The Duke's Bridle Path Page 8

  “Are you teasing me, Your Grace?”

  He ducked beneath a branch at face-smacking height. “I’m by no means competent on horseback, Harriet. Cantering circles on a leash, trotting over poles… I was a better rider at age ten than I am now. Perhaps other interests demand your attention?”

  Now he smiled, but not with his eyes.

  “I am busy. You know that. I think we’ve walked long enough. Let’s trot, shall we? Your job is to match Matador’s pace to Orion’s without either walking or cantering.”

  That was a fine exercise for taking up half a mile, and Philippe’s ability to rate his horse’s paces improved over even that short distance. They came to a bridge, and Harriet brought Orion down to the walk.

  “They might want a drink,” she said, steering her gelding to the bank of the stream. “Orion needs a chance to regain his wind.”

  Philippe guided Matador to the stream bank as well. The larger horse slurped at the water, then pawed, making a great splashing mess. Orion danced around, while Matador, having come across a means of entertaining himself, took up pawing with the other hoof.

  “Shall we cross?” Philippe asked, while Matador continued to churn the water.

  “I suppose we’d better.” Harriet sent Orion into the stream, and he obligingly waded across and leaped up the opposite bank.

  Matador splashed away.

  “Kick him, Philippe. Get his attention.”

  Philippe gave a stout nudge with his heels, and Matador whisked his tail. “He’s like a university boy with his ale.” Another, harder kick merited a double whisk of Matador’s tail, but then Philippe added a tap to the quarters with his crop, and Matador deigned to toddle into the stream.

  “That’s better,” Harriet said. “He’s usually quite well behaved when reminded of his duties. I recall once—”

  The churning resumed, and Matador snatched at the reins. Philippe snatched back and tried another kick.

  Matador’s right shoulder lowered as he braced himself on three legs and used his right leg to further stir up the water.

  “Philippe, get off!”

  “I’ll not be unhorsed in the middle of a damned—”

  “He’s getting down to roll in the water. Get off!”

  Had Harriet not seen the same scenario result in injury, she might have been amused. Philippe kept his head, though, and leaped out of the saddle just as Matador’s forehand went down, followed with a heavy splash by his hindquarters.

  The horse was under saddle, and this behavior was both dangerous and ill-mannered.

  “Get up,” Philippe growled, unlooping the reins from Matador’s head. “Get up now, you wretched, rude, naughty excuse for a retired plough horse.”

  Matador’s bulk was sufficient that the saddle hadn’t yet been soaked, but if the dratted beast rolled, he’d likely break the tree, ruin the leather, and—

  Philippe delivered a side kick to Matador’s shoulder, enough to get the horse’s attention, not enough to hurt. “On your feet, or so help me, I’ll see you made into dog collars and ladies’ reticules.”

  The kick was unexpected, clearly, for Matador’s head flew up.

  Philippe glowered at the horse, eye to eye. “I said now.”

  Matador braced on his front legs, then stood, shook hard, and followed Philippe from the stream as docilely as a footman toting parcels for the lady of the house.

  “Butterball used to attempt the same stunt,” Philippe said. “And then, having thoroughly soaked his girth and ensured the damned thing was loosened by the wet, he’d kick out, buck, swerve, and otherwise get up to dirty tricks in an attempt to dislodge me.”

  Philippe took the girth up two holes.

  Matador grunted.

  “I have no sympathy for naughty boys,” Philippe said. “My valet will have an apoplexy when he sees my boots, and that is entirely your fault.”

  A halfhearted swing of a sopping tail was Matador’s reply, enough to send droplets directly into Orion’s face.

  “You handled that well,” Harriet said as Philippe led Matador to a sizable rock several yards upstream.

  “Thank you.” He swung into the saddle. “Shall we be on our way?”

  They trotted, they cantered, they observed the rule about always walking the last mile home. The entire time, Philippe’s conversation was limited to civilities, and his riding was punctilious. Matador had sought to test his rider, and Matador had failed.

  The weather, as if responding to the mood of the outing, shifted from sunny to overcast, and then the breeze picked up.

