The Duke's Bridle Path Read online

  “For heaven’s sake, Harriet. How many times have you told me that it’s easier to jump three feet than two?”

  There came a time to raise the bar, and no instructor knew for sure when the pupil was ready. Philippe wasn’t riding well today, but then, perhaps he was bored—ready to be through with his instruction even.

  “That’s three feet and three inches,” Harriet said, moving the rail upward. “Gawain can handle that height easily. Try it at a forward trot.”

  Philippe adjusted his reins and guided the horse in a circle, but as Gawain came out of the circle, he broke into the canter. Harriet kept her peace, rather than hollering adjustments when Philippe might already be coping at the limit of his abilities.

  “Drat you,” Philippe yelled as Gawain sped up.

  Oh, no. Oh, dear angels. “Ride around!” Harriet called, heart sinking. “Pull him in a circle!”

  Philippe ignored her, though he wasn’t in position. Gawain took off in a mighty leap half a stride too soon. He also chose to jump a good foot too high, and in the middle of his airborne arc, he twisted his back, sending Philippe flying into the dirt.

  The duke landed in a heap, a puff of dust rising around him. Jeremy, who’d been wheeling a load of muck to the manure pit, came clambering over the rail, and Harriet ran the width of the arena to kneel in the dust beside her duke, and still, Philippe did not move.

  * * *

  “You’re an idiot,” Ramsdale said, pacing before the breakfast parlor’s fire. “A very great idiot, and if you don’t soon show some sense, I will decamp for London and let all and sundry know that the Ellis family has fallen prey to a strain of lunacy.”

  Philippe was not an idiot, unless being in love qualified. “You must do as you see fit, Ramsdale, though I’m sure the Talbots will miss you. I’m for a walk.”

  “What you call a walk these days would cross half of Spain. Why not ride with me? Everybody falls off from time to time—everybody—and we get back on, Lavelle.”

  Being angry with Ramsdale was difficult when the earl was determined to be so loyal, and in truth, Ramsdale had done nothing wrong.

  “I’ve had that discussion with Miss Talbot,” Philippe said. “She was desperate for me to get back on the horse, but my mind is made up. Horses are dangerous and smelly. They attract flies and drain a man’s exchequer. I’m done with horses.”

  In truth, Philippe missed his rides with Gawain, and if anything plagued his conscience, it was the look of reproach in the beast’s eyes as the stable lad had led him away from Philippe’s last lesson.

  “For reasons beyond my humble ken,” Ramsdale retorted, “I’m sure Miss Talbot has missed you, but you haven’t so much as paid a call on the Talbots since you took a tumble.”

  “Miss Talbot is quite busy. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed how hard she works to keep her father’s stables in business, but I won’t bother Miss Talbot when she has other tasks to see to.”

  Leaving the lady to her horses had been rather the point. A clean break, cede the field, stand aside so that two people in love might find their happily ever after—or whatever version of love one of Ramsdale’s nature ascribed to.

  Harriet would pity Lavelle if he explained that he’d had aspirations in her direction, and her pity would have unhorsed his pride more thoroughly than Gawain had tossed him backside-first into the dirt.

  No need for messy explanations or awkward scenes.

  Like this one.

  Philippe patted his lips with the serviette. “We have few beautiful days left before winter arrives. If you should take the bridle path in the Talbots’ direction, please give them my fondest regards, but don’t expect to see me on horseback ever again.”

  Philippe had hiked the bridle path in both directions for miles. His steps always took him past the Talbot property, and most of the time, he tarried behind the hedges as Harriet rode one horse after another, coached the grooms, or stood by while her father and a client watched sale stock put through their paces.

  Ramsdale visited Jackson Talbot frequently—or Jackson and Harriet, both.

  Soon there wouldn’t be enough leaves left to conceal Philippe’s spying, and that was for the best. Regardless of how a rejected swain behaved, a duke did not lurk in hedgerows.

  “If you’re determined to tramp over half of Berkshire, I’ll tramp with you,” Ramsdale said. “We should pack some comestibles, for the pace you set leaves a man peckish.”

