Page 38 of Romancing the Scot
She accepted a chunk of an apple from the groom. The mare took it from her palm and turned her soft brown eyes toward Grace. Whispering sweet nothings, she nuzzled her cheek against the horse’s neck. She missed this smell. The bond that existed between horse and human was unique. Her fingers combed through the coarse mane. She’d had horses to ride her entire life, but never one of her own. They were always moving on to another palace or army encampment, and when she had to part with a horse she’d grown fond of, she’d left a piece of her heart behind.
“I’m thinking ye are a natural, mistress. Ye must be a rider.” The groom’s voice jerked Grace out of her daydream. “But I’m thinking she might be too tame for ye.”
Before she could reply, another groom led a majestic black stallion out into the yard.
“If you’ve a mind, I’ll take her back in and bring you another more likely mount. Ye’ll be wanting to keep up with his lordship’s stallion.”
She stepped back. “There must be some mistake. I am riding with—”
“Good idea, lad,” came the deep voice from behind her. “Change the mistress’s horse and be smart about it.”
“Right away, m’lord.”
The sound of Hugh’s voice lit a flame of embarrassment deep inside her. Grace watched the groom lead the mare away, and she was left staring at the restless stallion. She’d watched the viscount ride the beast up from the meadow the first day she was well enough to look out the window.
He was standing too close. The sharp words she’d spoken last night, the cold glare he’d directed at her as he’d walked out of the library were lying heavy on her.
“M’lord,” she said as she turned and curtsied.
“Miss Grace.” He doffed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed.
A knot was quickly forming in her belly, but Grace forced herself to look into his face.
His eyes were tired, but they showed none of the resentment she’d seen last night.
They studied each other in silence for a long, ponderous moment. She felt awkward at his scrutiny of her gray riding habit and feathered hat. All of it a gift from the Penningtons. And Grace was wearing them the morning after insulting the master of the house.
“I was expecting Lady Jo.”
“My sister sends her regrets. She had some last-minute visitors coming. She asked me to pass on her apologies to you. I’m here as her replacement.”
She looked in the direction the groom had disappeared.
“I don’t want to inconvenience you, m’lord. I’ll take a walk toward the river. I know the way now. You needn’t bother.”
“This is no bother.”
“No, we mustn’t go. Surely, there’s no need for us to go riding this—”
“We are going. It’s settled,” he said, glancing at the horse that was being led out of the stables.
The entire situation was awkward, to say the least. She couldn’t refuse him, however, without delivering another insult. And she did want to go. The apology she’d practiced during the night started rolling off her tongue. “Then before we start out, I need to retract the wor—”
“Not now,” he commanded. “We’ll have time to discuss that later.”
Chapter 12
Loud to the point of bombastic. Pushy and intolerant. And not least of all, a highly accomplished gossip.
Jo’s caller had never encountered a topic on any subject that she didn’t have an opinion. Lady Nithsdale was a woman who believed—with a fervor that the most devoted religious zealot would envy—that it was her heavenly ordained duty to learn everyone’s business and interfere with it as much as she possibly could. And if she could ruin a reputation or run down something of value, all the better.
Jo was not looking forward to this visit, but she would try to bear it with stoic civility, as always.
Lady Nithsdale considered herself a Londoner, and only deigned to leave it when the fashionable crowd had deserted its clubs and salons and theatres and pleasure gardens. The only exception she made was for a month in Bath and a trip to the Borders in May and June. She would never dream of missing the ball at Baronsford. The crowd that attended included many of the ton’s most elite echelon, and she could sail about amongst them as if she herself were hostess of the festivities.
Jo spent very little time in London and divided the rest of the year between Scotland and Hertfordshire. Happily, there was only a short period when both of them were here. And that was a blessing. Jo saw it as her responsibility to keep relations between Baronsford and its surrounding neighbors cordial, and she’d been reasonably successful in that effort for years now. And with most of their guests, she enjoyed the quiet pleasantries of country dinners and morning calling hours.
Lady Nithsdale, however, was a challenge. And Jo feared today would be far worse than usual.
