The Duke's Bridle Path Read online

  Harriet had held her peace, though Papa had deserved at least a scolding.

  “Some other lady will have to waltz with you, sir. You’ll want to walk Gawain up and down the lane before you put him up. Winter coats take longer to dry, and that was a fine session you put in over the jumps.”

  The compliment had no visible effect. Philippe ran his stirrups up their leathers and loosened Gawain’s girth. “As you wish, but if I don’t waltz with you, I won’t waltz with anybody, save my sister, with whom I must open the dancing.”

  He led Gawain away, and Harriet remained in the arena, feeling as if she’d lost some gladiatorial match.

  “He rides as if born in the saddle,” Lord Ramsdale said, striding up from the rail. “Truly, you have worked a miracle.”

  “Phil—His Grace has worked the miracle. He has faced his demons and ridden them down. He’s more than prepared to hack out in Hyde Park if he chooses to add that to his social schedule.”

  Hyde Park was doubtless full of earls’ daughters who had more than one nice dress to their names.

  “So why don’t you look like a riding instructor who’s proud of her pupil?”

  Why didn’t Ramsdale look like a lord? He wasn’t blond and slim and polished. He was dark and muscular—as was Philippe—and those characteristics did not entirely ruin his pretentions to grace. What rendered his lordship something of an impostor in fine tailoring was his voice.

  Ramsdale’s voice was as dark as his countenance, all rumble and growl. His was an eloquence suited to pronouncing dire judgments on hopeless miscreants, for issuing challenges on the field of honor, or reading tragic poetry.

  Harriet had the sense he liked his voice, liked being able to open his mouth and speak darkness into any conversation, and yet, she liked him. Ramsdale was kind to Papa without being condescending, and he was, in a backward, subtle way, tolerant.

  “I am very proud of His Grace,” Harriet said as that good fellow led Gawain down the lane. “I wish he were more proud of himself.”

  “Dukes are supposed to be arrogant, not proud. I think that duke is smitten and knows not what to do about it.”

  “Phil—His Grace would never be arrogant.” Though he could be exceedingly hard to understand.

  Ramsdale glanced around and leaned nearer. “Miss Talbot, did I, or did I not, hear him announce that he’d waltz with you or no one?”

  “Look down your nose at me all you wish, your lordship. You should not have been eavesdropping.”

  He straightened. “That’s a handsome pin you’re using to secure your stock tie. I recall giving Lavelle one exactly like it on the occasion of his investiture.”

  Men. “If you have something to say, my lord, please be about it. Your missishness is keeping me from my responsibilities.”

  “Good God, no wonder he’s in love. In all the world, the word missish has never been used to describe the Earl of Ramsdale. You may account me impressed.”

  In love? Philippe? Harriet was torn between a desire to swat his perishing lordship with her crop—which he’d doubtless find hilarious—or to take off down the bridle path at a hellbent gallop.

  Which would not do. “Be as impressed as you please. I have work to do.”

  Ramsdale stepped close and put a hand on her arm. “I am trying, in my bumbling way, to matchmake, you daft woman. Lavelle stares off into space for half the evening and barely touches his breakfast. He bolts luncheon so he might be punctual for his lessons, and one must repeat pleasantries to him twice before he realizes he’s being spoken to.”

  Oh, Philippe. “Because his brother died at this time of year, my lord. The duke and Lady Ada are haunted by tragedy in autumn, and when the leaves fall, they recall their brother falling as well.”

  Ramsdale’s gaze narrowed, and still he did not move away. “By damn… by damn you have the right of it, but not the whole of it. Lavelle goes quiet and mopish every autumn, but he’s not moping this year. He’s brooding. Why won’t you waltz with him?”

  Philippe was coming back up the lane, and in the stable yard, Jeremy held a new horse, a mare who’d been taken out of training by an injury and who was now sound enough to complete her education.

  “Why are my decisions any of your lordship’s business?”

