The Honorable Nobody (Heroines on Horseback Book 2) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Honorable Nobody

  Heroines on Horseback Book 2

  By Natalie Keller Reinert

  Originally published writing as Sydney Alexander

  Copyright © 2014 Natalie Keller Reinert

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lydia brushed hair from her face and glanced at the mantlepiece clock yet again — eleven o’clock! Just another hour, then, before the supper was laid. She could wait that long, couldn’t she? She didn’t want to be too forward, did she?

  Or did she?

  She’d been hiding for so many of these interminable nights, avoiding the prying eyes and questioning glances of her so-called friends. And, of course, avoiding Lord Hadley — there was no desire in her heart to see him again.

  But now all of a sudden she had a burning wish to be seen again, seen as she had been in the old days, before her disappointment. Everyone had known Lydia Dean was in the room then! Every eye had turned to see what gown she was wearing, what jewels were in her sweep of gilt hair, which swain was receiving the favor her tilted head and her glowing smile!

  Lydia remembered those days as if they were a thousand years ago, instead of just a few months. The girl she had been then felt as foreign as a Russian princess.

  Oh, but who cared if Lord Hadley saw her now? Who cared if the entire ball-room was craning their necks to see if she would give him the time of day should they come face-to-face for the first time since the wedding? What mattered it if Alyssa Hadley and she should accidentally meet at the punch-bowl? That was behind her now.

  There was a new gentleman in town.

  And he didn’t know her name.

  Unless he had asked someone about her. She shivered in nervous pleasure. Oh, what if he had asked someone about her! Then the ton would be abuzz with a new favorite bit of gossip, and she didn’t care a whit. Probably he had asked someone who she was — that girl with the golden hair, she thought happily, that girl with the jewel-bright blue eyes. Lydia wasn’t being vain on purpose; several poems composed in her honor and declaimed during afternoon visits had announced both of these attributes, lyrical traits so often repeated that she supposed it was probably safe to say they were true.

  And he’d had a good enough chance to espy both, when he’d caught her up in his arms and pressed her to his hard, muscular chest. Their eyes had met then — oh yes, they had shared a moment! And something more than just relief at her narrow escape, Lydia thought. His brown eyes had blazed passionately at her, the golden flecks within shining like fiery brands. He had felt very much like a man, she supposed, sweeping her out from beneath the noses of those frightful horses. And so he had been! Lydia shivered a little once more, shimmying in her lavender colored ball gown, as the gooseflesh swept over her again. Oh, he was all man, that Peregrin Fawkes. And there in his arms, she had known she was all woman.

  So after dinner, then — she shivered again, nervous anticipation taking hold of her limbs. She was going to have to get hold of herself, calm herself down. Really, if she shuddered like that out in the ball-room someone was going to think she was catching cold! And that was just what she needed: her mama to drag her home and put her into bed with a hot water-bottle and a cold compress — her mother believed in the twin mercies of hot and cold — while the entire party was filing in for supper, and Mr. Fawkes would be there before her, ripe for the picking, fresh from the crush of the ball-room and ready for some light, simple, undemanding conversation with a beautiful female who had already captured his heart!

  It was a solid plan, she thought. Much better than accosting him on the dance-floor and claiming his arm for a romp around the ball-room. She had observed over the course of the evening, spying upon him from behind potted palms and mock-oranges, that Mr. Fawkes did not care much for dancing. His face, when a determined mama descended upon him with a debutante clutching her arm, had betrayed his dismay in their interest.

  To be sure, there wasn’t a great deal of interest from mamas, and so the debs who were setting their sights upon him were not precisely the Incomparables of their season. There was a rumor — very nebulous and possibly completely unfounded — that he was second in line for some country house with a minor title and a wealthy coal mine attached to it, but it was so unlikely a possibility that it only attracted the most desperate and unfortunately complected of young ladies. Imogen Winkle, whose grandfather was a butcher and whose squint had already set lines into her fair skin, had been the last of these fair maids to approach Mr. Fawkes; Lydia had not imagined the look of terror on his face as Miss Winkle approached, the crowds parting from her great sturdy frame as waves from the prow of a ship.

  And that was when Lydia had decided not to join their ranks and approach him on the dance-floor. Supper, when he was relaxing with something stronger than lemonade: that was just the thing — she would make friendly conversation — she would thank him for saving her life — she would remind him of that manly feeling when he held her close — her curves and softness pressed against his hard, angular lines —

  And then what? Lydia’s lips fell into a pout; why must reality always follow her dreams so closely? All evening long, her mother had been glaring at her across the ballroom, clearly wanting to know why she wasn’t floating prettily across the boards with some besotted gentleman. As she had been raised to do, as she had been taught to do, as she had always been wont to do before the past few months, before her disappointment. Disappointment — such an innocent way to describe her heartbreak! But it was of no consequence. Those days, that affair, they were behind her. She was in love now, really and truly. She was resolved — she would follow her heart. Lord Hadley was a thousand years ago, and her silly little girl feelings for him as well. This was love.