  “Rain on the way,” Philippe said as he assisted Harriet from Orion’s back in the stable yard. “I’d best return to the Hall, lest I get another soaking.”

  She should make him look after his horse, she should make him kiss her. “If the rain continues until tomorrow, then your lesson will have to wait.”

  They stood as if prepared to share a dance, while Jeremy led Orion and Matador into the barn. Philippe’s eyes gave nothing away, not relief, not irritation.

  He was very much the duke, and while he was an impressive duke, this display of his titled self-possession also made her sad. Where was her friend, and why had he gone away? Had her honesty about the situation at the stables chased him off?

  Papa was failing, and Harriet was without any means of keeping the stables going on her own. She either married someone who could manage the stables or she… the alternatives were too bleak to consider.

  “If the weather is foul tomorrow,” Philippe said, “then I will pay a call and take tea with you. We will flirt.”

  He made flirting sound as if it involved balancing ledger books or liming the jakes.

  Harriet stepped back. “Will we?”

  “I always pay my debts, Harriet, and you asked that in exchange for these riding lessons, I acquaint you with the means by which women attract the notice of men they fancy. My riding has progressed, and you are due payment in the coin of your choosing.”

  A raindrop landed on his cheek. Harriet expected to watch it freeze before her eyes. “Philippe, are you angry?”

  “Vexed.”

  He was furious. “Over Matador’s misbehavior?”

  He propped his foot on the edge of a water trough and unbuckled a spur. “What possessed you to put me on a horse named Killer ?”

  If he’d leveled a curse at her, Harriet could not have been more horrified. “I never did.”

  “Matador, from the Spanish verb matar,” he said, unfastening the second spur, “to kill, hence the term as used when playing ombre and related card games.”

  What had this to do with a naughty horse? “I was unaware of the meaning. The horse came to us already named, and the only card game I know is piquet, which I learned from my mother.” Papa hadn’t the patience for card games, or perhaps he could no longer see the pips.

  “The horse,” Philippe said, leaning close, “shall henceforth be known as Gawain.”

  Gawain, the chivalric ideal, defender of women, and a great healer. Well. “That is a fine name. I can hang up your spurs for you.”

  “I will decline that offer. Thanks to my untrustworthy steed, the spurs straps need conditioning. I bid you good day.”

  He bowed quite formally and tromped off, boots squeaking with each step.

  The sight should have been comical. Harriet stifled the urge to run after him and instead went into the saddle room and cleaned every piece of gear hanging on the wall.

  * * *

  As soon as Philippe gained the bridle path, he took off the boots that would soon give him blisters. Then he threw them, one at a time, at the nearest oak and muttered every English, Latin, and French curse he knew while searching the undergrowth for his wet boots.

  Most un-ducal of him. Wet boots would cause his valet to have an apoplexy. Missing boots would likely result in giving notice.

  When Philippe had retrieved his footwear, he took off his sodden stockings, stashed them in the boots, and marched in the direction
of the Hall. By the time he reached home, he was soaked to the skin—for, of course, forty days’ worth of rain had fallen in the space of an hour. He’d also cut his foot on some thorny weed growing where it had no business growing.

  “I do believe you are bleeding on Lady Ada’s carpets,” Ramsdale remarked.

  The earl stood on the third step of the main staircase, glasses perched on his nose, a book in his hand.

  Philippe handed his boots, spurs, hat, and gloves to a silent butler. “They are my carpets, in point of fact.”

  Ramsdale came the rest of the way down. “So they are. Are we now bathing out of doors? You could not be more wet.”

  “Ramsdale, I’m in your debt for pointing out what I might never have noticed. I am indeed more than dampish. For that reason, I will now take myself upstairs and soak in a hot bath.”

  Philippe headed for the stairs, and Ramsdale fell in step beside him. “Don’t suppose you took a fall? Landed on your head?”

  “That is not humorous.”

  Except… it was. To anybody whose brother had not suffered a fatal fall, the comment was clumsily humorous.

