on the outside of the line, at Miss Beryl's right elbow. Her two lovely companions greeted Fitzwilliam with due civility. But only Miss Beryl's eyes lit from within, only her smile glowed with the warmth of a truly heart-felt feminine welcome, and only her cheeks tinged a winsome shade of rose. Her companions recognized the right of her prior claim, it seemed, and did not press their own suits. Sporting of them, considering the prize. Or at least the prize's worth and status, as the younger son of a very wealthy earl.

  And Fitzwilliam only nodded at her in response. His expression didn't even soften, and her warmth faded before him.

  The man had to be blind. It was the only acceptable excuse for such boorishness.

  But just in case Fitzwilliam suddenly wised up, well, it was far too early in the game for a happy ending. His Grace touched a heel to Sassenach's side and joined them. The old warhorse insinuated his bulk between the neat little chestnut mare and the liver hunter with all the aplomb of—

  —of a stallion well and truly smitten. Lovely timing, lad. His Grace curbed Sassenach's self-introduction to the mare before it could get out of hand.

  "Miss Beryl, it seems the Fates have decided to shower me with kindness. They knew I could not possibly be content with only two meetings in two days, and so they've arranged events in my favor."

  The smile she flashed his way wasn't fooled. But it was grateful, and then it was interrupted, as her mare showed Sassenach a neat pair of heels and required her own bit of curbing. Which was accomplished with the utmost efficiency and without Miss Beryl needing to shift in the saddle nor swing that cane.

  But which still required a response from the cause's rider. "My apologies. Sassenach more commonly requires a second meeting before falling in love."

  She snickered, a throaty, understanding snicker, and fluttered her eyelashes. "Males have no subtlety."

  Oh, indeed. He didn't curb his laughter, and Miss Tucker grinned as she and her groom cantered past, little puffs of sand billowing behind them. At Sassenach: "Are you listening down there?" Oh, to see Fitzwilliam's face. But a glance aside at that moment would only alert the joke's true butt to his buttship. Instead, His Grace cleared his throat. "If it were permissible to disagree with a lady — and of course it's not, but if it were, one might comment on the unimaginable depths of subtlety displayed by some human males, in particular when they're unaware of their own hearts." He waved a hand in a sort of general fashion. "Unfortunately, those are the ones who require communicating, not with a gently applied rein, but with a sharply pricking spur."

  Impossible to miss the startled movement atop the liver hunter. Hopefully at least part of that message penetrated. Hopefully the right part. Oh, very well; hopefully any part.

  "Please, Miss Beryl, do present your charming companions."

  The tall, willowy blonde on the darker bay gelding, with the perfectly tailored and be-frogged primrose habit, turned out to be a Miss Violetta de Lisle, of the eighth baron's numerous clan. The unpretentious young lady, neither quite raven-haired nor quite brunette, not precisely pretty but not so staid as to be saddled with the silly word handsome, answered to Miss Lysandra McTaggart, eldest daughter of a first baronet.

  He'd make it a point to keep an eye on them for the remainder of the Season. Hardly a painful task, that. With luck—

  But he mustn't allow himself to be distracted from his current game.

  Social necessities accomplished — in this instance, social delights — Miss McTaggart leaned over her clear bay gelding's neck and peered around the others from her post at the line's far end. "Your grace, did I just hear you describe communications amongst men in terms of riding a horse?"

  "Wellllll…" Best consider his words carefully before throwing them out. Miss McTaggart did not seem old enough to have attained her majority, but no one with any sense would ever describe her as unthinking. Her dark, questioning eyes gave her cleverness dead away. "Amongst men, no, I don't believe the comparison would hold. But between the sexes, most assuredly."

  "I don't think…" Miss Violetta's words trailed off. As if she wasn't certain how to ask her question. Or as if she'd been distracted.
/>   Perhaps she'd noticed Miss Beryl's already huge eyes widening further.

  Or the absolute silence from the rider of the liver hunter.

  Listen well, junge.

  "Consider it this way. A well-bred lady, desiring a particular response or behavior from a gentleman not her relative, would never be so boorish as to simply vocalize her request. Good manners frown on such forwardness. No, the proper course for a lady in such a spot is to cue the gentleman with subtlety, as she might her horse. A smile, a glance, a lift of one lovely eyebrow, all can communicate her desires with even greater weight than the clearest of words, and give the gentleman a delight and charm in the interpretation."