  True love, real love. Lydia had thought she’d been in love before; she had thought she knew what it felt like. This was something even more special. This was love at first sight. This was fierce knight and fair lady. This was the love of the troubadours, and all thanks to her own thoughtlessness and that wretched coachman and those terrible horses.

  And his quick, strong arms, wrapped around her as if he would never let go.

  Giggling, quite giddy and silly with the remembrance of him, Lydia spun in a fluttering circle before the cheval glass, thankful of the uncharacteristically empty retiring room. Usually there were gaggles of girls everywhere, b
rightly colored girls primping their pretty plumage, checking one another’s feathers (sometimes literally) and criticizing whoever wasn’t into the room. Lydia remembered, almost dimly now, being one of those girls — she was no stranger to the gossip and giggles amongst friends.

  Lately she hadn’t thought much of all their excitement — love wasn’t all that they made it out to be, she was fairly certain. But now Lydia was remembering the heady excitement, the way they would fall on one another’s shoulders with excitement over something some gentleman had said or done. A flower plucked from a corsage and placed into a buttonhole, an intimate stolen moment on a terrace, a daring kiss on one’s hand when no one was looking. It was all coming back to her, and Lydia thought she would either burst into excited laughter or into terrible tears, and all because she was in love with a wonderful, perfect, and completely unsuitable man.

  Ah, that was the rub that couldn’t be denied — her mother would never approve. Lydia Dean, daughter of Lord Richard Dean, Marquess of Waltham, in love with an Honorable Nobody like Peregrin Fawkes: that was a disaster waiting to happen. She knew it couldn’t be, she knew it would end badly, and she was determined, utterly determined, not to care. She was going after him. Lydia Dean, obedient daughter, once the toast of London, now a spurned wallflower, was going to go after what she wanted for once, and hang consequences!

  Lydia slapped at her white cheeks to pinken them, bit at her pink lips to redden them, drew fingers over lavender skirts to smooth them. The pale shade suited her ethereal beauty — her light blonde ringlets atop her tiny ears, her luminous sapphire eyes alight in her alabaster face — but she couldn’t but wish she could have been dressed in some bold color like the matrons wore — the better to catch the eye. Perhaps a striking dark red like her hostess, the Countess of Tivington, was wearing would have drawn Fawkes’ attention. But tonight, as every other night, she was just another pastel maiden in a sea of pastel maidens in this delicate gown, for all that the purple ribbon drawn up under her pretty bosom trailed to her scalloped hem in the back, or that the lace around her décolletage was sewn by near-sighted nuns in Belgium.

  But then again, Lady Grainne Archwood didn’t need a daring gown to cause a splash in the ton’s duck pond, Lydia thought resignedly, turning from the mirror. The countess’s festive spirits and legendary skills with horses kept her a favorite amongst the sporting gentlemen in London, who looked forward to her parties as much as they dreaded every other one. And young ladies flocked her side to bask in her reflected light — and hopefully grasp a little of that manly attention for themselves. Certainly Peregrin Fawkes was one of the countess’s most ardent admirers — he was Lord Archwood’s closest friend and never strayed far from the couple, in city or country.

  And since tonight’s party was the Archwood’s farewell fête, Fawkes would doubtless be disappearing into the country with them in a few days’ time. She wouldn’t have another moment in his company before the following winter. And that was too awful to think about. She mustn’t fail tonight — it was now or never.

  The latch of the door turned; she straightened, fastening a smile upon her face. The ready socialite smile, the product of a lifetime (however brief, so far, of a lifetime) of proper training and generations (so saith the Peerage) of proper breeding. Lydia was not lacking in gentility: her entire bearing gave her away as a young lady of commendable manners and surpassing good looks, of strong morals and unwavering virtue.

  Just what all the gentlemen wanted. She managed not to smirk at the thought.

  The door opened, heavy English oak on noiseless brass hinges, and Lydia braced herself for an explosion of twittering and laughter, a gasp as they realized that the reclusive Lydia Dean was hiding alone in the retiring room. But it was a lone woman, a sight as rare as a unicorn, who stole through the door. Lydia’s breath caught in surprise, though her smile did not waver — the woman was the countess herself, vivid as an Irish rose in her deep crimson gown. She smiled conspiratorially at Lydia and then did something so astonishing that Lydia’s undying smile slipped at last: she produced a long brass key and turned it neatly in the lock. Lydia heard the bolt click. Then the countess giggled, gloved fingers to her full lips, blue eyes alight with mischief and fun.

  Lydia could only gape.