  “I’m paying a call on my nephews,” Philippe said. “By this time next year, they’ll be at public school. I’m their guardian, and a consultation with their tutor is in order. You’d be bored witless.”

  A local widow had presented Jonas with twins before Jonas had completed his university studies, and they, along with two girls—one each in Kent and Sussex—were Philippe’s responsibility. He’d looked in on the boys within two days of returning to Berkshire, but not since.

  They were lively, dear, and he missed their high spirits.

  “I forget how many little darlings Chaddleworth left you. Three? Six? It’s a wonder he didn’t work his wiles on Miss Talbot, though I suppose he knew you’d hold him accountable for that folly.”

  Philippe set aside half a plate of hot, fluffy eggs. “Ramsdale, are you trying to get yourself evicted? One mustn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “Admitting the truth is not speaking ill, and your sainted brother was a hound. Thank God, you never sought to emulate him in that particular.”

  Just the opposite. Philippe considered that insight as he finished a lukewarm cup of tea. “Perhaps I did learn from my brother’s bad example. If you’re intent on burdening me with your company when I visit the boys, then meet me at the front door in fifteen minutes.”

  Ramsdale took the place at Philippe’s right and appropriated the unfinished plate of eggs. “You are daft, hiking all about the shire at a time of year when the weather changes by the minute. We could ride the distance in a quarter of the time.”

  Well, yes, they could, and a pleasant hack it would be. “I tried getting back on the horse, and despite Miss Talbot’s best efforts, I failed. A fool persists at a doomed endeavor, a wise man gives up and accepts what cannot be changed.”

  Ramsdale gestured with his fork. “Very profound. Perhaps you should make that the family motto. These are superb eggs. You will please not hold supper for me. I’ll be dining with the Talbots this evening, for Mr. Talbot and I have much to discuss, and I’ll wish you the joy of your perambulations.”

  This casual announcement, made between bites of egg—bites of Philippe’s eggs—was a death blow to Philippe’s faint, ridiculous hopes where Harriet was concerned. Ramsdale planned to closet himself with Jackson Talbot. Given what Philippe had witnessed the night of the ball, the agenda for their conversation was all too easy to imagine.

  “I’ll wish you a pleasant day and let Lady Ada know you won’t be joining us this evening.”

  At least Ramsdale had spared Philippe the necessity of asking an old friend what his intentions were toward a dear friend.

  A dear, much-missed friend. Who’d almost become Philippe’s lover… and his duchess.

  Breakfast with Ramsdale was sufficiently unsettling that even walking five miles to call upon the widow and her offspring wasn’t enough to raise Philippe’s spirits. He went two miles out of his way to pick up the bridle path on the return journey, and there he found a measure of peace.

  Jonas might well have seduced Harriet.

  Jonas might have been up to eight by-blows by now, had he lived.

  Jonas should have known better than to attempt that damned stile, but at Philippe’s last riding lesson, he’d finally gained some insight into his brother’s life and death. Riding was a risk, but the greater risk was in living a life without challenge, a life that refused to grapple with the difficult questions.

  Besides, the first thing Jackson Talbot had taught Philippe long ago was how to take a fall safely, and Philippe had learned that lesson well.
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  If Philippe loved Harriet—and he did—then her happiness mattered more than his own. If Philippe loved Ramsdale—and he more or less did—then honor demanded that Philippe not question his friend’s claim on the lady’s affections.

  That conclusion wasn’t ducal, wasn’t even particularly gallant, but simply where common sense and honor led.

  Philippe had traveled a mile down the bridle path when he spied a riderless horse cropping grass beneath a stand of oaks. The bay gelding’s reins were drooping over its neck, which was bad news all around. A hoof could get caught in those reins, a leg tangled.

  “Halloo, horse,” Philippe said as he approached the animal. The last thing a loose horse needed was an excuse to spook. “Having a light snack, are we?”

  The horse’s head came up abruptly, and it dodged off a few paces.

