Page 7 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“Ah, sister to Tensford’s new wife, then?”
She nodded.
“I’m astonished that they’ve let you go out riding on your own,” he remarked. “Grateful, but astonished. Is that the usual thing for young ladies, these days?”
Her generous, pink lips tightened. “No. It is not.”
“Well, then, I must be thankful that you are an unusual young lady. And may I add that I am also grateful for your unusual mare? That was a fine trick, and she’s a beauty, besides.”
The girl’s manner thawed instantly. “Isn’t she?” She stroked the high arch of the mare’s neck and her whole face softened into a warm expression of affection that made her look utterly . . . likeable. And like he wanted her to look at him in such a way. “Poppy is a wonderful friend. She has many useful skills.”
“All of which must have taken a good deal of patient training, if they are of a similar nature. I commend you.”
“All gallantries must be given to her. Poppy is willing and eager, which makes everything easier.”
“Then you are as lucky in your friend, as I am in my new acquaintance.”
“Don’t.” She’d stiffened up again, sat back and gathered up her reins. “Please.”
“Don’t . . . what?” he asked, perplexed.
“That. Whatever it is that you do . . . that you are known for. Dangerous flirtation? Is that what you called it? I’m not that sort of girl.”
He stilled, suddenly wild with curiosity—and when was the last time anything had made him feel that way? “What sort of girl are you, then?”
“The sort who is leaving.” The mare spun around and Lady Glory looked back over her shoulder. “You’ll find your mount tethered on the path to Greystone.” She gestured with her chin. “Just that way, and past the edge of the field.”
“Wait, you will not return to Greystone with me?”
“No.” She didn’t offer further explanation, just set off, leaving the bog behind and heading up the edge of the field, away from his destination. “Good luck with your boots,” she called.
* * *
Glory rode on,flustered by the encounter.
Once she was safely away, she stopped and dismounted. She toyed with her whip a bit, practicing her aim by setting pinecones along a low branch and flicking them off.
She didn’t meet many new people. As few as her sister would let her get away with, as a general rule. She’d known things would be different when she came to stay here with Hope. And she was so glad she had made the move. Life at home had changed since her brother, the Earl of Kincade, had married. Matthew was tolerable as elder brothers go, but his wife . . . She sighed. Catherine was pushy, over-protective of her authority and obviously horrified at the idea of sheltering her husband’s lame sister for the rest of her life.
Whereas Hope had always been Glory’s rock, her support—and also the one to push her out of her comfortable isolation. So she’d known she had to prepare herself for the approaching house party, but she’d thought she had some time, still. She’d already adjusted to Miss Munroe and the dancing lessons. Bad enough. And now, this . . . gentleman . . . had arrived.
But, perhaps this particular gentleman wouldn’t be so bad? She rather thought he would turn out to be handsome. There had been signs of it, beneath the mud spatter. His eyes were a piercing blue and that strong, square jaw was nearly a wonder of human architecture. And the outlandish nature of their meeting—it actually gave her the advantage. She had not been the strange one, for once.
Oh.
All of her small hopes abruptly withered. She tucked the whip away again, unable to focus, and leaned into the comfort of her horse.
She’d been lucky. But his absurd situation and the happy coincidence of meeting him while mounted were just that—luck. All of it a mere fluke. In the drawing room, in the ballroom, ineveryother situation, she would be at the disadvantage. She would still be . . . herself.
Poppy, as always, picked up on her mood and began to toss her head. Glory recalled herself and mounted up and urged her mare on. They explored the edges, where the fields met the forest, for a bit, until both of their nerves were somewhat settled. Then she turned them back toward home. She wanted to be safely ensconced in her rooms before Viscount Keswick had time to emerge from his bath.
She made it unobserved, settling Poppy in her stall and stopping to give Grumpet, the heavily pregnant barn cat, her due. Then she snuck in through the servant’s entrance, made it to her room and threw herself into a chair to brood.
Terrifyingly competent. That’s what he’d called her. A left-handed compliment, to be sure, but she felt like he’d meant it in an admiring way. And yes, he had remarked on her riding alone—but he’d professed to be grateful and he had said kind words about Poppy.
A knock sounded and her sister’s maid entered, intent on helping her dress for dinner. Glory sent her off instead, requesting a tray in her room. She didn’t want to see Lord Keswick again. Not yet. Until she had to meet him properly, and see pity—or scorn—bloom when he noticed her limp, she could still hold on to the fleeting feeling of his admiration.
The maid must have run straight to her sister, for Hope came bustling in. “What’s this? A tray in your room? Did you injure yourself in that fall today?”
