His Heart's Delight (15 page)

Joanna’s pleased smile made Christiana
laugh.

“Jo, if the front door did not creak so
loudly we could sneak out and watch the carriages come and go.”

“Too childish, Christy.” But she stood up.
“We can do that from your window.”

The two hurried to the window and
watched.

The fanlights on the houses across the street
cast patterns of light on the sidewalk and one of the oil lamps was
being tended by a linkboy as a man hurried down the steps of the
house next door and into a waiting carriage. The passing traffic
entertained them for a few minutes, and then the street was quiet
again.

Christiana turned her back on the window.
“What do you think Lord Morgan Braedon is doing this evening?”

Joanna laughed. “That does not require much
thought. He is gambling whilst trying to avoid his brother’s
company.”

“What exactly did you and Lord Monksford talk
about with Viscount Crandall?”

“The prospects for theater this Season.”

Christiana bit her lip. It was acceptable
social conversation. But just once she would like Joanna to tell
her that her conversation had been inconsequential or perhaps even
flirtatious.

“What do you and Lord Morgan talk about?”

Christiana smiled. “We tease each other
and...” Her voice trailed off as she recalled their whispered
conversation that afternoon, the actual realization of their plan,
and the wonderful distraction it presented to more weighty
concerns. “We have a number of common interests.”

Joanna leaned against the bedpost and looked
at the ceiling. “Let me see”—she paused—“you both like to dance, to
flirt, and to plot.” She laughed. “The truth is, Christy, I suspect
the two of you are connected by much more than a love of music and
flirting.”

“Oh, really?” She had made them sound so
shallow that she was glad to hear Joanna’s perspective.

“You both keep your deeper feelings to
yourself for all your charm and friendliness. When I danced with
Lord Morgan last night, I saw depth in him that I had never
suspected.”

“Tell me more.” This was worth hearing. “How
is it that you have seen this and I only suspect it?”

“Because, Christy, in order to win my support
for your harebrained charade, he had to be frank with me. He had to
convince me that he had something more than his selfish needs at
heart and that he did not intend to seduce you and discard you to
win some sort of wager.”

“Joanna! Did you actually accuse him of
that?”

“No, of course not, Christy.” Joanna’s voice
took on the soothing tones a nurse used on an irate child. “But he
knew your well-being was my main concern, however he wanted to
interpret it.”

“Is that why he told you about his sister?
The one who died?”

“Yes,” Joanna replied thoughtfully. “They
must have been very close.”

“So close that her death has changed him in
some profound way.”

“Hmmm, though that sounds a trifle
theatrical.” Joanna walked to the window and pulled the curtains
shut and then turned back to her sister. “I think when she died he
lost his closest confidante. And he has never found anyone to
replace her.”

Christiana blinked. “Do you think so?” she
whispered, sinking into one of the chairs near the fireplace. They
were silent and Christiana wondered if she might be the confidante
he must long for.

There was a scratch at the door and Sally
entered. The two sisters exchanged looks and Sally held up her
hands. “Now, miss, I know the night’s boring for the two of you,
but I’m not wanting to be part of any trouble you are brewing.”

Christiana pulled Sally into the room and
closed the door. She put her arm around the girl’s plump shoulders.
“Not a bit, Sally. We were simply wondering if there was any of
that delicious syllabub left from dinner.”

“No, miss, there’s none left. The housekeeper
let us have it for supper. Said it would na’ keep.”

Joanna pulled out the ribbon that Sally had
admired that morning. “Then perhaps the fruitcake from tea this
afternoon?”

Sally eyed the ribbon and grinned. “I could
bring it up to you. Everyone else is gone to bed.”

That was the critical piece of information.
“No, we would not want to trouble you, Sally.” Christiana took the
ribbon and tied it around the one already in the maid’s hair. “We
will find it ourselves. Now you be off to bed. We will be each
other’s maid this evening.”

The maid scurried from the room.

