The Duke's Bridle Path Page 7

  Harriet took down a sidesaddle from the rack protruding from the wall. “That is very… That is decent of you, but our reputation is already excellent among the discerning.”

  Not excellent enough, if the carpets in the house were any indication. Still, Harriet’s dismissal was understandable. She didn’t circulate among her clients socially and wouldn’t grasp what a duke’s cachet could do for her father’s prospects.

  She brought the saddle over to the windows, where afternoon sun fell on a worktable. Philippe had carved his initials on one of the table legs years ago.

  “I insist on compensating you,” Philippe said, getting the basket of rags and tin of leather balm down from the quarter shelves in the corner. “Nonetheless, I have no idea what a fair wage would be. You must tell me.”

  He brought the rags and balm to the table, took up a chair, and waited for Harriet to pass him the stirrup leathers and the girths. They’d spent many a rainy day as children cleaning the saddles and bridles. Bridles were the worst, for Philippe could never figure out how to get the dratted things back together.

  “Thank you,” Harriet said, dipping her rag into the tin. “You mentioned services in kind. I’d like that sort of payment.”

  “Shouldn’t you take off the stirrup before you start on the saddle, Harriet?”

  “Of course.” She passed Philippe the rag, then the stirrup with its leather attached.

  “What sort of service might I render you, my dear?”

  Harriet took inordinate care selecting another rag from the basket. “Lessons.”

  “My Latin is serviceable, my Greek rusty, and my French in good repair. I’m proficient at adding and subtracting numbers in my head, and I know a fair amount of history. Other than that, the only subjects I know intimately are those relating to the dukedom. How many sheep per acre on the upland tenant farms, how many heifers on the home farm, that sort of thing.”

  Harriet’s ears had turned pink. “I need you to teach me how to gain the notice of a gentleman.” She chose a second rag and dipped it into the tin.

  If she’d entered Philippe to ride at Ascot, he could not have been more unhappily surprised. “What need have you of such skills? Simply kiss the poor fool and he’ll be your slave for life.”

  She swiped a dab of conditioner onto the flap of the saddle. The scent hinted of lanolin and beeswax, and it brought back pleasant memories.

  This conversation had abruptly become unpleasant.

  “There’s more to courtship than kissing, Your Grace. A great deal more.”

  And how Philippe wanted to share that great deal more with her—though not if she pined for another.

  “Harriet, have you been practicing on me?”

  She folded the rag and began working the conditioner into the leather. “Not entirely. I know kisses mean little, and I also know yours were meant only as friendly flirtation. I have enjoyed your kisses, but you see how it is with Papa. He’s failing, and being female, I cannot run this business on my own, at least not to appearances. My best hope for keeping Papa happy and a roof over my head is to find a man who thrives around horses and coax an offer from him.”

  She sounded as if she’d enjoy emptying the muck cart on Philippe’s boots nearly as much as she’d enjoyed his kisses, though her logic was unassailable: Harriet loved horses, she loved her father, and she’d sacrifice even her happiness to see to the welfare of both.

  Though Philippe was not, by any stretch, a man who thrived around horses. “I have enjoyed your kisses as well, Harriet.”

  “That’s the problem, then, isn’t it? If my kisses are merely sweet and friendly, I must be doing it wrong. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve spent much of those twenty-eight years watching happy couples ride, walk, and flirt their way up and down the bridle path. You’ve kissed me more than anybody else has. What am I doing wrong?”

  He’d kissed Harriet exactly once—well, one and a half times, if a kiss to the cheek counted. Philippe took heart from her admission, though she’d also apparently kissed that rascal with the beautiful eyes.

  The one who, like an utter gudgeon, had left Harriet Talbot all alone on the bridle path.

  “You shouldn’t have to win a man’s notice, Harriet. He should notice you out of his own perspicacity. You are a treasure as you are, and offering a fellow favors he hasn’t earned won’t lead in the direction you deserve.”