  A sigh beside him from the chestnut mare's rider, audible as a gentle rushing beneath the creaking of tackle and the thudding of hooves.

  As usual, she had a point. "Of course, the poor lady must first ensure she has the gentleman's attention. Otherwise her cues will go unnoticed. In that case, the cane a lady riding aside carries on the horse's off side to serve as a gentle means of communication can, without warning, segue into a method of enforcement. Rather like a lady's smile turning to a frown when her masculine companion misbehaves — and just as painful."

  Miss McTaggart laughed, those dark eyes gleaming; the joke was not lost on her, nor the message, and His Grace had to ignore the rush of blood in his veins at the sound. What a delightfully tasty morsel she would be, too. Not that Miss Violetta would be less of a challenge, of course; every young lady deserved her own game, tailored for her especial benefit and to match her personality. But how much fun it was when they played the game as a silent partner, as well.

  Still not a sound from Fitzwilliam, and Miss Beryl seemed unwilling to breathe. Sunlight flashed on the copper curls peeking from beneath her cerulean bonnet, matching the gleam of her mare's shoulder as it flexed and withdrew with each stride. A party of gentlemen cantered past on the left, a raucous laugh trailing behind them, and the pedestrians beneath the shade trees pointed and murmured.

  From this much improved angle, it was clear her saddle had not shifted. But while those agile hips pointed directly ahead and balanced her weight evenly within her seat, her right leg seemed too offset, angling more sharply than normal to her left and the mare's near shoulder. Such a position couldn't be comfortable. And yet she rode with an easy, effortless grace, more so than her more normally-seated companions. Some new type of sidesaddle?

  But the silence, while pleasant, could be construed as dragging. Perhaps it would be best if he carried the conversation while the message percolated. "Miss Violetta, Miss McTaggart, please put this forward rogue out of his misery. Might you be amongst the party Miss Beryl has mentioned which will attend the Hanover Square assembly this evening?"

  "We shall." Interesting that Miss McTaggart, although lower in precedence, seemed less in awe of a duke than the higher-ranking Miss Violetta. Her frank gaze, while respectful and demure, remained as before — unpretentious.

  "It's impossible to describe how you delight my heart. Is it too late to request a spot on your dance cards? Do tell me it's not too late."

  Miss Violetta dropped her reins. And for a moment, her jaw. Thankfully, her stolid gelding walked on with the others, regardless. On the other hand, the liver hunter grunted and tossed his head, as if in protest at a jerked rein or clumsily handled spur.

  Still unflustered, Miss McTaggart stroked her gelding's glossy shoulder. "A lady could never refuse."

  Finally, a sound from his other side, where the liver hunter walked. But the words seemed half eaten, half mumbled, and entirely disgruntled. Only the phrase "could never refuse a gentleman" presented themselves with any clarity.

  And of course, a gentleman could never permit such a slur to stand unchallenged, no matter how mumbled. A leg on the left flank, right rein opened an inch, and Sassenach flattened his ears; he didn't like the liver hunter, perhaps in equal proportion to his infatuation with the chestnut mare. But his crowding sidestep was willing enough, full of bridled passion, and suddenly—

  —a tangle of equine legs, riders knee to knee, the liver hunter willingly giving ground, and it was so like the remembered cavalry charge at Salamanca, against Maucune's beleaguered infantry square, that His Grace all but heard the clash of steel and clutched the reins to prevent reaching for his heavy dragoon saber—

  —which of course was at home, hanging on the wall, where it belonged. Not at his side.

  A deep breath. The moment passed, the liver hunter sidling away. Rotten Row widened about His Grace, sand and shade trees and peaceful riders, just as they should be, and the sun breathed from a cloudless, perfectly blue sky. His face had been turned away; the ladies' expressions were surprised but otherwise unconcerned. Best yet, although Fitzwilliam reined the liver hunter back into their line, he couldn't force him into the same proximity, and his mutters could no longer reach His Grace's ears, much less those of the young ladies.

  If he'd had that saber—

  —a flash of color. That perfect, clear, grass-green hue, at the collar of a drooping horseman, holding a fresh, restive horse, the two standing together beneath a lamppost off the track, out toward the Knightsbridge turnpike. The horseman rubbed the trooper's nose, keeping him still, and peered around. As if searching for someone.

