Page 39 of Miss Desirable
Catherine had the oddest urge to curtsey. “Bertold is impressive.”
“He’s impressively loyal to his belly, somewhat like our friend Major MacKay. Give him an apple, and he will be more devoted to you than your mastiff. How fares Caesar?”
This was small talk, idle chatter likely produced for the benefit of the grooms, and yet, it was small talk with Fournier, and he wasn’t asking about the dog.
“Caesar is an adaptable sort. He appears contented, and the whole household likes him. I enjoy his company tremendously.”
Nevin led out Catherine’s mare, who’d come through the winter in good weight. A bit too good weight.
“Morning, miss. Herself will need to walk a bit first.”
“Of course.” Catherine took Franny’s reins and checked the girths, then led the mare to the ladies’ mounting block. Franny stood like a statue while Catherine settled into the saddle and arranged her skirts.
“You leave a man with no gallantries to perform,” Fournier said, swinging onto Bertold’s back. “I will have to be inventive. As we will be plodding along for some time, your groom can catch up to us at his leisure. Shall we be off?”
Fournier brought Bertold alongside Franny, and the horses walked side by side down the alley. The day was lovely, to be in the saddle lovelier still. The trees weren’t finished leafing out, and the light still had some of the sharp brilliance of early spring.
A season for beginnings, or at least for fresh air. “I nearly sent you my regrets.” Not what Catherine had planned to say.
“Your decision to go for a pleasurable outing in the park will be remarked, as will your choice of escort.”
“Yes.”
“And?” Fournier sat atop his grand horse, entirely at ease.
“The time has come to stop hiding. I have no plans to take Mayfair by storm, but neither can I make the life I want if my sole aim is to avoid gossip.” At some point during the night, Catherine had realized that Armbruster was likely every bit as invested in keeping her secrets as she was—they were his secrets, too, after all, and Fort was nothing if not careful of his standing.
Catherine wasn’tsafe, precisely—she truly would not socialize any more than she had to—but neither was she as worried as she had been.
“I agree,” Fournier said. “If all children were held perpetually accountable for their parents’ indiscretions, we none of us would dare leave our homes.”
“You are a forgiving sort, Fournier.” Would he be as forgiving if he knew the greater indiscretion had been not Mama’s, but Catherine’s?
“I am an imperfect sort. Have you dreamed of me?” He asked the question as they approached the mouth of the alley.
He was also the flirtatious sort, though his flirtations felt different from the calf-eyed, surreptitious pawing Armbruster had offered her.
“Should we wait for my groom?”
Fournier watched the passing traffic. “May I be blunt?”
“Of course.”
“Your mare has not been kept in condition. Your groom failed to saddle her in time to walk her for you, though you doubtless made the exact hour of our appointment known to your staff. She has not been conscientiously groomed in the regular course, or she’d have less winter coat left. Your groom also failed to have his own mount ready such that we need not delay for his convenience.”
Catherine had focused on the outing itself—and her escort—but she’d also noted those facts in passing.
“I can’t sack Nevin. He’s Mrs. Trask’s nephew.”
“You cannot tolerate his slacking, Catherine. My business depends on those I employ respecting me and respecting themselves enough to put in a fair day’s work for a fair day’s wage. That Nevin acquits himself poorly now, after you’ve dispensed with Deems, suggests the fellow isun homme stupide et arrogant.”
No clatter of hooves came from the direction of the mews, suggesting Nevin had been quite behindhand preparing for the outing.
“Is scolding me your version of not being serious, Fournier? Of warmhearted affection? I confess I haven’t much experience withaffaires amoureuses, but I’m sure lectures are not how an outing of this nature is to begin.”
He urged his horse forward. “Have you hadanyexperience withaffaires amoureuses, Catherine?”
His tone was merely curious, but Catherine would not lie to him. Not about this. “Some.”
