The Duke's Bridle Path Page 2

  The sound caused Harriet to close her eyes and bunch her habit in her fists. “If his lordship isn’t careful, some obliging horse will send him into a ditch headfirst.”

  “He’s also prone to dueling and drinking,” Philippe said. “Put him from your thoughts for the nonce and take me to see your papa.”

  “Of course,” Harriet replied, popping to her feet. She never minced, swanned, or sashayed. She marched about, intent on goals and tasks, and had no time for a man’s assistance.

  And yet, somebody’s assistance was apparently needed. The roses growing next to the porch were long overdue for pruning, the mirror above the sideboard in the manor’s foyer was dusty, the carpets showed wear. Harriet’s habit was at least four years out of fashion, but then, Harriet had never paid fashion any heed.

  Philippe was shocked to see how much Jackson Talbot had aged in little over a year. Talbot still had the lean height of a steeplechase jockey. His grip was strong, and his voice boomed. Not until Harriet had withdrawn to see about the evening meal did Philippe notice the cane Talbot had hooked over the arm of his chair.

  “You’re good to look in on us,” Talbot said. “Good to look in on me.”

  “I’m paying a call on a pair of people whose company I honestly enjoy,” Philippe said. “Harriet looks to be thriving.”

  She looked… she looked like Harriet. Busy, healthy, indifferent to fashion, pretty if a man took the time to notice, and dear. That dearness was more precious than Philippe wanted to admit. He’d come home because duty required it, but seeing Harriet made the trial endurable.

  “Harriet,” Talbot sniffed. “She thinks because my eyesight is fading that I don’t notice what’s going on in my own stable. I notice, damn the girl, but she doesn’t listen any better than her mother did.”

  That was another difference. Talbot’s eyes, always startlingly blue against his weathered features, had faded, the left more than the right. He held his head at a slight angle, and his desk had been moved closer to the window.

  And never before had Philippe heard Talbot disparage his daughter. Criticize her form over fences, of course, but not cast aspersion on her character.

  “How much vision have you lost?”

  Talbot shifted in his chair. “I can’t read the racing forms. Harriet reads them to me. I still get around well enough.”

  With a cane, and instead of inviting Philippe to stroll the barn aisle and admire all the pretty horses, Talbot had barely stood to shake hands.

  “Women are prone to worrying,” Philippe said.

  “Now that is the damned truth, sir. Harriet will fret over that mare, for example, though Lord Dudley’s no more heavy-handed than many of his ilk. Will you have time to join us for dinner before you must away back to London?”

  “Of course. I’ve brought Ramsdale along, lest he fall foul of the matchmakers while my back is turned.”

  “Man knows how to sit a horse, meaning no disrespect.”

  This birching to Philippe’s conscience was as predictable as Harriet’s outdated fashions, though far less endearing. “Talbot, don’t start.”

  “Hah. You may play the duke on any other stage, but I know what it costs you to eschew the saddle. You are a natural, just like your brother. You’d pick it back up in no time.”

  “All my brother’s natural talent didn’t keep him from breaking his neck, did it?” The silence became awkward, then bitter, then guilty. “I’m sorry, Talbot. I know you mean well. I’ll be going, and if you send an invitation over to the Hall, expect me to be on better behavior when I accept it. I can’t vouch for Ramsdale’s deportment, but Harriet seems to enjoy twitting him.”

  Perhaps Harriet was sweet on Ramsdale. She liked big, dumb beasts. Ramsdale might have agreed to this frolic in the countryside because he was interested in Talbot’s daughter.

  The earl was devious like that, very good at keeping his own counsel—and he rode like a demon.

  “No need to get all in a lather,” Talbot said. “Young people are idiots. My Dora always said so. Let’s plan on having you and his lordship to dine on Tuesday.”

  Talbot braced his hands on the blotter as if to push to his feet, and that too was a change.

  Not for the better. “Please don’t get up,” Philippe said. “Bargaining with Dudley was doubtless tiring. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Until Tuesday.” Talbot settled back into his chair. “Do bring the earl along with you. He’s the only man I know who can make Harriet blush.”

