Page 43 of Lessons for Marquesses
“Mr. Wolf,” she said to his back. “I wish to apologize.”
“No apology needed.” He mounted his massive black hunter without a glance.
How high she had been hours before, dreaming of match races and Mr. Wolf’s tutelage, was as low as she was now. “If you require more time to consider…”
“I don’t.”
The stallion moved out into the lane. Against the warning voice inside her, she trailed after him.
“Sir, I hope this does not change your opinion.”
He kept his gaze forward. “It does not change my opinion.”
How ridiculous she must appear, trying to keep up with a horse who increased his pace either because he or Mr. Wolf or both wished to be rid of her. If she wished to learn from thisman, then first things first. The horse gained a trot and she stopped.
“Bugger.” She cursed at a weed growing out of the walk. Which coincided with a man in fustian walking past her who buggered her back.
“Pardon me?” she asked.
The man turned on his worn boots, jabbing a dirty finger. “I said, bugger you.” The finger struck her chest. “Bugger. You.”
“My apologies, sir. I was actually buggering a weed. Good day.”
She turned back to the stables, and the man’s shove sent her lunging forward.
“What? You a coward, boy?”
She kept walking, ignoring her rearing temper.
He tracked her down, his breath at her neck. “Use them bollocks the Almighty gave ye.”
The man shoved her again, sending her against the stable’s brick wall. She pushed off of it and whipped about. “I’m a female you bloody idiot! I’ve no bollocks, and if you’d kindly cease assaulting me, I’ll leave you to yours!”
The man eyed her doubtfully.
She ripped off her wig. “Does this look like man hair to you?”
She marched into the stables, pressing against the wall and willing the bully not to follow.
For once, her will won out, and she was free to curse her lot in peace.
Nicholas had no intention of interfering with Georgiana’s challenger, a man of low repute who had taken an unknownoffense which led to an argument on buggering. Then the man shoved Georgiana, which she handled ably.
Nicholas directed Teague around, and on the second shove, he started forward until she drew off her wig. He halted as if he had been the one knocked against a brick wall.
Her hair was red. Not just red. A thousand shades of it, like a sunset right before night with the brightness reflecting over water. A sight to behold for the minutes before the sun sank away.
It was shockingly short, a loose cap of tousled waves. He’d never particularly cared what color a woman’s hair was, but he’d never seen this and whoever had allowed this to be cut and covered by a wig had committed a crime.
She ducked into the stable entrance, her shoulders low like crying was in order. He urged Teague near and peered around the door where he found her, wig gripped at her thigh and staring hard at the rafters.
“George?”
She pushed off the wall with her boot. He hadn’t noticed the slight favoring of her right foot. He tried to notice nothing about her as she stalked off, made a wide arc, and faced him, her slim figure backlit by the opposing door.
“That was a farce, what Acomb did,” he said. “Do you understand?”
She lifted her arms and dropped them back to her sides with a slap.