  “Because your father and that lonely duke are my friends,” Ramsdale said gently. “Because I esteem you greatly, Miss Talbot, and think you’d make a very fine duchess. You come from an old, respected family, your father is a gentleman, you’re not without an inheritance, and your land marches with the ducal estate. Why shouldn’t you waltz with Lavelle?”

  Harriet could have stood against scolding, lectures, high-handedness, or even rudeness. Ramsdale’s kindness made her throat tight and her eyes sting.

  “When I was attending tea dances, the waltz was not yet popular, my lord. His Grace will look a fool if he tries to waltz with me, for I don’t know how.”

  Didn’t know how to flirt, didn’t know how to sew the fancier riding habits, didn’t know the latest dances. Didn’t know how to keep her miseries to herself.

  Ramsdale kissed her cheek and winked. “As it happens, I am very proficient at the waltz. I will await you on the side terrace as the ball gets under way. While His Grace is opening the dancing, I will instruct you on the very simple exercise known as the waltz. Name your firstborn son after me, and I’ll consider our accounts squared.”

  He was making a jest, and being generous. “One lesson won’t be enough.”

  “Bollocks, Miss Talbot—if I might be excused for departing from missish vocabulary. The waltz is based on three simple movements, and I could show them to you right here and now, except this footing would be the devil to dance in and Lavelle would skewer me with his ducal glower. You find me tomorrow as soon as you arrive, and I’ll have you dancing like a duchess in ten minutes flat.”

  Harriet should say no. She should laugh and offer a witty riposte, except she knew less about witty ripostes than she did about waltzing.

  “His Grace is looking splendidly thunderous,” Ramsdale said, patting Harriet’s arm. “Promise you’ll meet me on the terrace.”

  “I’ll meet you, just to be free of your meddling, my lord.” And to learn how to waltz.

  Ramsdale kissed her cheek again, lingered over her hand, and generally comported himself like an ass, and yet, he’d given Harriet hope.

  While Philippe put up his horse, bowed his farewell to her, and gave her not even a backward glance.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  Philippe had not wanted to believe his eyes. He’d been behaving like a good student, walking his horse as Harriet had told him to, while Ramsdale had literally hung on her arm, taken liberties with her person, and kissed her in public.

  Twice.

  Harriet—who suffered no foolishness from anybody—had smiled up at the earl as if he’d promised to grant her every maidenly wish.

  And now, as the line of guests outside the ballroom doors stretched down the steps and out into the receiving hall, Philippe must again behave like a biddable gentleman when he wanted instead to kick fragile heirlooms.

  Or a certain earl’s backside.

  Philippe longed to believe anything other than mutual attraction explained the affection Ramsdale had shown Harriet the previous day. And yet, Ramsdale’s overtures made a bleak kind of sense.

  Harriet had been practicing on Philippe. She’d never represented anything to the contrary. In the long week since that wonderful interlude in her guest bedroom, she’d not so much as patted Philippe’s cravat. She had nattered on about his riding position, gradually raised the crossrails to the dizzying height of two and a half feet, and congratulated him effusively on being able to ride as well as a ten-year-old boy.

  Did she even realize that was his cravat pin mocking him from beneath her chin every day?

  Like a gentleman, Philippe had not assumed that one liberty granted meant others were expected.

  Because they were
n’t.

  “Your Grace, good evening!” Lady Ambrosia Warminster offered her gloved hand, sank into a slow curtsey, and came up, eyelashes batting away.

  “My lady, a pleasure,” Philippe said, the same as he’d said a hundred times in the past hour. “I’m so glad you could join us.” Though she must have traveled half the day to accept what Ada had doubtless intended as a courtesy invitation.

  “I anticipate nothing but joy this evening, particularly if you’ll join me on the dance floor, Your Grace. A lady mustn’t be forward, of course, but I do so love to waltz.”

  Other guests in line were smirking at this forwardness, and a month ago, Philippe would have yielded his waltz. Give the woman a bit of what she wanted and then disappear among the wallflowers, bachelorhood intact.