  It couldn't be a coincidence. No one wore green cravats, not if he wished to be considered fashionably sane. And it was that perfect hue.

  The hue that called his heart home.

  ****

  Astonishing. Beryl didn't dare look at Fitz's face to ascertain his surely thunderous reaction, didn't dare look at anyone. If she savored Lissie's silent mirth, Violetta's undoubted confusion, she'd burst out laughing like the silliest of fools. And meeting His Grace's deep, captivating stare was surely the worst move she could possibly make. A slight warmth flooded her face at the thought. What on earth would she do with his stare if she caught it?

  But her impression couldn't be mistaken. It seemed this lovely, incorrigible rake not only understood her dilemma; he wasn't averse to giving her a leg up on Fitz.

  Or to taking her himself, should his horse drive poor Rounder from the battlefield. Perhaps…

  Perhaps she'd never seen such a handsome man, in his tailored maroon cutaway and white silken breeches, white kidskin gloves and black riding boots with brown jockey's tops. The way he looked into her soul with his pale blue eyes, never permitting any distractions to divert his attention, as if she were the most important person in his world at that moment. His black hair curled atop his leather collar; his long legs wrapped around the stallion and military saddle with an educated flair. Surely he'd ridden to hounds, ridden to war, ridden…

  Indeed. Perhaps.

  "Excuse me, ladies, Mr. Fitzwilliam." A touch to his hat, a barely perceptible movement of his boot, and His Grace's massive dark stallion trotted from the line, toward the outlandishly dressed man holding a horse beneath the nearest gas lamppost. He didn't post the trot; instead, he blended his motion with the horse's, a splendid melding of two splendidly masculine animals, and then Sassenach drew to a halt and His Grace leaned down. Whatever happened next, between him and that strange man, was hidden behind his maroon-coated shoulder.

  Without even flicking an ear at the stallion's departure, Tricksey plodded on. Beryl's hips rolled with the motion, from side to side, her right thigh taking much of the forward movement and only the barest weight in her left foot's slipper stirrup. Time to check her position in this new saddle. Gathering the four reins into her left hand and being careful not to jab Tricksey with her cane, she casually dropped her right hand along her side. Her forearm brushed her hip; her gloved fingers touched Tricksey's barrel, gentle muscular flexing. Excellent, straight and balanced; the saddler's concerns regarding her little alteration were proving unfounded. Of course, if in the end it proved unworkable, she could always let him change it.

  A duke. She couldn't help but watch him from her eye's corner, as the line passed the conversi
ng men and stamping horses at the lamppost. A duke not only took notice of her; he'd also asked for her friends to be presented, offered to dance with them at the assembly, requested the first two with her. She'd never expected to live a fairy tale, with a titled nobleman galloping up on his charger and rescuing her from an impossible situation; no, she'd never expected anything of the sort. But if such a scenario offered, would she be wise to accept? Or—

  Tricksey stumbled.

  The saddle dipped, the offset pommels hauling her right thigh along with it. Tricksey's head followed, leaving Beryl hanging in air and defying gravity. Her innards surged into her throat. She'd been dumped before — of course she had, anyone who rode regularly would be — but she'd never before been dumped while riding at a sedate walk. On Rotten Row. In front of everyone. Everyone who mattered.

  In front of the two men whose clashing mounts, stallion and gelding, had just symbolized their all-too-human clash over her.

  Perhaps this new Owen sidesaddle, with its too-clever alteration, wasn't such a great idea.

  Then Tricksey's head rose, resumed its proper position; the saddle righted itself, and her innards and the world around her returned to normal. Just a misstep; even the best of horses occasionally took one, and no fault to her sweet mare. Oh, that had startled her—

  But Tricksey's next step was a limp, her head bobbing down then up. And again.

  Alarm flooded Beryl. Lame; Tricksey was lamed, and she'd left Paul at home, thinking his expert assistance would not be needed since she rode in company. Without pausing even to rein in the mare, she kicked her foot from the stirrup, slid from the saddle. Her habit's skirt bunched against the leather, had to be showing an indecent amount of leg. Let it. Easing dear Tricksey's distress was more important than any momentary immodesty. Twisting in midair, she landed with a hard, startling thump beside the glossy chestnut shoulder. The mare blew and stopped, nodding a final time at her final step. Her near foreleg, then.