As soon as she was gone, the two tiptoed from
the room and down the backstairs. When the tread squeaked they
paused and waited. “It is the barest adventure to steal to the
kitchen for some unauthorized fruitcake,” Christiana whispered in
her sister’s ear.

Joanna nodded in agreement.

“Suppose we sneak into the library with
it.”

Joanna stepped into the darkened but still
warm kitchen and turned to her sister. “The library? Why?”

Christiana looked about the empty
shadow-filled room as though she actually thought someone might be
listening. “Have you not always wondered what brandy tastes
like?”

~ ~ ~

By the time Christiana was deep enough into
Hyde Park to smell the grass and forget the city the sun was filly
risen and burning through the morning fog. By the time she cantered
the length of the first path the hint of a headache that she had
awakened with was gone. She was certain the headache was from her
restless night’s sleep. Richard’s letter under her pillow had done
nothing to make him feel closer or to ease her.

The headache was most definitely not from the
brandy they had sampled. They had only taken one sip. It was like
liquid fire and neither one of them wanted to prolong the
experience.

No wonder her father was irritable the
morning after those lengthy dinner parties her mother so favored.
If port was anything like brandy she could not imagine how anyone
could enjoy it, or the resulting effect.

However,
this
experience, riding in
the morning, she would enjoy for as long as she possibly could. It
was the one good thing about a night early to bed. She could rise
at first light and spend an hour in the park. It was as close to
real riding as one could find in Town.

She could almost believe that she was in the
country. The park was almost empty. She could make out a few others
on horseback but this was not a fashionable hour to be seen abroad.
Christiana imagined that each of the other riders was here for the
same reason that she was and it had nothing to do with the latest
gossip or showing off a new habit.

Dare she try a gallop? There was a rider, a
man, judging by the size of his horse and his seat, and he was
galloping at the far edge of the trees, nearer to Rotten Row than
she. She had heard it was considered
risqué,
but there was
no one to see her except other less daring souls who surely would
welcome a gallop as much as she would.

She turned her borrowed mare toward the
farthest reach of the track and started off in a firm canter and as
they passed from the sight of the entry gate and her groom she
urged her mount into a gallop. Florrie’s version of a gallop would
have disappointed even the most nervous rider, but Christiana made
the most of the dash and drew up at the end, a little breathless
herself, more from the forbidden act than the exercise itself.

She looked around quickly to see if anyone
had noticed the breach in etiquette, just as Lord Morgan, astride a
lovely brown gelding, emerged from the wood. Startled at first, she
thought about leaving without a word but then realized she really
did wish to speak with him. She nodded formally to him and he rode
closer.

“I will not tell a soul, Miss Christiana, if
you keep my gallop a secret as well.”

She smiled and Morgan drew his horse up next
to hers. They turned and began a slow walk back to the gate. “I had
no idea that you rode here in the morning.”

Morgan smiled. “And I had no idea that you
did. Do you think anyone will believe that?”

“No, I expect not.” She turned to hide her
grin, pretending interest in the other riders. Most were still
enjoying the solitude, but over on the edge of the park still
bathed in early fog she saw two riders move into the wood. “But
surely no one will take exception to a few moments of conversation.
After all we are not riding into the most secluded part of the park
like that couple over there.”

She nodded toward the spot where the duo had
disappeared.

Morgan did not even glance at them. “Lady
Edgmont and Mr. Hurman have been meeting here for so long that it
would be shocking if they were
not
seen.”

Christiana craned her neck to catch a glimpse
of the pair but the mist already hid them.

“My dear, I think this will only add the
tiniest spice to the gossipmongers while it will sweeten my entire
day. But is it worth the risk of words with your mother?”

Christiana brushed that concern away with an
airy sweep of her hand. “I can easily prove that I did not have any
plan to meet you. I am wearing my least flattering habit. She
understands my vanity completely since it is one of the traits I
inherited from her.”