  Harriet dragged the saddle into her lap, flipped it over, and applied the rag to the panel. “How can anybody, no matter how perspicacious he is, notice me when I’m either marching around behind a horse, or wearing the plainest habits I could find the time to sew? I smell of horse, I haven’t any fancy jewelry, and my only dowry is this property.”

  “I like the smell of horses.” Philippe could shower her with jewels and had no need of her land, though clearly, the horses came first with her.

  She shot him a sidewise glower. “Lavelle, you are not helping.”

  How he hated when she used his title. “Pretty frocks matter to some, jewelry to others. Are those the sort of men you want to attract?”

  “Women are supposed to look like women, not like stable boys. I understand that.”

  She sounded so aggrieved, and Philippe wasn’t much pleased with the conversation himself.

  “Give me some time to think about this,” he said. “I’ve never much considered how ladies go about… being ladies.”

  “I’ll finish the saddle,” Harriet said. “You’ll want to get back to the Hall, so you can prepare for dinner tonight.”

  Being the duke meant Philippe had nothing to do in preparation for his guests. At the Hall, they only dressed for dinner on Sundays, a custom the late duke had started that Jonas had approved of.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, Harriet?”

  She ran the rag around the edge of the cantle. “You’ll want a soaking bath. Riding can leave one sore.”

  Well, yes. A single hour in the saddle had been enough to remind Philippe of the peculiar affliction that was saddle soreness.

  “I’ll take my leave of you, then, though I’ll need my jacket.”

  “Your—? Oh, sorry.” She rose and shrugged out of his jacket, passing it to him without meeting his gaze. “You’ll do it, though? Teach me about… flirtation? I can’t ask anybody else.”

  “You’ve mentioned that.” Philippe wouldn’t want her to ask anybody else. “I will certainly accede to your wishes, but the matter will take some thought. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  He’d arrived to the property with every hope of stealing another kiss, most likely in parting. Now…

  “You could kiss me good-bye, Philippe. For… for practice.”

  Which he apparently needed, if his initial efforts had struck Harriet as merely friendly. He picked up her hand, kissed her knuckles, and got a taste of sheep grease and beeswax for his efforts.

  “A significant part of attaching the interest of most men,” he said, “is acting as if they haven’t attached yours. All quite silly if you ask me, but I’m told that’s how the game is played.”

  He bowed and stalked off, taking minuscule comfort from the fact that Harriet looked disappointed.

  * * *

  “Your mind is not on the game, my friend.” Ramsdale moved his queen. “Check.”

  Talbot scowled at the board. “Checkmate, my lord, and my apologies. You are entirely correct that my thoughts are elsewhere this evening. Did His Grace seem distracted to you at dinner?”

  Ramsdale began returning his pieces to their starting positions. “Entertaining does not appeal to Lavelle. He says he feels as if he’s impersonating his father or older brother when there’s company at the table.” He’d said this once, shortly after Lord Chaddleworth’s death, but Ramsdale saw the same subtle self-consciousness whenever Lavelle played a ducal role.

  Talbot swirled his brandy. “His Grace is a damned fool, if your lordship will pardon some direct speech.”

  “A fool for seeing the ghost o
f his father and brother lurking in corners? My own departed sire sometimes plagues me similarly.” Though mostly as a bad example. How much worse must it be when the ghosts had been beloved paragons?

  “The late duke was a good sort,” Talbot said. “He paid fair wages, appreciated a job well done, and was loyal to those who were loyal to him, but if His Grace hadn’t ignored his own children, Chaddleworth might not have felt compelled to be the best at everything he turned his hand to.”

  The black pieces were sorted out, all in their rows. Ramsdale started on the white pieces. “You’re saying Chaddleworth sought his father’s approval?”

  “He lived for his papa’s approval. Poor lad detested dogs, but because his father adored those great slobbering Danish hounds, Chaddleworth had to adore them. Philippe, being the spare, did a better job of going his own way—then.”

  Philippe seemed to be treading in a circle, from what Ramsdale could see. “Were you there when Chaddleworth died?”