  “You’re a fine, big specimen,” Philippe said, “and you look familiar, but you’re not too bright a fellow if you intend to jaunt off across the countryside with your reins dangling.”

  The horse took another mouthful of grass, keeping an eye on Philippe all the while.

  This could go on for the rest of the day, until the horse either galloped off down the bridle path or stepped on a rein and fell in a heap. A day that had begun sunny and mild was turning overcast, and Philippe was still several miles from home.

  Several miles from anywhere, given that this little corner of Berkshire was more woods than cultivated land.

  “You’ve had your snack,” Philippe said, walking right up to the horse. “Time to be a good boy and tell me what you’ve done with your rider.”

  In the face of confident handling, the horse stood docilely. Philippe got the reins sorted out and took stock of the surrounding terrain. No coat of sweat suggested the gelding had galloped any distance, but a relaxed trot with time for the occasional graze could still cover five miles in an hour.

  Philippe examined the saddle, lifting the flaps and peering behind the cantle. A stylized coat of arms had been burned into the leather beneath the offside flap—a ram’s head, caboshed.

  Unease wafted on the freshening breeze. Philippe got a firm grip of the reins, because he was about to shout at the top of his lungs and the horse would doubtless startle.

  “Ramsdale! Ramsdale! Where the bloody hell are you?”

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  The Talbot conveyances were aging but well maintained. Harriet had finished the last ride of the morning when the ancient coach rumbled around from the carriage house, Jeremy at the ribbons.

  “Is Papa going somewhere?” Harriet asked, shading her eyes to peer up at the groom.

  “Aye, miss. Got a note from the Hall, and said to have the carriage ready at noon.”

  The coach mostly collected dust. If Harriet had errands to see to, or the housekeeper or cook needed to attend the market, they took the dog cart. But then, clouds were gathering and the wind had picked up half an hour ago.

  “Have you any idea where Papa’s off to?”

  Papa himself came thumping down the steps from the front porch. He’d troubled over his appearance, combing his hair, donning his top hat, and wearing a pair of clean gloves. He dressed thus for services and for calling on his banker or his solicitor.

  “Has Ramsdale bothered to come by yet?” Papa asked. “His lordship assured me he’d be here well before noon.”

  “I haven’t see him. Are you and his lordship paying calls this afternoon?”

  Papa pretended to inspect the coach, though at this distance, he was unlikely to see details. “Aye, we’re off on a business appointment.”

  Harriet had been preoccupied lately—missing Philippe, wondering what she might have done differently at his last lesson, wondering what in blazes had gone amiss between them—but her father’s sheepish expression got her attention.

  “Where are you going, Papa?”

  “To see a man about a horse.”

  When Harriet’s mother had been alive, that phrase had been a euphemism for everything from a trip to the jakes, to a ramble down to the village tavern, to an actual transaction involving an equine.

  “With Lord Ramsdale?”

  “Aye, if he’d deign to keep his appointments. He should be here by now.”

  “Let’s sit on the porch while you wait for him,” Harriet said. “Jeremy, you may walk the lane a time or two while my father and I await his lordship.”

  Papa’s ascent of the steps was uneven. He used his right foot to gain a stair, then brought the left even. Up with the right, even with the left.

  “Your hip hurts,” Harriet said. “You will take some willow bark tea tonight if I have to pour it down your throat myself. Am I to know the nature of your business appointment?” For the past year or so, she’d lived with a gnawing fear that Papa would sell the stable. She wouldn’t miss the endless work, but she’d miss the horses.

  She’d miss knowing she had a livelihood very much, and in a hopeless way, she’d miss knowing she had an inheritance to bring to any union.

  Not that she’d be marrying anybody. Philippe had obliterated any schemes in that direction. He’d given her some lovely memories, along with an inability to consider making similar memories with any other man. Ever.

  Ramsdale was a keen horseman, had means, and had visited the area often. He might well be accompanying Papa to a call on the banker in Reading.

  “Where exactly are you off to, Papa?”

