Marquesses at the Masquerade(99)
Actually listening, to the story of how she came to be able to write with either hand.
“I was determined not to fall behind my brothers in my schoolwork, and yet, my wrist was broken, not sprained. I had to learn to write with my left hand or suffer the torments known only to younger sisters with very bright older siblings.”
“You were allowed to climb trees?” his lordship asked as the horses walked through the gates to the park.
“If one is to invite one’s dolls to tea in the treehouse, one had best be a good climber. Shall we let the horses stretch their legs? Snowdrop has been a pattern card of equine deportment.”
Attila, on the other hand, was prancing, apparently ready for a gallop.
“Let’s trot to the first bend in the Serpentine and then find room for a more athletic pace.”
Tyne was being careful with her, giving her and the mare a chance to become cordial. Attila was having none of it and all but cantered in place as Lucy cued Snowdrop into a ladylike trot. A few other riders were up and about, but today was Thursday. Most everybody of note had likely been at Almack’s late the previous evening. They would miss this glorious morning in this gorgeous park.
Attila had taken to adding the occasional buck to his progress, which his lordship rode with the same equanimity he showed toward parliamentary frustrations, feuding footmen, and cross little girls. Truly, not much disconcerted Lord Tyne, a quality Lucy hadn’t much appreciated in recent months.
“This way,” Lucy called, turning Snowdrop onto a straight stretch of bridle path. “Tallyho!” She urged the mare into a canter, and joy welled, for the horse covered the ground in a beautiful, smooth gait.
Tyne let Attila stretch into a canter as well, and the gelding soon overtook the mare, though Snowdrop refused to be baited. She kept to the same relaxed, elegant pace, and every care and woe Lucy had brought with her into the saddle was soon cast away.
When the horses came down to the walk, Lucy was winded, while Tyne had plenty of breath to scold his horse.
“You, sir, are a naughty boy. You wanted to show off for the ladies, though how you expect to gain anybody’s respect by bucking and heaving yourself about in such an undignified manner beggars all comprehension. You should be ashamed of yourself, and”—the gelding began to prance—“anticipate the cut direct from Miss Snowdrift if you ever attempt to stand up with her again.”
Tyne’s chiding tone was offset by an easy pat to Attila’s shoulder.
“Do you always talk to your horse, my lord?”
“Is there a proper English equestrian who doesn’t?”
“No,” Lucy replied, “and the conversation is invariably witty and charming.”
“Do you imply that I could be witty and charming, Miss Fletcher?”
Despite his bantering tone, Lucy suspected the question held some hint of genuine curiosity. “I dare to imply that very possibility, my lord.” He was also an athlete, with natural ease in the saddle, strength, skill, and fitness Lucy would not have suspected based on the time he spent penning correspondence or drafting bills.
Another feature of his riding was tact. He reminded his horse to behave; he chided; he did not bully.
“I speak honestly when I say that you ride well, Miss Fletcher. We must get you into the saddle more often, because you clearly enjoy yourself there.”
A governess did not expect such consideration. “I love to ride—really ride, not merely mince along on some doddering nag wearing a saddle. I sometimes forget that.”
“Why is it,” Tyne said, “the voice of duty can drown out all other worthy considerations? We must make an agreement, Miss Fletcher, to remind one another that an occasional gallop in the park, an afternoon with a good book, a picnic even, are all that makes the duty bearable sometimes.”
The gelding snorted, the mare swished her tail. As the horses walked along beneath greening maples on a beautiful morning, Lucy realized once again that her employer was lonely and that part of his devotion to duty—like hers—was a means of coping with the loneliness.
“I will honor that pact,” Lucy said, “though picnicking with two high-spirited children isn’t exactly my idea of a treasured joy.”
“Who said anything about dragging that pair along? I meant picnicking in the company of a congenial adult of the opposite sex. Perhaps even—one delights to contemplate the notion—reading to her on a blanket spread upon the soft spring grass, or sharing a glass of wine with her while she cools her bare feet in the summer shallows of an obliging brook.”
Oh, how lucky that lady would be. Tyne had a beautiful reading voice, and his grip on a wineglass had the power to rivet Lucy’s attention. She had discovered months ago the pleasure of sketching his lordship’s hands, trying to capture their grace and masculine competence with pencil and paper.
As he tormented her with further descriptions of his summer idyll, Lucy’s imagination went further: What would his hands feel like on her?
“You are quiet, Miss Fletcher. Has the company grown tedious? Shall we have another gallop? And I do mean a gallop. You and Snow-moppet are fast friends now, and I know you want to see what she can do.”
“One more run,” Lucy said, “and then we must return to the house, for the children will be rising.”
Lord Tyne aimed Attila back up the path they’d cantered over earlier. “The children have highly paid, highly competent nursery maids to attend them, a staff of four in the kitchen to feed them, and various other domestics to ensure there’s no falling out of windows, climbing of trees, or other wild behavior. After you.”