  Talbot cradled his brandy in a palm thick with calluses. “Half the shire was there. Everybody else had sense enough to just trot through the damned gate. Chaddleworth insisted on having a go at the stile, though it was damned foolishness on a green colt in boggy footing. His father had leaped that stile not a month past, but with a seasoned jumper on a dry day. One of the stupidest accidents I’ve witnessed in all my years as a horseman.”

  The details of the tragedy had never been bruited about. Even from Lavelle, Ramsdale had heard nothing more than these things happen and such a shame.

  “Foolish young men with more pride than sense tend to have stupid accidents. Had Chaddleworth been drinking?”

  “The weather was raw. Of course he’d been nipping from his flask.”

  Ramsdale knew huntsmen who’d stash full flasks in at least four pockets before shouldering a fowling piece. They would mostly tramp about the moors or quietly drink to the sunrise in grouse blinds. He expected equestrians to be more prudent. “Was Lavelle there?”

  “The present duke was merely a lad. He had sense enough to stay home when the weather was dirty, though I’m sure he’s regretted that.”

  Ramsdale sipped fine brandy, while Talbot’s logic sorted itself out. “Because, like every other person plagued with a conscience, Lavelle thinks if he’d been there, his brother would have been more careful, more concerned with setting a sensible example.”

  “Chaddleworth loved his siblings. Of that I have no doubt.” A concession, not a compliment.

  “What happened to the horse?”

  Talbot shifted on his chair. “The old duke wanted him shot, which would have solved nothing. Wasn’t the horse’s fault, and that colt was special to my Harriet. She’d started him under saddle, raised him from a foal. I bought him back for an exorbitant sum—His Grace did not want to sell me that damned horse—and passed the beast on to an earl in Surrey who stands him at stud. A fine, handsome bit of horseflesh, overfaced by an ignorant, drunken fool.”

  Talbot remained a horseman, to his creaky, aching bones.

  “Lord Chaddleworth’s death is not what took your mind off the game tonight.”

  Talbot shifted again, as if the thickly cushioned seat were a hard plank. “I’ve been a bit foolish myself.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Lavelle was being foolish as well, and not merely because he hadn’t laid his brother’s ghost to rest.

  “His Grace—His Current Grace, Philippe—asked me to polish his riding skills.”

  “I did wonder if he’d make good on that threat. I gather that’s where his afternoon rambles have taken him?”

  Talbot held out his glass. “Perhaps a bit more of this excellent brandy, my lord?”

  Ramsdale took the empty glass to the library’s sideboard and poured a generous portion. “Does it help?” he asked, passing Talbot his drink.

  “Nothing helps, but drink means the pain doesn’t matter as much. I got to thinking about your remarks the other evening.”

  “I was loquacious, at least by my own standards. Which remarks?”

  “About Harriet and His Grace.”

  “The same Harriet and His Grace who spent a long, convivial meal pretending to ignore each other?”

  Half of Talbot’s fresh serving disappeared. “You noticed that?”

  “Lavelle usually has the cordial nobleman impersonation down to a fine art. Tonight, he was barely sociable, and I have occasion to know he esteems Miss Talbot greatly,”—Ramsdale lifted his glass a few inches—“as do I.”

  “To my dear Harriet.” Talbot sipped this time. “She’s a countrywoman, not raised to split hairs when it comes to propriety. If Lavelle should offer her an arrangement, she’d be foolish to turn him down. The result for her would be a lifetime of security, even if His Grace set her aside after a few years. A father has to be practical, and nobody in this shire would think any the less of her for finding favor with the duke.”

  Well, no, they wouldn’t. The average smallholder was no high stickler, and Lavelle would be discreet.

  Then too, Talbot’s chess skills might be in decline because the man could hardly see the chessboard. If Harriet had to look after a blind parent, she’d do well to supplement her resources with coin from the ducal coffers.

  What a quagmire.

  “Have you conveyed your sentiments regarding Lavelle to your daughter?” And would Harriet be insulted by her father’s opinion? Outraged? Hurt? Ramsdale accounted himself an adequate judge of men, but without the first insight regarding women.

