Marquesses at the Masquerade(100)

He gestured with his riding crop. Attila pretended to spook, and Snowdrop lifted easily from walk to canter and from thence to a tidy gallop.

Some of Lucy’s joy in the outing had fled, because she was soon to reunite with her duties. She’d change out of her habit and into the drab attire of the governess, correct the children’s manners at the breakfast table, and turn her attention to… irregular French verbs.

The mare seemed to share Lucy’s diminished glee, for her gallop was less than exuberant by the time the path joined one of the park’s larger thoroughfares. Lucy slowed Snowdrop in anticipation of that turn and realized the mare wasn’t simply tiring, she was… off stride.

“Miss Fletcher!” Lord Tyne called from three lengths back. “Something is amiss with your mount. She’s favoring the right front, blast the luck.”

He was out of the saddle in a smooth leap before Attila had come to a halt. The gelding stood obediently as Lord Tyne lifted Snowdrop’s right front hoof.

“She’s picked up a dratted stone. Why the bridle paths are strewn with gravel, I shall never know.” He produced a folding knife, flipped it open, and applied the tip to the offending stone. “Some lord or other ought to introduce a bill forbidding the use of gravel on bridle paths. The poor beast could have been seriously injured. Walk her a few paces, if you please.”

He set down the mare’s hoof and tucked the knife away.

Lucy directed Snowdrop across the grass rather than along the gravel path. “She’s not right,” she said. “She’s not lame, but she’s not right.”

Attila snatched a mouthful of grass, but otherwise stood like a sentry where Tyne had dismounted.

Tyne regarded the mare, his hands on his hips. “If this outing has caused Snow Princess to become lame, Amanda will ring a peal over my head that makes the bells of St. Paul’s sound like a polite summons to the family parlor.”

“I can walk,” Lucy said. Though hiking through the streets of Mayfair with her riding skirts over her arm was hardly an appealing prospect.

“Nonsense,” Lord Tyne replied. “You shall take Attila, and I will walk.”

They’d left their groom loitering with the other grooms at the gates of the park. “I could take the groom’s horse.”

“James brought out an unruly ruffian by the name of Merlin for this outing. He’d run off with you for the sheer pleasure of giving me a fright. Damned beast should go to the knacker, but James is fond of him.”

Tyne approached the mare and held up his arms. “Down you go, Miss Fletcher.”

Lucy unhooked her knee from the horn, gathered up her skirts, and eased from the saddle, straight into Lord Tyne’s arms.

*



Tyne had been ready to curse aloud, to damn all lame horses, all pebbles, and all parliamentary bills for good measure, until Miss Fletcher slid into his embrace.

He’d been striving mightily to achieve a tone of harmless banter and failing at every turn. Miss Fletcher had made the requisite charming responses, but she didn’t simper or flirt, she didn’t offer any bold conversational gambits of her own. The sum of the morning’s accomplishments had been to prove that she was a natural equestrian, and he was a failure as a flirt.

Fancy that.

Then Miss Fletcher slipped from the saddle on a soft slide of velvet and lace, and the fresh morning air became tinged with the fragrance of mint and possibility. She was warm from her exertions, and her arms rested on Tyne’s biceps, while his hands remained about her waist.

“Your skirt,” Tyne said, reaching behind her, “is caught on the billets. I’ll have you free in no time.”

The lady could not move, because she was pinned to the horse’s side by her habit. The moment was theoretically dangerous and exactly the sort of mishap that inspired gentlemanly assistance with a lady’s dismount in the first place.

Tyne eased the fold of velvet from between the lengths of leather, though his task required that he all but crush Miss Fletcher against the horse.

She didn’t appear to mind. In fact, she might have leaned into him, and she certainly kept her hands on his arms. For a moment, she was embracing him while he fussed with yards of damned riding habit and tried not to let a particularly eager part of his anatomy become obviously inspired by her closeness.

Which was no use. He had to step back, lest public improprieties ensue.

“I can walk,” Miss Fletcher said.

I very nearly cannot. “That won’t be necessary. If you’d hold the mare’s reins, I’ll switch the saddles, and we’ll be on our way shortly.”

That exercise took enough of Tyne’s concentration that he regained a measure of composure. Then, however, came the challenge of hoisting the lady onto Attila’s back. Because the gelding was considerably taller than the mare, a simple hand around Miss Fletcher’s ankle would not suffice.

“Step into my hands, and I’ll boost you up,” Tyne said. “Attila, you will stand like a perfect little scholar reciting his sums, unless you want to make the knacker’s acquaintance before sundown.”

Attila stood. Miss Fletcher gathered her skirts over her arm and lifted a dainty boot into Tyne’s cupped hands. She scrambled aboard Tyne’s horse and took up the reins, leaving Tyne to do further battle with the sea of velvet.