Page 7 of Lessons for Marquesses
Georgiana opened the door and led with an outstretched hand. “Mr. Farley. What a pleasure, sir.”
The man’s hand withered in hers as he frowned up at her face. “Mr. St. Clair?”
“Please call me George.” She introduced Kitty and aimed him for the stable block as he gawked. But she couldn’t fault his surprise. She couldn’t fault her parents for giving her the height of a man, a thin frame, and a face that looked nothing like a boy.
They halted at the box where the chestnut yearling, Dearg, gazed back with innocent, liquid eyes.
Mr. Farley pinched his chin as he studied his prospect. A sure sign of a haggler. Georgiana had run off others for similar gestures, but how was she to pay for the lodgings at Newmarket? She had spent near to her last coin on her remaining staff’s quarter wages, had already sold all but one coach, three statues of the Furies, a Turkey carpet, half of her library, and the desk.
She swallowed back her pride and rattled off Dearg’s pedigree. “He is by Wild Squire, who was by Mr. Bits. You know them?”
Mr. Farley nodded vaguely.
“His dam’s grandsire was Flying Childers. His lines portend speed and endurance. And a docile temperament.” She held out her hand to prove it. The beautiful boy not only stepped forward, he scooped his nose under her hand to position it between his ears for a scratch.
“I was hoping for a darker horse,” he said.
Kitty frowned. “I think it is a perfect color. A touch of gold and with the flaxen forelock…”
Georgiana lowered herself tosell. “Do you see the angle of his pasterns?”
“Seems a bit steep,” Mr. Farley replied.
“A perfect forty-five degrees,” she countered.
“S’pose.”
“And what of the slope of his shoulder? He will win races. He has heart. His breeding will prove out.”
“Let’s see the next,” he said.
The two-year-old, Spinner, was dark bay and Mr. Farley signaled his interest with a wink. “Shows promise does he? Bring him out along with the other. I’ll see them at their paces.”
Georgiana looped a rope about Spinner.
Mr. Farley stopped along their path and peered at Wild Squire, the foundation for much of the stock she had bred and the horse the Marquess of Eastwick had sold to her father along with Farendon.
“I like him,” Farley said. “I’ll give you fifty for him.”
Rotting, presumptuous, louse who cares about color, who I should…
“Oh, he is not for sale!” Kitty laughed. “He is…” She pulled Georgiana along. “Just not for sale.”
The rotter stopped again and pointed to Minion, the mare who was to win the Fordyce Stakes in two weeks’ time. “Nowthatis a racehorse. I’m obliged to offer seventy-five.”
Charlie, a groom tending Minion after her morning exercise, dropped a currycomb. Georgiana ground her teeth.
“Oh, Mr. Farley, you are too generous,” Kitty said. “Let us get to the pen before?—”
The man extended a hand to Minion. Her mare missed a meal of four fingers and a thumb only by Kitty’s quick thinking. She shoved Farley away, and Minion caught Kitty’s sleeve instead. Her mare worked the lace from her tongue, spitting it to the straw.
Kitty gave Minion a pet. “There, there, Minny. I think she’s hungry.”
“Insulted, more like,” Georgiana muttered beneath her breath.
Mr. Farley gawked at his shaking hand. “He almost took off my hand!”
“She.” Georgiana had actually wanted Mr. Farley to lose said hand. “Charlie, would you please bring Dearg to the north pen?”
