Marquesses at the Masquerade(98)
“Two cups,” Tyne replied. “They’re quite small. If Englishmen were sensible, they’d drink their ale from tea cups and their tea from tankards. We’d all get more done that way, and the streets would be safer.”
“Back to Lady Amanda’s mare, if you don’t mind, sir.”
Tyne did mind, but he was nothing if not persistent. Freya had been right—fate would not hand him a marchioness and the girls a step-mama. He hoped his Valkyrie kept their appointment in two weeks, mostly so he could thank her for inspiring his determination where Miss Fletcher was concerned.
“You refer to my daughter’s lovely mare,” Tyne said, “whom the auctioneer assured me could canter from one moonbeam to the next, never putting a hoof wrong. I’m not of a size to ride the mare myself, else I’d take her out the first few times. If she should shy at the sight of water or prove unruly in traffic, Amanda will take a fall, and matters will deteriorate apace.”
“Can’t the grooms take her out?”
“My grooms disdain to ride aside, and Snowball is a lady’s mount.”
“Snowdrop, my lord.”
“Mudbank, for all I care. I propose that you take out the mare, Miss Fletcher. I will ride with you, so the horse can accustom herself to the company of my gelding. If all goes smoothly after several trial rides, Amanda can join me for a hack.”
A fine plan, so of course Miss Fletcher was scowling. She didn’t pinch up like a vexed schoolteacher, but her brow developed one charming furrow, and her lips—she had a pretty mouth—firmed.
“My habit is hardly fashionable, my lord.”
“But you do have one, and you have neglected your adventuring sorely. Ride out with me, Miss Fletcher, and call it an adventure.”
A tap on the door saved Tyne from elaborating on that bouncer. No lady had considered any time in his company adventurous, with the possible exception of Freya. The first footman wheeled in the tea trolley, and Tyne waved him off.
“Miss Fletcher, would you be so good as to pour out?”
Her scowl faded as the dawn chased away the night, to be replaced by a soft, amused smile. “Never let it be said I allowed you to starve, my lord. Have a seat. You prefer your tea with neither milk nor sugar, if I recall.”
That she’d noticed this detail pleased him, thus proving that he was addled. “You are correct, while you prefer yours with both.”
Her smile became a grin, and she fixed Tyne’s tea exactly as he preferred it.
*
Lucy was lucky to get on a horse once a month, if Marianne wanted to hack out on Lucy’s half day. The outings invariably left her sore and frustrated.
Sore, because she didn’t ride often enough to condition her muscles to the exertion.
Frustrated, because as a girl growing up in Hampshire, she’d ridden almost every day when the weather had been fine. The weather this morning was very fine indeed, though brisk enough that the horses would be lively.
The prospect of starting her day with a gallop in the park had her in a happy mood, despite her out-of-date riding habit, despite the early hour.
“Up you go,” Lord Tyne said when Lucy had been ready to lead the mare over to the ladies’ mounting block.
His lordship looked fixed on the task of assisting Lucy into the saddle, and she was in too good spirits to argue with him. His grasp around the ankle of her boot was secure, and when he hoisted her into the saddle, she got an impression of considerable—and surprising—strength.
She took up the reins as his lordship arranged her skirts over her boots, a courtesy her brothers had never shown her.
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “If you could—”
He was already taking the girth up one hole. “The stirrup is the correct length?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He walked around to face the mare. “Behave, madam, else it shall go badly for you.”
So stern! For an instant, Lucy thought his warning was for her. Then the marquess stroked his gloved hand gently over the mare’s neck, giving the horse’s ear an affectionate scratch.
“Miss Fletcher tolerates no disrespect,” he went on, “and any high spirits must be expressed within the confines of ladylike good cheer.”
Ah—he was teasing. He was teasing Lucy, for one could not tease a horse.
“Walk on, Snowdrop,” she said. “An entire park awaits our pleasure. If his lordship thinks to interfere with our enjoyment, it will go badly for him.”
His lordship swung into the saddle without benefit of a mounting block and walked his gelding alongside the mare.
“We’ll start slowly,” he said as the horses clip-clopped down the alley, “because you ladies have not kept company before. Attila, stop flirting.”
The gelding, a substantial black with a flowing mane, whisked his tail.
“He’s a good lad,” Tyne said. “Up to my weight, calm in the face of London’s many terrors, but he’s shamelessly spoiled for treats. About the mare, he cares not at all. For the slice of apple in your pocket, he’ll be your personal servant.”
“I brought carrots.”
“Carrots might earn you an offer of eternal devotion. Where did you learn to ride?”
As they navigated the deserted streets of Mayfair at dawn, Lucy saw a new side to her employer. He was an attentive escort, pleasant company even, asking her one polite question after another and listening to her answers.