Page 9 of Miss Determined
Jones moved the ink bottle out of tipping range. “Send him to deliver…? Oh, right. Mrs. Peele is mad keen to have that report, I’m sure.”
“Precisely. Mad keen. Mrs. Peele to the life.” Though dear old Mrs. Peele was also still on a progress visiting her thirty-two grandchildren (eleven great-grands) and would not be back to Town until next week.
With any luck—Young Purvis was vastly overdue for some luck—Lord Tavistock would kick his heels out in Berkshire at least that long and then ride straight for the family seat in Surrey.
ChapterThree
Mr. Dorning’s horse had buttery smooth gaits and faultless manners. For those reasons—and not because Mr. Dorning stood several inches over six feet, had marvelous blue eyes, and had asked for Lissa’s help—she cantered Jacques down the drive at a few minutes past eight.
An early ride was a wonderful way to enjoy the fresh air and sparkling sunshine of a spring morning, and—more significantly—allowed Lissa to sneak off before Diana or Grandmama could ask awkward questions at breakfast.
Roland, perhaps inspired by Jacques’s good example, came along quietly with a groom, but then, Roland was always well behaved for the first mile or so.
Lissa nodded to Mrs. Raybourne, who passed her in a gig, though it was early for the vicar’s wife to be on patrol. Coming home from a lying-in, perhaps. Mr. Dabney at the livery greeted Lissa with a wry smile.
“You’re not aboard yon imp, I see,” he said, taking Roland’s reins from the groom. “Prudent, Miss DeWitt. They have the devil in ’em at his age.” His speech bore a slight lilt brought with him from warmer climes. His smile was full of vintage Crosspatch deviltry.
“Roland’s education has been neglected,” Lissa said, “and I will do what I can to rectify that oversight. We’ll need both horses at the Arms in a quarter hour or so, and they could do with watering first.”
The groom would take his time walking back to the Hall and gather up the day’s ration of gossip on his travels, once Lissa had made it plain he would not be accompanying her farther.
“I’ll water the beasts. Will you be going up to Town any time soon?”
Mr. Dabney had a duty to the village to chat up any and all livery patrons. The whole shire knew Lissa was to take another turn in the marital lists, and bets placed at the Arms turned on the outcome of her Mayfair ventures. Last year, she’d talked herself into being excited to finally, finally have a full London Season.
This year, she’d rather risk a whole morning of Roland’s tantrums than calculate the days of freedom remaining to her.
“Mama will decide when we leave for Town,” Lissa said, swinging down from the saddle. “The weather hasn’t quite turned, and one doesn’t want to pay London rents any longer than necessary.”
“Suppose not,” Mr. Dabney said, taking Jacques’s reins. “This is a handsome animal.”
“He belongs to Mr. Trevor Dorning, a guest at the Arms. The gelding was lent to me that I might try his paces and assess his suitability as a lady’s mount.”
Mr. Dabney ran a practiced hand down Jacques’s foreleg. “Good bone, quiet eye. Looks to be a steady sort. Big, especially to be a lady’s mount, though.”
Lissa was half a foot taller than Mr. Dabney, who’d been a jockey both on the Caribbean island from which he hailed and for a few glorious English seasons back in the day. She settled for peering down at him as if she hadn’t heard him correctly, then waved a farewell to the groom and took herself across the green to the Arms.
“Is Mr. Dorning up and about?” she asked the middle Pevinger girl, Gerta by name.
“Aye, Miss DeWitt. Ate a prodigious breakfast, and you’ll find him reading the paper in the snug.”
The snug was usually appropriated by locals, while the private dining rooms were for the guests, but there Mr. Dorning sat, his blond hair turned golden in the slanting morning sunbeams, his hat and a teapot on the table beside his cup and saucer.
Lissa cleared her throat, and he looked up, then rose. “Miss DeWitt. Good day. A pleasure to see you.”
“Mr. Dorning.” She popped a curtsey in response to his bow. “The weather is fine, I’m keen to hold a rematch with Roland, and I thought you might like to get the lay of the land while the roads are dry.”
His smile was a masterpiece of subtlety. An accomplished flirt could work his art while discussing the weather. Mr. Dorning flirted without saying a word, and without implying anything other than good humor and high spirits that encompassed Lissa and politely excluded all others.
His flirtation, in other words, was innate, an aspect of his personality rather than a set of skills he’d acquired of necessity. Lissa had forgotten there were such natural talents in the ranks of gentlemen.
“And here,” he said, “I was hoping you’d allow me a crack at subduing Roland’s antics. A steady diet of good deportment and platitudes allows a rider’s reflexes to grow lax.”
“Youwantto ride Roland?”
“Jacques wasn’t always the pattern card of good conduct he’s become in recent years. He and I have had some rousing disagreements.”
Lissa was torn between the temptation to yield a responsibility—putting the manners on Roland washerjob—and the anticipated pleasure of watching Roland work his mischief on somebody else.