  Talbot shuffled a stack of papers as if putting them in date order, while Philippe took himself to the front door. A sense of betrayal followed him, of having found a childhood haven collapsing in on itself. He’d always been happy in the Talbot household, had always felt like himself, not like the spare and then—heaven help him—the heir.

  Harriet emerged from the corridor that led to the kitchen, a riding crop in her hand. “You’re leaving already?”

  Was she relieved, disappointed, or neither? “I have orders to return on Tuesday evening with Ramsdale in tow. Where are you off to?”

  “I have another pair of two-year-olds to work in hand. I’ll walk you out.”

  Philippe retrieved his hat from the sideboard and held the door for her. “You train them yourself?” When had this started?

  “The lads have enough to do, and Lord Dudley’s visit put us behind schedule. The horses like routine, and I like the horses.”

  She loved the horses. “So you’re routinely doing the work of three men.” The afternoon sunshine was lovely, and over in the stable yard, a leggy bay youngster stood in bridle and surcingle. Still, Philippe did not like the idea that Harriet had taken on so much of the actual training.

  Perhaps all of the training?

  “The work of three men is a light load for a woman,” Harriet said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and his lordship on Tuesday.”

  She pulled gloves out of her pocket and eyed the horse as she and Philippe walked down the drive. Already, she was assessing the beast’s mood, taking in details of his grooming.

  She paused with him by the gate to the arena. “You walked over?”

  “Of course. Most of the distance is along the duke’s bridle path, and Berkshire has no prettier walk.”

  “Well, then, have a pleasant ramble home. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Tuesday.”

  She was eager to get back to work, clearly. Eager to spend the next hour marching around in the sand, her side pressed to the sweaty flank of a pea-brained, flatulent horse.

  Of whom Philippe was unreasonably jealous.

  The least Philippe could do was give Harriet something to think about between now and Tuesday besides horses. He leaned close, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and lingered long enough to whisper.

  “Until next we meet, don’t work too hard.” Up close, she smelled not of horse, but of roses and surprise.

  Her gloved hand went to her cheek. “Until Tuesday, Your Grace.”

  Now here was a cheering bit of news: Ramsdale was not the only fellow who could make Harriet Talbot blush. Philippe offered her a bow and a tip of his hat and went jaunting on his way.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Dinner with the duke was a special kind of purgatory for Harriet.

  Cook had outdone herself—two peers at the table, and one of them their own Lord Philippe!—and Papa tried to recapture the jovial spirit he’d exuded before Mama’s death. Harriet attempted to play hostess, which was harder than it looked for a woman who got out the good china only at Christmas and on the king’s birthday.

  Philippe regaled them with tales of polite society’s follies, while Ramsdale was mostly quiet. His lordship’s dark eyes held a lurking pity that made Harriet want to upend the wine carafe into the earl’s lap.

  Sorely missing a friend was not the same as being infatuated with a man far above her touch.“If Ramsdale is insistent on being trounced at the chessboard,” His Grace said when the clock struck ten, “th
en I’ll see myself home. There’s a lovely moon tonight, and I certainly know the way.”

  Thank heavens, or thank Philippe’s faultless manners. He was a considerate man, and Harriet would ever regard it as a pity that he eschewed equestrian activities. A little consideration went a long way toward success with most horses.

  “Be off with you,” Ramsdale said, waving a hand. “Lord knows, you need your beauty sleep, Lavelle, while I relish a challenge.”

  “And you shall have it,” Papa rejoined, rising more energetically than he had in weeks. “It’s your turn to be white, my lord, and if memory serves, you are down five games and very much in need of the opening advantage.”

  As Ramsdale politely bickered about the tally of victories, and Papa hobbled off with him to the study, Harriet’s difficult night took a turn for the worse.

  “He’s lonely,” she said.

  Philippe paused by her chair. “Ramsdale? You are doubtless correct.”