  “To see His Grace of Lavelle looking like a stray cat caught in a storm is hilarious,” Ramsdale said, ascending the stairs with Philippe step for step. “You might have sent for the coach.”

  “Sent whom? The Talbot grooms are worked to exhaustion, and my lessons only put their schedule further behind. Besides, I was wet before Harriet and I even returned to the barn—or my boots were.”

  “Your boots are ruined.”

  “Our friendship might soon follow.”

  Ramsdale paused on the landing. “I can be packed and down the drive in the next hour, but if we’re to have a grand row, let me say first that it’s lovely to see you for once not acting like the damned duke.”

  Part of Philippe longed to toss Ramsdale down the drive, and his horse with him. That sentiment was so unworthy that Philippe sat on the steps, where he’d no doubt leave more wet on Lady Ada’s carpets.

  “I am being an ass. I apologize.”

  Ramsdale took the place beside him, as if peers of the realm routinely perched on stairways. “Your riding lesson put you in a temper. I almost forgot you had one.”

  So did I. “The perishing horse decided to roll in the stream.” What a ridiculous moment that had been. Philippe bellowing at a ton of mischievous equine, boots soaked, horse splashing merrily away.

  “I hope you delivered a sound spanking. No animal under saddle should behave thus.”

  Philippe’s breeches were chamois, and when wet, they clung and chafed in uncomfortable places. “I applied my boot sparingly to his shoulder, once, but Ramsdale, I wanted to kill that horse.”

  “Ah.”

  “I wanted to end its life. On the instant, over and over. If I’d had a gun—a gun that hadn’t got a soaking—the beast would be cantering across the clouds.”

  Ramsdale took off his glasses and polished them with the lace of his cravat. “You were angry, understandably so. When was the last time you used foul language and truly meant it?”

  The day my brother died. “Not recently.”

  Ramsdale tucked his glasses away. “You were overdue. I daresay the horse isn’t much the worse for the occasion. A few stripes from the crop on a hide thick with a winter coat probably didn’t make much of an impression.”

  “One should never strike an animal in anger.”

  Ramsdale passed Philippe a silver flask. “Then one dropped his riding crop in the stream.”

  Well, no, actually. Philippe hadn’t lost his grip on his crop. “I delivered a kick to the beast’s shoulder, which seemed to offend his dignity more than anything else. What is this?”

  “A medicinal tot. Drink up, Your Grace, lest you take a chill. Did the horse even notice that you’d kicked him?”

  When a rider fell, he was typically offered a nip from the nearest flask. Philippe had not fallen—from the horse—but he’d lost his temper, which was worse in a way.

  “Gawain was affronted. Not sporting, to kick a fellow when he’s down.”

  “I daresay Gawain’s grasp of Gentleman Jackson’s rules of the ring is somewhat rusty, else he’d not have decided to indulge in an impromptu bath while under saddle. Leave some for me. The day has taken a turn toward winter.”

  The brandy helped. Sitting on the stairs to review the incident with Ramsdale helped too. “What would you have done in my place? Harriet had little to say once I was back in the saddle. Not a suggestion or a scold.” Though she’d had a compliment, and she’d not made light of the potential danger.

  “I’d likely have taken my crop to the ruddy beast, because what he did was dangerous and unmannerly. What if he’d tried that mischief on a less experienced rider? What if he’d got up to his tricks when Harriet wasn’t on hand to ride for help if you’d been injured? You can’t countenance dangerous behavior in an animal that large, or the beast will end up in the knacker’s yard.”

  A valid point. “Jonas would have laughed and made a great joke of the whole thing.”

  “And the next time Jonas needed his mount’s respect,” Ramsdale said gently, “what do you suppose that horse’s response would have been?”

  Philippe lacked the fortitude at the moment to leap that hedge. “Ada will kick me for getting the damp on her carpets. I’m for my bath.” He rose, and Ramsdale did likewise.

  “The lessons must be progressing if you’re hacking out on the bridle path.”

