His Lordship's Filly (13 page)

Last night those ladies, who had never been closer to a horse than a seat in a carriage, had declared that horses were “dumb beasts” and marveled at her wanting to associate with them. Dumb indeed! The horses she’d known all had had more intelligence than those ridiculous ladies.

Bridget thought with longing of the stable and its comforting atmosphere, but no, she had promised herself she would give the rest of the morning to this infernal embroidering business—and that was what she meant to do.

She was worrying another length of hopelessly tangled yarn, her tongue caught between her teeth in exasperation, when the door opened. She looked up. “Andrew! I didn’t know you were home.”

“I just came in,” he said, giving her a smile and looking so handsome her heart did a little jump. “So, what are you about there?”

She sighed. “I am trying to learn embroidery, but it’s quite fatiguing. The yarn gets all tangled. And I prick my fingers so often.”

When she extended a finger to show him, he crossed the room and pulled up a chair beside her. “Let me see,” he said, taking her hand gently in his own.

“Dear, dear.” He lifted it to his lips and put a gentle kiss on each prick. “You must be quite determined to become an excellent needlewoman.” His smile was teasing. “Else why would you undergo such torture?”

“Mrs. Purvey said all ladies embroider,” Bridget explained, letting her hand remain comfortably in his. “So I wanted to learn.” She lowered her gaze from his face, looking instead at their entwined hands. She liked the way they looked, joined like that. “I know you want me to be a lady. I want to please you.”

His fingers tightened around hers in a satisfying squeeze. “You
do
please me,” he said in a tone that made her lift her gaze once more to his face. “You please me very much. But you needn’t do needlework to achieve that. Only embroider if you feel so inclined.”

“Thank you, Andrew.”
He was looking at her so warmly. Perhaps this was the time to tell him. “You know—”

“There are other things you can learn to do,” he went on. “Watercolors. Playing the harpsichord. Things like that. In fact, I’ve sent for someone to help you do. just that.”

“Sent?” she mumbled, her heart falling to her toes. Now what was going on?

“Yes. I’ve sent someone to fetch my Aunt Sophronia. She knows her way about the
ton
and she can answer all your questions.”

Bridget withdrew her hand. Oh no! He was going to bring in some withered old harridan to order her about. Or another Lady Linden. “Andrew, I really don’t need—”

His handsome face took on the stubborn look she’d come to recognize—and dread, because it meant she had no recourse but to do as he wanted. “I think you’ll like Aunt Sophronia.”

Sophronia! Bridget suppressed a shudder. She’d been right. Some fat old dragon as bad as that horrible Lady Linden. This was
not
the time to talk about her morning rides or to ask Andrew to do something to help Elsie. That would have to wait for later.

She swallowed hard. “When— When will she get here?”

“Soon,” Andrew said. “In a day or two, I hope. Don’t worry, my dear, you’ll soon know all the ins and outs of life in the
ton.”
He smiled. “You’ll be able to give the cut direct as well as the next lady.”

Bridget swallowed another sigh. She really didn’t know why she should
want
to be rude to anyone, except possibly the Lindens. And what was the point of that? It wasn’t very likely that any amount of rudeness would prevent Lady Linden from inserting her presence wherever she pleased, whether it was wanted or not. But it was apparent that Andrew had made up his mind. She would have to abide by his decision.

After all, she still had her horses—and her early morning ride. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—give that up.

The butler appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat.

Andrew looked up. “Yes, Purvey.”

“The Duke of Wellington, milord.”

“Show him in.”

Bridget turned eagerly. She hadn’t dared think about what he’d said for fear it wouldn’t happen, but the great man had really come. She shoved her needlework down in its basket, smoothed anxiously at her skirt, and raised a nervous hand to her hair.

Andrew laughed. “No need to primp, my dear. You look fine. Delectable as ever.”

He turned toward the door where the duke was just coming in. “Wellington, welcome. We’re glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to be here,” Wellington said, smiling at her. She hadn’t imagined it. The great man really did like her.

“I’m eager to get a look at the superb creature you call Waterloo,” he said.
“By King Midnight, out of Queen Sheba, I believe you said.”