  “Papa. He misses this. Misses the company of men, the jokes over the port, the slightly ungentlemanly talk that doubtless flows when he’s at chess with Ramsdale. With the lads and grooms, Papa has to be the employer. With the buyers, he’s the deferential horse master. With you and Ramsdale… he’s happy.”

  Philippe bent closer, as he had when last they’d parted. “What of you, my dear? If your papa is lonesome for the company of men, whose company are you missing?”

  Yours. “My mother, I suppose.” And the father she’d once known, who’d been gruff but kindly, a hard worker, and a tireless advocate for the equine.

  Philippe sighed, his breath fanning across Harriet’s neck before he straightened to hold her chair. “Ada says you hardly ever call at the Hall.”

  Harriet never called at the Hall unless Papa insisted. “I am the daughter of a retired horse master, while your sister is a lady and always will be. I’ll see you out.”

  “A horse master is a gentleman,” Philippe said, “every bit as much of a gentleman as a steward or a vicar, and this might come as a revelation, but Ada is, like you, a woman living without benefit of female relations and in need of company.”

  Lady Ada was also a lovely person who adored her brother and took management of the ducal estate very much to heart. Harriet would endure Ramsdale’s silent pity because she must. Pity from the duke’s sister was unthinkable.

  “If her ladyship needs company,” Harriet said, “perhaps her brother should spend less time larking about London and more time where he belongs. It’s a wonder women don’t end every meal cursing,” she muttered, disentangling the hem from beneath a chair leg. “These infernal skirts—”

  “Are very becoming,” Philippe said, offering his arm.

  “I don’t need an escort to my own front door, and I’ll see you out on my way to the mares’ barn.”

  Harriet wanted to elbow His Grace in the ribs, but he and she were no longer children; moreover, her elbow would get the worst of the encounter. Philippe was the duke. Over the past ten years, he’d transitioned from spare, to heir, to title holder. Generations of wealth, consequence, and yes—arrogance—regarded her patiently, until she took his arm simply to move the evening toward its conclusion.

  I hate you. That pathetic taunt might have salvaged her pride in childhood, but now it was a sad echo of truer sentiments: I miss you when you’re gone for months. I worry about you. More often than you know, I wish I could talk to you or even write to you.

  I read the London papers for news of you. I dread the day I hear of your nuptials. For dukes married as surely as horses collected burrs in their tails.

  “You’re worried,” Philippe said when they reached the foyer.

  A single candle burned in a sconce on the wall, and when Harriet retired, she’d blow that one out.

  “Papa will pay for this night’s pleasures,” Harriet said. “He forgets sore hips when he’s in company or showing a horse to a prospective buyer, and I can’t get him to touch the poppy or even white willow bark tea. I mentioned keeping a Bath chair on hand for the days when he’s too stiff to walk out to the training paddock, and he nearly disowned me.”

  “I’m sorry. He’s proud, and that makes it difficult to look after him.” Philippe took Harriet’s cloak from a hook near the sideboard, settled the garment around her shoulders, and fastened the frogs.

  He knew exactly what he was doing, and not because he had a sister. Countless nights escorting ladies—titled ladies—to the opera, the theater, or this or that London entertainment had doubtless given him competence to go with his consideration.

  Harriet treasured the consideration and resented the competence. “I can do up my own cloak, Your Grace.”

  Philippe shrugged into a shooting jacket and donned his top hat. “She’s Your-Gracing me,” he informed the night shadows. “I have transgressed. Perhaps my sin was complimenting my hostess’s lovely attire. Maybe I misstepped when I commiserated about her father’s waning health. Perhaps I’ve presumed unforgivably by performing small courtesies.”

  “You are being ridiculous.” Harriet said. “So am I. I’m sorry.” For so much, she was sorry.

  “You are tired,” Philippe replied, holding the door for her. “You work, you don’t sit about stitching sanctimonious samplers while plotting adultery. You supervise men, instead of scheming how to get your hands on their coin or their titles. You want for respite, not a new diversion to go with the endless list you’ve already become bored with.”

  The moon was full, which meant Harriet had enough light to see Philippe’s features.