  Philippe dropped her hand. “You dare me to deprive an entire shire’s worth of eager bachelors of the opportunity to stand up with you, my lady? I could never hold my head up in society if I should be so selfish. Ah, Mr. Stolzfuss and Mrs. Stolzfuss. I hear your filly did quite well in the rain last week.”

  Lady Ambrosia went smiling on her way—she had dozens of titles to chase after if that was her game of choice—while Philippe greeted more neighbors and willed the line to end.

  The Talbots were among the last to arrive.

  “My friends,” Philippe said, shaking Jackson Talbot’s hand. “A pleasure to see you both.”

  He bowed to Harriet and maintained his composure by a slim thread. She wore a new dress, a soft brown velvet trimmed in red piping that revealed to the entire world the lush perfection of her figure.

  “Harriet looks a treat, don’t she?” Talbot said. “Resembles her dear mother more each day. Come along, Harry. A man must find some fortification for socializing in a crowd this size.”

  When had Talbot become so oblivious to manners where his daughter was concerned? Philippe possessed himself of Harriet’s hand as she half-turned to follow her father.

  “Miss Talbot,” Philippe said. “You’re looking very well.” Delectable, radiant, beautiful. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that frock before.”

  Oh, that was original.

  “I restitched one of Mama’s dresses.”

  “Harriet,” Talbot barked, leaning heavily on his cane. “I need to get off my damned feet.”

  Harriet snatched her hand away.

  “Mr. Talbot,” Philippe said, “surely you don’t begrudge me a moment to appreciate the beauty before me?” A moment to work up the nerve to ask Harriet what exactly Ramsdale meant to her?

  For Philippe could not believe that the woman who’d admitted him to her bed a week ago felt nothing but friendship for him. She could have easily shared that experience with the earl if he was her choice, and Harriet—Philippe’s Harriet—wasn’t a woman who proceeded by indirection or intrigue.

  “You flatter me, Your Grace,” Harriet said, smiling graciously. “I’ll wish you a pleasant evening and see you in the ballroom.”

  She curtseyed, he bowed, and away she went, Talbot leaning on her arm.

  The line eventually dwindled, and Philippe vowed that next year, the harvest ball would instead be a picnic. Papa and Jonas had loved all the folderol and pageantry, but Philippe’s slippers were already pinching, and the evening had barely begun.

  “Has Lord Ramsdale come down?” Philippe asked the first footman when the final guest had been greeted. Crewe had been with the family for ages, and counted as an ally.

  Unlike a certain earl.

  “Indeed, he has, Your Grace. He’s taking the air on the side terrace, where the other guests have yet to intrude.”

  “I’ll fetch him inside,” Philippe said. “Lady Ambrosia requires a consolation earl for the opening set.” And the dancing would not start until Philippe signaled the musicians.

  He slipped down the footmen’s stairs to the corridor that led to the side terrace, which was dimly lit to encourage guests to tarry in the better-illuminated back gardens. Philippe at first didn’t see Ramsdale, though he should have been hard to miss.

  The earl stood in the shadow of an overhanging balcony, a woman before him.

  “Had I known what treasures those riding habits kept hidden,” Ramsdale said, “I’d have forbidden you to wear them years ago.”

  “My lord, no man tells me what I might or might not wear.”

  That was Harriet, and she was being playful—flirtatious even.

  “Somebody ought to provide you some guidance,” Ramsdale said, standing much too close to her. “Your papa is preoccupied with working you to death, but I daresay some changes are in the offing that will redound to your everlasting joy. Are you feeling more prepared to face the crowd inside? I, for one, would rather tarry out here under the stars.”

  What manner of discussion was this, and what changes did Ramsdale refer to?

  Harriet went up on her toes and kissed Ramsdale’s cheek. “I am much fortified by your company, my lord, and while I too would prefer the quiet of a pleasant autumn night, we’ve been away from the festivities too long.”

  She hugged him—purely, openly hugged him, and Ramsdale sneaked a kiss to the top of her head.

  “Then let’s away to the ballroom, my dear. Before you know it, the evening will be over and all our tribulations behind us.”