  “I have not. When Lavelle came around asking for my help with his riding, I refused him, knowing Harriet was His Grace’s only option, unless he wanted to admit defeat before he started. One can’t teach a duke to ride without being in the same arena with him.”

  “I see.” And in the same barn, and the same saddle room. “Lavelle claimed he was brushing up his riding so that he might send you some business. He’ll brag of your establishment to his London friends, once he’s capable of hacking out with them.”

  Except, Lavelle didn’t exactly have London friends. Ramsdale’s association with the duke dated from public school, where they’d both been far ahead of their peers in Latin and French and thus had needed an advanced tutor in the person of Professor Phineas Peebles.

  In London, Lavelle was plagued by sycophants, toadies, and matchmakers.

  “Given how those two were acting at dinner,” Talbot said, “I doubt His Grace will persist with the lessons, or that Harriet will be faced with an offer of ducal protection. I suppose that’s for the best. She’s a good girl, my Harry.”

  About whom Talbot should be worried, for that good girl had no husband to provide for her after Talbot’s death.

  “I have an idea,” Ramsdale said. “I doubt either Lavelle or Harriet would be comfortable with a liaison, and their demeanor at dinner suggests their feelings are already engaged, do they but know it. I’ll just give the situation a gentle nudge at the proper moment, and all will come right.”

  Talbot peered at him. “Choose your moment carefully, my lord. I can’t have you young fellows fighting any duels over my Harriet. She’d finish off whichever one of you was left standing.”

  “A sobering thought. Lavelle and I are good friends. We’ll not be fighting any duels. Shall I have the carriage brought around for you?”

  Talbot scooted to the edge of his seat, braced himself on the arms of the chair, and pushed to his feet. “Please. Do you know what troubles me most, your lordship?”

  Ramsdale knew. “Your daughter.”

  “A father worries about his daughter, of course, but Harriet has taken over the whole job at the stable. It’s as if she doesn’t realize that one bad fall, one kick, one rambunctious two-year-old, and she could be more incapacitated than I am. She loves the horses, but I wish she had a choice. I took risks, and I’m paying the price for that, but they were risks I chose. I fear Harriet sees herself without options, and that’s not right.”

  Ramsdale held the door for Talbo
t. “I will consider it my happy privilege to see to it that Miss Talbot has at least one very attractive option other than whatever offer Lavelle might eventually make.”

  * * *

  Rain could ruin a harvest, and yet, Harriet prayed for rain.

  Her daft challenge to Philippe had changed everything, and with each passing day, Philippe seemed less Harriet’s friend and more her ducal neighbor. Rain would have meant the day’s lesson was canceled and allowed Harriet twenty-four hours to ponder the mare’s nestmuddle she’d created.

  “You have made remarkable progress,” she informed her pupil as the second week of lessons drew to a close. “Let’s change the routine today and enjoy the bridle path.”

  Philippe—who had taken over grooming and saddling his mount at the beginning of the week—gave Matador’s girth a tug.

  “I am ever your obedient servant, madam. If you say that Masticate and I are ready for that adventure, then ready we shall be.”

  Perhaps in the relative privacy to be had under the oaks, Harriet might renegotiate the terms of her compensation—or collect her first payment.

  Jeremy had saddled a youngster for her, a leggy bay gelding rising four. Orion was willing and athletic, but lacked confidence. Matador would be an excellent partner for him on an outing beyond the safety and predictability of the riding arena.

  “Your riding has improved day by day,” Harriet said as their horses ambled onto the bridle path. “I will understand if you regard your instruction as complete.”

  Philippe made an elegant picture, even on an unprepossessing fellow like Matador. The dignity of the drum horse shone forth when a duke was in the saddle, and Philippe was a meticulous groom. Matador’s long mane lay smooth and shiny against his neck. His tail shone nearly white in the afternoon sunshine.

  “My lessons complete?” Philippe replied. “When this is our first outing beyond the nursery? Come, Harriet. You can’t be so eager to cast me aside as all that.”

  The words carried a flirtatious meaning, but Philippe wasn’t smiling.