  “The lessons are progressing.” While Philippe’s attempt to woo Harriet had gone absolutely nowhere. Tomorrow, he’d advance that cause, and to blazes with hacking out on the bridle path.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Harriet was nervous, for she’d set out the good china for the second time in less than a month. His Grace of Lavelle had come for tea, and Papa had chosen today of all days to accompany the Earl of Ramsdale to watch some three-year-old filly run a match race in the rain.

  That nobody thought Harriet required more than servants to chaperone her with the duke felt like more of an insult than a compliment.

  “More tea, Your Grace?”

  “No, thank you. The biscuits were quite good.”

  “They were fresh.” Harriet stuffed one in her mouth, because that comment was the farthest thing from flirtation. She dipped the remaining half biscuit in her tea and then realized what she’d done and set it uneaten on the saucer. “Excuse me.”

  Philippe took a biscuit from the tray, broke it in half, dipped a flaky corner into Harriet’s tea, and popped the biscuit in his mouth.

  “Scrumptious,” he said, lowering his lashes. “Delectably sweet and very satisfying.”

  He chewed slowly, all the while treating Harriet to a coy half smile of the eyes. Her insides went melty, and her brain—well, she hadn’t a brain when Philippe looked at her like that.

  This was hopeless. The man she loved saw her as only a friend—present farce notwithstanding—and the man she needed to marry would sell their best stock to any strutting lordling with coin and always smell of the stable.

  “You are being ridiculous, sir.”

  He finished his half biscuit. “I’m flirting, Harriet. You are not flirting back, and nothing I’ve tried today has inspired you to even make the attempt. That’s a very pretty frock. Did you wear it for me? Wardrobe is one way a woman practices her wiles on a fellow.”

  The pretty frock was Harriet’s best, the only new dress she’d had time to make last winter. On this chilly day, exposing so much of her décolletage had been an impractical choice.

  She plucked a plain wool shawl from the back of her chair and wrapped herself in it. “I don’t want to talk about my frock. I haven’t any wiles, and I’ve asked you to address that lack, not strut your manly wares before me to no purpose.”

  Oh heavens, she was cross with herself and taking it out on him. This whole, doomed scheme had been her idea, and only a bad rider took her own mistakes out on a
hapless mount.

  Philippe dunked the second half of his biscuit and held it up to Harriet’s mouth. “I’m trying, Harriet, to instruct by example, much like when you climb aboard Gawain and make him appear to be every sculptor’s perfect equine model. You show me what my objective is. Have a nibble.”

  His tone was so reasonable. He coaxed rather than commanded, but Harriet had had quite enough of biscuits and tea. Time to end this interlude on a positive note, regardless of her blunders and wayward notions.

  She appropriated the treat from him and held it up to his mouth. “Your turn.”

  The duke covered her hand with his own, bent his head, and took the sweet from her, his lips brushing over her fingers.

  “You have wiles, Harriet Talbot. You have endless wiles.”

  Harriet had an endless ache that was equal parts longing, frustration, and despair. She rose, keeping the duke’s hand in hers, and took the place beside him on the sofa.

  “I do not have endless patience,” she said. “My objective is to learn how to go on with a man I esteem. Show me what comes next.”

  Philippe kissed her knuckles, one by one, and she realized he’d chosen to come for tea precisely because nobody wore gloves when food was served. He’d thought that far ahead, or probably hadn’t even had to think. He’d shared many a biscuit with many a woman, and thus he knew what he was about.

  Harriet got him by the hair and shifted him, the better to kiss him.

  “I thought you wanted to learn flirtation,” Philippe said, pulling back two inches. “Flirtation requires patience.”

  “Training horses requires patience, drat it. Enough drooling on my hand. Kiss me.”

  Oh dear. Oh heavens. His expression went from surprised, to affronted, to something Harriet didn’t recognize but found both fascinating and masculine.

  “A gentleman never argues with a lady.”

  Philippe scooped her into his lap, and what happened after that was a combination of kisses, caresses, rustling fabric, and lost wits.

  This, this passion, was exactly what Harriet longed for, and Philippe was who she’d longed to share intimacies with, and yet, everything was all wrong too.