Page 29 of Miss Flibbertigibbet and the Barbarian
They rode quickly, eschewing all conversation. Not that Nicholas had anything he wished to discuss at that point, and Adriana, he’d realized, was not a needlessly talkative female.
Another point of stark contrast between her and her social façade. By all accounts, it was often difficult to get Miss Flibbertigibbet to cease chattering.
At Adriana’s suggestion, they diverted south a little way to the hamlet of Barrowby, where she knew of an inn that served good food and ale. As the day was warm and, although not quite noon, breakfast was hours behind them, Nicholas readily supported the notion of taking a short break before they forged on.
The White Swan Inn had a pleasant garden to one side, and they elected to sit at a table there, beneath the spreading branches of old fruit trees. After they’d given a serving girl their orders, Nicholas left Adriana at the table and went to chat to the publican and any useful patron who might be in the taproom.
He was resigned to the news that no one had seen any sign of a large bay stallion, yet he gathered enough firm negatives to feel sure that the thief hadn’t taken to the lanes in that direction.
He returned to the garden to see that the serving girl had delivered their meals and cider. Adriana was lowering her tankard after having taken a sip; he saw the tip of her tongue pass over her lips and paused for a second to tamp down his instinctive reaction before continuing across the lawn to join her.
Late blossoms bobbed all about her, a white-and-pink frame. She looked up as he approached, and the exquisite perfection of her features struck him anew. Her appearance was so utterly flawless, she looked like a Dresden figurine planted in the orchard.
When he saw her like this, the dichotomy between her two personas—Miss Flibbertigibbet and Lady Adriana Sommerville—was impossible to ignore. Patently, one was false, and one was real, and it was increasingly clear which that was. The need to learn why the other side of her existed had grown beyond mere curiosity and had burgeoned into compulsive fascination.
On reaching the table, he dropped onto the bench opposite her and forced his gaze to the slice of game pie waiting on his plate. “That looks—and smells—very good.”
She nodded and forked up a bite of hers. “It is.”
They ate in strangely companionable silence.
Somewhat to his surprise, it was he who broke it. “Your brother mentioned that you didn’t grace London’s ballrooms this Season.”
He raised his gaze to her face, his expression nothing more than mildly inquisitive.
Addie read as much and lightly shrugged. “Papa’s health wasn’t as robust as Mama would have liked, and she didn’t want to subject him to the demands of a Season or leave him at the Grange with just Angie and the staff. Admittedly, I could have gone down and swanned around under my aunt’s aegis, but to be perfectly truthful, I’ve always found the rounds of balls and parties…” She paused, searching for the right word, and settled on “superficial.”
Just like her alter ego.
Seeking to deflect further questions about herself, she fixed her gaze on his face. “Try as I might, I can’t recall ever meeting you at any such ball or party.”
His grin was swift and utterly charming. “As you might imagine, in my earlier years, I was pressured into attending, but even then, I only appeared at that sort of event when I couldn’t get out of squiring my mother or sisters. Luckily for me, Toby is more inclined to see such entertainments as having some value, so these days, I hide in Newmarket as much as possible.”
She softly snorted. “It seems we share a similar view on the usefulness of the Season.”
They’d finished their meals. She drained her mug, and he did the same.
“Right, then.” She set down the mug. “Back to our search.”
Without further ado, they left the garden and made their way to where their mounts were waiting in the care of an ostler.
Addie set her jaw against the apparently inevitable sensory swoon that being lifted to her saddle by Nicholas provoked. She’d been counting on the impact fading, but it hadn’t. Not at all.
If anything, the impulse to seek more of the dizzying sensations was growing, building, becoming a definite itch beneath her skin.
Determinedly ignoring the feeling, she led the way out of the hamlet and into the center of Grantham. They paused to check at the Angel to see if any of the other groups had picked up their quarry’s trail, but no one was waiting with news.
Resolutely quashing her disappointment, with Nicholas beside her, she guided Nickleby onto the road to Newark-on-Trent.
Once clear of the town, she spotted a farmer’s wife in a field and stopped to speak with her, but although the woman had been close by the road since dawn, she hadn’t seen any big bay horse being led past. Addie thanked her and rode on, with Nicholas keeping pace alongside.
After two similar encounters, she grumbled to herself, “It would have been so much easier if the blackguard had stayed in Grantham overnight.”
She’d thought she’d spoken too quietly to be heard, but Nicholas responded, “Given the timing, we have to find people who can be certain the horse didn’t pass this way late yesterday as well as today.”
She grimaced but nodded, and they rode on.
They reached Foston and spotted the curate, gardening in the grounds of St. Peter’s Church. Nicholas dismounted and spoke with the clergyman, but while the jovial man could assure them no horse fitting the description of The Barbarian had passed the church the previous evening, he’d only just returned to his weeding, so couldn’t speak for earlier that day.