  The countess recovered herself first, sighing as if she had cast off a great weight and crossing the Turkish carpet to settle herself upon the lemon-colored divan in one corner of the room. A floor below them, Lydia heard the music swell — the orchestra was starting up again after a pause, she would be missed — but so would the hostess, she realized, who was even now reclining back upon the divan cushions in a way that surely crush the satin of her elegant gown. She regarded Lydia for a moment and raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, girl, won’t you come and sit?” the countess asked at last, patting the divan next to her. “Your dancing shoes cannot be so much more comfortable than mine. Or if they are, I shall require the name of your cobbler. What I would give for a proper pair of riding boots tonight! Oh and a horse instead of a dance-floor. That would do nicely.”

  Lydia found the countess’s accent as disarming as her artless speech; the countess had a touch of Irish in her speech which should have aroused the ton’s disdain, but somehow instead only served to make her more of an Original. Lady Archwood had been very clever in the way she manipulated opinion, Lydia’s mama had sniffed, and her father had guessed it was to do with her wonderful way with horseflesh.

  Lydia’s mother had sniffed again.

  Lady Archwood was still patting the divan cushion, beckoning Lydia as she might a puppy. And Lydia did long to sit and make herself the confidante of the Countess of Tivington, of the woman Peregrin Fawkes, by all accounts, worshipped and respected. A good word from her would go a long way. But — “I cannot sit, my lady,” she confessed. “My dress —”

  “Of course,” the countess agreed, and actually sat up a bit straighter herself. “We will dress ourselves in frocks so delicate they cannot touch a chair without wrinkling. To crease a gown before supper —” She stopped and waited, eyes twinkling.

  “—Means one has not been dancing,” Lydia finished glumly. “You have been talking to my mother, madam.”

  The countess laughed. “Indeed, a delightful woman, though she does not approve of me.”

  Lydia blushed. Was her mother so obvious? She thought of Lady Dean’s unfortunate way of holding court in drawing rooms that were not her own, sitting bolt-upright and delivering sermons on the sad state of behavior of the Quality in modern times. Yes, her mother was so obvious. And old-fashioned. How dreadful. “I am sure she does not mean — my mother can often — ”

  “Not a word, dear girl,” the countess interrupted, laughing. “Haven’t I been disapproved of my whole life? I’ve done better in this henhouse of a town than anyone expected, truth be told. Even William was surprised. And now I’ve put in my winter of acting respectably and can go back to Tivington Abbey to be as bad as I like for the rest of the year.” She sighed and kicked off her dancing slippers. “I simply long for my riding boots,” she sighed again. “Room for my toes to wiggle.”

  Lydia tried not to gawk at the sight of a countess’s stockings. Of course Lady Archwood was not conventional in any sense of the word; she had been a celebrated horsewoman back in Ireland (“no better than a hoyden” was how Lydia’s mama put it, wrathful at the thought of crossing Lord Archwood off her list of Eligibles), and although she was respectable enough in her side-saddle on the paths of Hyde Park, even Lydia had heard the tales, generally from wide-eyed, smitten young men, of the hair-raising cross-country races the countess had organized — and won — in the summer before Archwood brought his bride to London for her first Season.

  “You did not enjoy your first Season?” Lydia asked now, folding her face into a sympathetic expression. If the countess was so eager to make her a confidante, she should not waste this opportunity. Her mind raced ahead — they would become intimates, quite cl
ose in everything; she would be invited up to Tivington during the summer; she would charm Fawkes, who was always in residence there now; they would be married from the drawing room — she skipped over the unpleasant reality that Fawkes was most certainly not on her mother’s list of Eligibles, or even her father’s, if he should trouble himself to think of such things. He probably wouldn’t — the exploits of her two brothers at Oxford was as much as he managed to bother himself with.

  But all the tedious details of reality were not pleasant; she would not think of them. It was much more fun to imagine the details of her wedding-gown. Her cheeks flushed, she could feel the pink heat rising upon her skin, but if the countess noticed, she did not let on.

  Indeed, Lady Archwood seemed preoccupied with her own problems, not her guest’s, although that was surely the right of a countess. Her gaze had gone faraway, and she leaned back upon the divan again, careless of the damage it would do her gown. “Oh, it has its charms, London,” she sighed. “But we have been here so long! It is spring in the country, and I am pent up here like a yearling in a stall. I am dying to get out and feel the sunlight on my face and the wind in my hair! To throw a leg over my horse and ride as fast as I like, without anything or anyone in my way!”

  Lydia did not know what to say. She was trying and failing to remember the last time she had felt sunlight on her face, and the last time she had felt the wind in her hair, it was because that vile Richard Hawking challenged another so-called gentleman to a race while taking Lydia and a few other young ladies on a drive. Susette had actually fainted, and Alyssa had nearly gone into a fit, but Lydia had suffered a true blow in the loss of her new French bonnet, an exceedingly imprudent and fetching little piece of millinery in every way, and she had received a fearsome dressing-down for its disappearance. As if it were her fault! Lydia still smarted over that scolding — and the loss of that bonnet. Richard Hawking ought to have paid for another, she thought, anger still bubbling up. Her mother’s scoldings could be fearful things. A new bonnet was the least that she deserved from that villain.