  Ramsdale offered his arm with a gallantry Philippe hadn’t seen from him in London and escorted a beaming, beautiful Harriet down the path that led to the back gardens.

  Philippe took a solitary bench at the edge of the terrace and watched Harriet and her swain as they joined other couples strolling beneath the torches.

  In the past five minutes, nothing had changed. Philippe was still the Duke of Lavelle.

  Ramsdale was still his best friend.

  Harriet was still Philippe’s… more than his best friend. His dearest friend, his almost-lover on one very special occasion, and the woman for whom he’d climbed back onto a horse. She had given him something important over these past few weeks, made him take stock of his life and his priorities.

  She was truly his friend, and if Ramsdale was her choice… so be it.

  Philippe rose, affixed a gracious smile to his features, and returned to the house. Jonas would have laughed, or taken charge of the situation with a combination of charm and influence Philippe would never claim and no longer wanted.

  The way forward was clear, and a duke might hesitate to take it, but as Harriet’s friend, as the man who loved her dearly and wanted only her happiness, Philippe knew exactly what he must do.

  * * *

  “Your Grace is having a bad ride,” Harriet said, trying to keep the consternation from her voice. “They happen. Sometimes we’re tired and don’t realize it. Sometimes the horse is out of sorts. You must not take it personally.”

  Gawain was being contrary, which made no sense, though often a horse grasped emotions a rider was trying to ignore. Philippe had been courteous and pleasant through the grooming and saddling, but from the first moment he’d set a boot in the stirrup, he and Gawain had been having a difference of opinion.

  While he and Harriet had had… not even a difference of opinion. Ever since the ball last week, her friend Philippe, her lover Philippe had disappeared. The Duke of Lavelle had taken his place, and the loss cut her to the heart.

  “Let’s try a few jumps, shall we?” Philippe suggested. “Gawain needs to work out some fidgets.”

  Gawain wouldn’t know a fidget if it had been braided into his tail. “You want to jump today?” Harriet asked. “I was under the impression you dreaded work over fences.”

  Philippe patted Gawain’s neck. The horse switched his tail and stomped at imaginary flies. “Gawain is a trusty fellow. We’ve managed adequately thus far. Perhaps he’s bored and seeks a greater challenge.”

  At the ball, Philippe had partnered a different woman at every dance. That was polite behavior for a host, of course, but why did all his partners have to be beautiful, fashionable, and from the best families? Was t
hat Philippe’s idea of a greater challenge?

  “Gawain is no longer young,” Harriet said, dropping a rail from the nearest jump. “He can start out with a modest effort and work his way up, the same as he always does.”

  Harriet was no longer young, no longer a girl. She ought to have the backbone to simply ask Philippe why, when the supper waltz had come around, he’d merely suggested that Ramsdale stand up with Harriet, while Philippe had partnered some Amazonian creature who appeared to use shoeblack on her hair.

  “Trot this rail a few times,” Harriet said, stepping out of Gawain’s path.

  Philippe and Gawain bickered their way over the low rail three times, though Gawain never quite refused. Philippe’s timing was off, though, and that was unusual.

  “Raise the damned bar,” Philippe said. “Gawain isn’t paying attention.”

  This, in fact, might have been true. The lesson horse’s greatest woe was boredom, and trotting crossrails was tedious in the extreme. Harriet added a second jump, raised the bar on it a few inches and silently willed the horse to settle to his work.

  Gawain seemed to have forgotten where his feet were. He took off too close to the first jump, then too far away. He ignored the second jump until the last moment, then charged through the line as if the horses of hell were trying to steal his dinner.

  “Your Grace, I think that’s enough for today. Sometimes, the best you can do is put the horse away and hope for a better ride tomorrow.”

  “He’s being contrary,” Philippe said, trotting Gawain in a circle that included a small, ponderous buck. “Raise the damned bar, and we’ll end on a good note if I have to toss him over the jump myself.”

  On the next circle, Gawain kicked out, but he was such a large, well-padded animal that even this misbehavior posed no danger to the rider.

  “You haven’t jumped more than two and a half feet,” Harriet said. “Are you sure?”