Bridget got to her feet. “Yes, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

It was at least an hour later when the duke made his goodbyes. He had exclaimed over Waterloo’s wonderful lines and superb confirmation so much that for a time Bridget had forgotten Andrew’s discouraging news. But when the duke left, all her doubts came back to trouble her.

As the door closed behind the duke, she turned to her husband. “Andrew, about that aunt of yours—”

“Her name is Sophronia,” Andrew said, the stubborn look sliding back over his face. “She was my mother’s favorite sister. I’m sure she can teach you the ways of the
ton.
Everything you need to know.”

She knew she was fighting a losing battle, but still she had to say it. “I don’t see why I must learn anything. I’m not rude. I don’t hurt anyone. Why can’t people accept me the way I am?”

Andrew sighed heavily. “Some people will, Bridget. People like Wellington.
But others won’t. There are conventions to adhere to. And if you don’t conform to them, you’ll be the talk of the town.”

She shrugged. “I’m the talk of the town anyway.” She was sorry about that, but it wasn’t her fault. It was Lady Linden’s. “Why, Andrew? Do you know why Lady Linden should want to hurt me? I’ve never done a thing to her.”

But Andrew couldn’t tell her. He could only make empty excuses, excuses that even a child wouldn’t believe. And so she resigned herself to the dragon’s arrival. At least she still had her horses.

Chapter Fourteen

Bridget spent an anxious few days waiting for the old dragon to arrive. Every morning, of course, she went for her ride, taking food to Elsie and buying the two nosegays the child kept back for her. But every day Bridget’s worry grew. The child looked so peaked. There must be some way to get her off the streets, out of that horrible life.

On the afternoon of the third day, Bridget sat restlessly in her sitting room. In spite of Andrew’s words, she had not given up her attempt to finish a proper needlepoint design. She’d never been a quitter. And after all, how hard could it be to put a few stitches decently into a piece of material?

So she was sitting there, pulling out still another misshapen stitch, when Purvey appeared in the doorway. “His Lordship’s aunt has arrived, milady.”

Bridget put down her sewing and got to her feet. “Have you sent to inform him?”

“His Lordship’s carriage is right behind hers,” Purvey said, his expression bland.

“Very well.” Bridget swallowed a sigh. “I’ll be right there.” It was really unkind of Andrew to bring someone else into the house. Bad enough that she had to face Lady Linden’s badgering. Though now, since Andrew had explained the matter to her, she had no qualms about declaring herself “not at home” when the Lindens came to call.

But she wouldn’t be able to evade Andrew’s aunt that easily. Sophronia. What kind of name was that for a woman? It sounded like—like some kind of strange disease.

Bridget reached the front hall just as the door opened. She braced herself, ready to face the dragon. Andrew came in, on his arm a beautiful lady dressed in the height of fashion. Bridget stared. Purvey had obviously made a mistake. Where was the old harridan? Why had Andrew brought this woman here?

“Bridget,” Andrew called gaily. “Come and meet Aunt Sophronia.

Bridget stared. It was hard to think of this exquisite woman as anyone’s aunt. On her small delicate fingers she wore several rings: a wedding ring, a ruby, and an enormous emerald. With her dark dark hair and pansy eyes, she looked like an actress. Or one of those
other
women, the ones men spent so much time with but never talked about—except to each other. Still, Andrew ought to know his own aunt. She moved toward them. “Aunt— Aunt Sophronia?”

“Please call me Aunt Sophie.” Her voice was sweet and mellow. “I understand the
ton
has been a little difficult for you.” She smiled. “But don’t worry. I have been through the whole thing. It’s not as difficult as it looks.”

“It’s not that it’s so difficult,” Bridget found herself saying. “It’s that it doesn’t make any sense.”

Oh dear, now she’d insulted Andrew’s aunt. But to her surprise the stranger laughed, a delightful sound, like the tinkling of many little bells.

“My dear Bridget,” she said cheerfully. “That is precisely your problem. You mustn’t expect
sense.
Not at all. You learn the whole thing, all by rote. And then you do it,
without
thinking.”

Bridget shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense either.”

Aunt Sophie laughed merrily and Andrew laughed with her. For a moment Bridget felt a surge of irritation at both of them. These
tonnish
people had some peculiar ways of looking at life.

She moved closer. She could at least be polite to Andrew’s relative. “I’m glad to meet you, Aunt Sophie. And I appreciate your coming to help me. I’ll try to be a good learner.”