  “Please do not think to intrude into the financial aspects of running this property, Harriet,” Papa said. “I can’t stop you from taking the horses in hand, and I mean no criticism of your domestic skills, but I am the owner, and you are my daughter. I’ll manage this stable as I please.”

  Harriet had ridden many—many—a fractious horse. When a beast ten times her size decided to turn up sullen and contrary, she knew better than to allow its bad behavior to upset her. She corrected the horse’s errors firmly but without rancor and offered it a chance to do better next time.

  She ought to have reminded Papa of his manners long, long ago. “When I inquire as to your destination, I am hardly wresting the ledgers from your grip. If you’re making decisions that affect me, then I have a right to know of them.”

  Though as to that, Papa’s entries in the ledgers had become all but unreadable. Harriet had taken to reconstructing the monthly figures by virtue of studying the tradesmen’s bills, the wage book, and the receipts herself.

  And those figures were sometimes discouraging.

  “I provide for you more than adequately,” Papa replied, “and no daughter of mine will presume to insert herself into a domain wherein for nearly forty years I have—”

  Harriet rose, because her own hips ached, because her heart ached, and because Papa was wrong.

  “I am your daughter,” she said. “Also your barn manager, trainer, chief groom, breeding consultant, groundskeeper, hostess, nurse, veterinarian, foaling expert, assistant farrier, equine dentist, harness repairer, and—because you are too stubborn to purchase a pair of dratted spectacles—also your eyeglasses. I have long since intruded into the male sphere, and you were the first to boost me into that saddle. You own this stable, you do not own me.”

  “Harriet Margaret Talbot, you will not take that tone with me.”

  The coach had lumbered down the drive and with it went the last of Harriet’s self-control.

  “I am tired, Papa. I stink of horse all the time. I no longer have a nice pair of boots because the sand in that arena has ruined them all. I spent so much time repairing bridles, saddles, and harnesses last winter that I have barely anything decent to wear to services. I haven’t embroidered a pretty handkerchief since Mama died, and now you are about to sell the stable that I have all but married myself to. The least you can do is warn me.”

  The jingle and creak of the wagon faded, and a cloud of dust slowly dissipated over the drive.

  Harriet made unruly horses, cheeky grooms, and presuming customers mind th
eir manners with her. Why hadn’t she demanded the same respect from her own father? Like Gawain with an inconsiderate rider, she should have tossed Papa’s high-handedness to the dirt long ago.

  Papa rose shakily, balancing both hands on the head of his cane. “I am taking on a partner, Harriet. Lord Ramsdale has funds to invest, a sharp eye for young stock, and a fine appreciation for a well-run operation. You have nothing to say to it. We’re meeting with the solicitor this afternoon, if his lordship hasn’t cried off.”

  A partner.

  Harriet did most of the work and much of the worrying that kept the stable from failing, and Papa was taking on a partner, everything but the handshake already in place.

  “I see.”

  He brushed a glance over her. “What do you see?”

  “I see that I am through being helpful, biddable, good-natured, meek, and dutiful. I see that this operation has been well run for the past five years because I’ve run it, despite your insistence on selling good horses to bad riders. Despite your unwillingness to expand our breeding program. I wish you and his sharp-eyed lordship the joy of your partnership. I’m off to see about finding a partner of my own.”

  She passed him her riding crop, sat long enough to remove her spur, and tossed her gloves at his chest for good measure.

  “Harriet, where are you going?”

  “To the Hall. I’ve tried being patient. I’ve tried being a good friend, being understanding, and tolerant, and saintly, but it won’t wash, Papa. Philippe owes me—and Gawain—an explanation, at the very least, and I intend to have it, even if that means I never set foot in the Hall again.”

  Papa thumped his cane against the porch planks. “The damned man took a fall, Harriet. Leave him his pride and let good enough be good enough.”

  “Good enough is not good enough,” Harriet said, marching down the steps. “A cot that grew too small fifteen years ago isn’t good enough. Waltzing with the earl isn’t good enough. Selling a gorgeous mare to that bumbling toad Dudley isn’t good enough. And kisses and pleasure aren’t good enough either.”