Why had she worn this horrid old thing? Her
new bottle green habit with the military look suited her perfectly,
even Mama agreed. This was her oldest habit and while it had once
been a beautiful brown, it was now faded and a wee bit too tight.
She hunched her shoulders and hoped that the buttons did not pull
too much.

Morgan raised the quizzing glass he so rarely
used and tapped her hands very gently with his whip. “Sit straight,
Sprite. The buttons will hold.”

She pushed his whip aside, but straightened
as commanded. “They may hold, but do not, under any circumstances,
make me laugh.”

Since that was precisely what threatened them
both, she pressed her mouth into a tight line and turned her
attention to his horse. “He is lovely.”

“And yours is...” Morgan paused, clearly at a
rare loss for words.

“My horse is borrowed.”

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding. “Next time
let me loan you one from our stables.”

“Oh, really?” At first thrilled, she quickly
had second thoughts. “That would certainly raise eyebrows, would it
not?”

“It would merely add fuel to the rumors of my
courtship. If I
gave
you a mare, it would be a different
story altogether.”

Christiana sighed. “I understand the rules,
but sometimes I think they were created to eliminate the fun from
every possible adventure.” She gathered her thoughts and began her
list. “Why are clubs only for men? I should think it would be most
diverting to meet daily with friends as you do. Why are men
permitted to go to Tattersall’s and not women?” She stopped
abruptly when she saw that Lord Morgan was smiling.

“Is that your entire list?” he asked.

It was a patronizing smile that stirred her
irritation rather than pleasure.

“No,” she answered with an imperious lift of
her chin. “But I can see you will not take these injustices
seriously.”

“Sprite, you make me feel ancient.” He bit
his lip, but the laugh escaped anyway.

Was he laughing at her? He
was
treating her as though she were a sister. And come to think on it,
no gentleman would have mentioned her habit unless they were on
familial terms.

What was the good of flirting with someone if
they persisted in telling you to sit up straight and then laughed
when you voiced your feelings?

“I ask you, my lord, who made up these
rules?”
Men, that’s who,
she thought and let him find a way
around that.

“Is it the rules you are angry with or
men?”

“Men,” she spoke with a firm nod. “Most
everything is their fault as far as I can see.” She looked at him
steadily and hoped he knew that she was not joking now. “Why do men
think it is so entertaining to go off and fight in a war and leave
those they love behind?” She barely breathed the last word as a
knot formed in her throat and tears gathered in her eyes. She
turned from him and looked beyond the park. Through the sheen of
tears she could see that Park Lane was alive with people. Were any
of them worried about their men at war?

~ ~ ~

Morgan saw the tears, heard them in her
voice, and cursed her absent Richard for being so young and
unfeeling. He could imagine what the young officer had written to
his father and brothers. It most likely did not have a single
reassuring word for his almost fiancée.

“I am sorry, Sprite.” He could tell her not
to worry but that would be pointless. Women excelled in worry, and
a good thing, too. They were so grateful when their worry proved
pointless. He could tell her Richard would be safe, but that was
even more nonsensical. Young Wilton was in the heart of the action.
With Wellesley in command and determined to make up for the
previous year’s debacle, Spain was a perilous place to be just
now.

She sniffed. “And exactly what are you sorry
for, my lord? Sorry that you are a man? Sorry that you are here to
witness my tears?” There were no tears now, and while he preferred
anger to upset, he would much rather have her smiling.

He leaned across the small space separating
their horses and took her hand. “I am sorry that you are worried. I
am sorry that I can do nothing to ease it. I am sorry that I can
think of nothing that will make you smile.” He held her gloved hand
with both of his and was shocked at how much he longed to touch his
lips to hers.

She held his gaze for a moment, then pulled
her hand from his and spoke in a rush. “Why do men like
brandy?”

Where in the name of Bacchus had that
question come from? His horse danced restlessly and Morgan took a
moment to control him before he spoke. “I do believe brandy is an
acquired taste.”