Andrew smiled at her, giving her that warm feeling inside, the feeling that made her glad he was her husband. “I know you’ll do your best, my dear,” he said. And she wanted to—she wanted to please him.

Aunt Sophie looked at Andrew. “And now if I may—”

“Aunt Sophie?” Bridget asked. She knew Andrew’s aunt was probably tired from her trip, but she really needed to know.

“Yes, Bridget?”

“Do you know how to embroider?”

“Of course,” she said, sending Andrew a look of amazement. “Do you want me to help you with yours?”

“Yes,” Bridget replied with relief. “And—And do you like horses?”

“I love them,” Aunt Sophie said brightly, waving a beringed hand, “especially when they’re racing! It’s so terribly exciting.”

“Oh, how marvelous,” Bridget cried. “I think we shall deal well together.”

“I think so, too,” Aunt Sophie said with a smile. “Yes, I think so, too.”

* * * *

By the next afternoon when the two sat together over Bridget’s stitching, they had already become great friends. They had spent an enjoyable morning discussing gowns and bonnets, dinner parties and dances. With much laughter and fun, Aunt Sophie had instructed Bridget in the intricacies of the waltz. But when, after some hilarious attempts, she declared her pupil competent to accept any partner, Bridget had frowned and said, “I don’t know that I want just
any
partner. It seems an improper sort of dance.”

Aunt Sophie grinned. “No more improper than riding through London’s streets in leather breeches.”

Bridget felt the color rising in her cheeks. “How—How did you know?”

“Mrs. Purvey,” Aunt Sophie said. “She has glimpsed you on the stairs more than once. But she didn’t feel it her place to tell Andrew about it.” Aunt Sophie frowned a little, pulling at a stitch. “She’s worried about you, Bridget. It seems that your morning rides are becoming common knowledge. Servants talk, too, you know.”

Bridget sighed. “I don’t believe I’ll ever get the knack of this
tonnish
business. There’s so much to learn.” She pushed at a straggling wisp of hair. “Tell me, Aunt Sophie, what harm does it do for me to ride? No one is about at that hour. The park is quite empty.”

Aunt Sophie put down her stitching. “You’re right, my dear, your riding harms no one. But the
ton
feels it has the right to control its members.” She sighed even louder and began twisting her wedding ring. “And if you go against its wishes, you will be sorry. I know.”

The last words were spoken with such sadness that Bridget leaned forward impulsively. “Aunt Sophie, what happened to you?”

Aunt Sophie laughed, a sound of great melancholy. “What always happens, I suppose. I loved a man, a man of the wrong class.” She sighed. “And my family would not hear of my marrying him. So I ran away to Gretna Green and married him anyway. There was a tremendous scandal. I was cut by everyone—for a long time.” She straightened. “He has been dead some years now.”

“Oh Aunt Sophie, I’m so sorry. It was kind of you to come back to the city to help me.”

“It was all long ago,” Aunt Sophie said, stitching industriously and not looking up. “The
ton
has long since had other tattle to whisper about.”

“Still—”

Purvey appeared in the doorway. “Lady Linden, milady, and her daughter.”

Bridget smiled. “Tell them I’m not—”

“And the Duke of Wellington.”

“Oh no! She turned to Aunt Sophie. “Now what shall I do?”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to receive all our callers or none,” Aunt Sophie said with a wicked smile.

Bridget sighed. “Show our guests in.” She couldn’t turn the duke away. That would be too rude.

“Imagine.” Lady Linden began speaking even before she was entirely through the door. “Imagine who we met just outside!”

She came sweeping in wearing a gown of carnelian satin adorned with row upon row of stiff ruching. After her came the daughter, in her usual drab grayish green, her person and her gown entirely devoid of ornamentation. And immediately behind the two of them strode the duke, his military bearing in great contrast to their feminine persons.

“Good day,” the duke said. “I hope I won’t interfere with your other guests.” The twinkle in his eye told Bridget that he was aware of the predicament his arrival had caused her.

“Indeed not,” she said. “Do sit down.”

The duke nodded, but before he seated himself, he bowed before Aunt Sophie, raising her hand to his lips. “Sophronia. I heard you were in town. You’re looking lovely as ever.”