  The evening had apparently been trying for him too. All those stories about lordlings swimming in fountains, or young ladies whose arrows went astray, that was so much stable-yard talk. The reality was cold mornings and hard falls. Aching limbs and colic vigils. London had left Philippe tired and dispirited. He was bearing up and hiding it well.

  “I’m glad you’ve come home,” Harriet said, twining her arm through his. “I’ll walk you to the bridle path.”

  “Unlike some people, I won’t grouse at an offer of good company. As a youth, I spent many a moonlit night wishing my true love would accost me under the oaks.”

  He referred to a ridiculous local legend: The first person to kiss you under a full moon on the duke’s bridle path is your true love.

  “The legend is very forgiving,” Harriet said as they made their way between paddocks. “It doesn’t specify that we’re to have only one true love. I suspect many a stable lad has been relieved that subsequent interests aren’t precluded by that first kiss.”

  And maybe many a duke? Tears threatened, and for no reason. What did it matter which squire’s daughter, daring tavern maid, or merry widow had first kissed a young Lord Philippe on the bridle path?

  “So who was your first true love?” Philippe asked.

  Not a hint of jealousy colored his question. He was merely passing the time while tramping on Harriet’s heart.

  “He was tall,” she said. “Quite muscular, a fellow in his prime. Splendid nose, moved like a dream, all grace and power.”

  “You noticed his nose?”

  Was that disgruntlement in the duke’s voice? “One does, when kissing.”

  “Not if one goes about it properly.”

  He spoke from blasted experience, while Harriet was spinning fancies. “I noticed his dark, dark hair, his beautiful eyes, his scent.”

  “You found a lad here in Berkshire who could afford French shaving soap?”

  “He wasn’t a lad, Your Grace. He was quite the young man, and all the ladies adored him.” Which was why he’d been sold as a stud colt and was still standing at a farm in Surrey. “I kissed him good-bye under a full moon on the bridle path, and I will never, ever forget him.”

  Philippe slowed as they neared the trees. “You kissed him good-bye?”

  “Years ago.”

  This part of the bridle path ran between two rows of stately oaks. Nobody knew when the path had come into use, but the oaks were
ancient. In places, the path wound beside a stream. At other points, it left the trees to cut along the edge of a pasture. Every square yard of the footing was safe. Every inch of the way was beautiful.

  Especially by moonlight.

  Philippe stopped at the gap in the oaks. The night was peaceful enough to carry the sound of horses munching grass in their paddocks. Harriet’s slippers were damp—her only good pair. She’d neglected to change into boots, because shooing away His Grace had been the more pressing priority.

  Shooing away His Grace, whom she missed desperately even when she was standing beside him.

  “May I trust you with one more secret, Harriet?”

  In the shadows of the trees, she couldn’t make out his expression. “Of course. We are friends, and friends…”

  He took off his hat and set it on a thick tree limb. “I waited in vain on this path. Nobody fell prey to my youthful charms, not on Beltane, not at harvest. Nobody would kiss the duke’s younger son, though I witnessed several young ladies bestowing favors on Jonas.”

  That must have hurt. “Lord Chaddleworth was a rascal.” A lovable rascal.

  A foal whinnied, and the mama answered. A sense of expectation sprang up from nowhere, and two instants later, Harriet realized His Grace was through waiting for somebody to kiss him.

  He touched his mouth to hers. Harriet stepped closer, and then his arms came around her.

  The kiss resumed, and while Harriet noticed many things—how her body matched the duke’s differently in the darkness, how the breeze blew her hair against her neck, how warm he was, and how his shaving soap smelled of sweet lavender—she did not notice his nose at all.

  * * *

  Philippe had gone to university, and thanks to the Oxford tavern maids, he’d learned how to kiss. Those women instructed a fellow without regard to his title or wealth, demanding that he give pleasure where pleasure was offered. Thus Philippe had been introduced to the democracy of the bedroom where all—rich, poor, handsome, plain, young, and not so young—were reduced to common humanity in pursuit of common pleasures.