His Lordship's Filly (8 page)

Andrew’s smile grew larger and more self-important. “Yes, but I suppose the lad Jerry wasn’t much of a rider. At any rate, we’ll see. I’ve never known a horse I couldn’t ride.”

Bridget swallowed her smile. Let him believe what he wanted to believe. He would anyway, no matter what she might say. But on Waterloo’s back—or more accurately, flying off it—he would soon discover she was right.

In the meantime, she said, “Of course not. I know you’re an excellent rider. By the way, I was thinking of putting Ned in charge of Waterloo. Making the boy his personal groom. What do you think of my doing that?”

Andrew shrugged, his expression nonchalant. “Whatever you decide, Bridget. The stallion is yours.”

That was one good thing.
He didn’t mean to interfere with Waterloo. “Fine,” she said, giving him a grateful smile, “then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

“Good.” Andrew picked up his book again, and with a smothered sigh, she picked up her own. The evening stretched on before her, long and somehow lonely.

* * * *

When the clock struck ten, Andrew shut his book and turned to Bridget. “Are you tired, my dear?”

“A little.”

It was the first time he’d called her by a term of endearment, and somewhat to his surprise, he found it falling naturally from his lips. He decided to be direct. “Then I suggest you go on up and ring for Peggy. She can help you get ready for bed.” He looked down at his book again. “And I’ll be up a little later.”

“Fine,” Bridget said, getting to her feet. “That’s what I’ll do then.”

Strange, Andrew thought, that he should find the situation rather embarrassing. She was the one without experience, not he. But he had not been accustomed to thinking of her as a female; indeed, he’d schooled himself
not
to think of her in that way. So this wrenching around of his perceptions might take some time. Still, he had always thought her beautiful, though no more beautiful in her new gown than she’d been in her leather breeches. The thought of those breeches sent the blood rushing to his face. He had wanted her then, too, though he’d denied it to himself. Well, now he didn’t need to deny it.

He swallowed hastily, bringing his gaze back to her face. “That is, I’ll be up if you don’t mind.” Some fine way to begin a marriage! He should simply have taken it for granted that she would expect him to come to her.

But then everything about this marriage was bewildering. He had never expected to win a wife in a horse race—actually, a wife
and
a stallion. And he had really no idea how to go about helping Bridget fit into what he was now perceiving was really a very constricted society.

Their chance meeting with the Lindens, though Bridget had handled it well, had made him aware, quite forcefully aware, that the
ton
would find his marriage subject for gossip and innuendo. And Bridget a topic of rare amusement.

He sighed. He didn’t want her to be hurt, but he didn’t quite know how to protect her. There were too many people like the Lindens out there, ready to talk about anyone, ready to make Bridget a laughingstock for things she didn’t even understand.

She had reached the door and turned. The smile she sent him was shy, but definitely inviting. “I’ll be waiting then, Andrew.”

Smiling back, he watched her go, his beautiful young wife on her way to their wedding chamber. She was a wild thing, his Bridget, free and independent. Like the filly Sable, she wanted her own way, to follow her own path. With patience and loving care he had tamed Sable. But Bridget? He didn’t know.

Chapter Nine

Early the next morning, in the big silk-draped bed, Bridget stirred, sighed briefly, and reached a hand out to the space beside her. But the space, though still warm, was empty. She stretched and opened her eyes. Andrew’s getting up must have brought her from the depths of satisfying sleep. She looked toward the door to his room, but it was closed tight. Probably he had gone softly out, not wanting to wake her.

She stretched luxuriantly and smiled. The rising sun coming through the bed curtains set the golden coverlet to gleaming much like the precious metal itself. The whole chamber shimmered in a warm golden sheen, but nothing could be warmer, more golden, than the wonderful glowing feelings she had experienced in this very bed last night—
in
Andrew’s arms.

She raised herself on one elbow. There on the floor lay her new blue nightdress, the one embroidered in dainty white roses. Probably she should get out of bed and pick it up. But she slid back under the warm covers, smiling. The nightdress would still be there later. She was a lady now, and ladies could sleep late if they chose.

She turned on her side toward the place where Andrew had lain. The pillow still held the indentation of his head, and she fancied she could still smell the faint elusive masculine scent that was all his.

She laughed softly. At first last night Andrew had seemed embarrassed. That was odd because she knew for certain that she was not the only woman he’d bedded. That first day he’d come out to the stables, that day she’d heard the boys telling tales about him—one of the best men in the
ton,
they said, good with horses, and with beautiful young ladies fluttering about him like moths to a flame, and him burning them all.

She smiled to herself. If those young ladies had known the Andrew she’d known last night, they would have thrown themselves even more willingly into the fire. She sighed, her smile slowly disappearing. She liked Andrew, she liked being his wife. And what they’d done last night—well, Papa had been quite right. She liked that, too, she liked it quite a lot.

But still, it didn’t seem right—Papa tricking Andrew about the wager. She’d tried to tell him she was sorry about it, but he’d hushed her with a kiss—that was after her nightdress hit the floor—and said to never mind, he was sure they’d deal quite well together. And then he’d shown her
how
they would deal.

Their lovemaking was much better, actually, than the way the horses did it. Not nearly as quick or as violent. And for the first time in her life she felt sorry for a horse—who couldn’t possibly know those wonderful, golden, shimmering waves of warmth that spread over her entire body.

Finally she pushed back the silken covers. It was late to be lying abed—late for her, anyway. There were things she meant to do today: to speak to Ned about caring for Waterloo, to go for her long-awaited ride on the stallion, to send Peggy for yard-good samples so they could begin to think about redecorating the room. And she hoped that she and Andrew could ride out to see Papa to tell him the stables were safe. And he, too.

She washed and dressed, not even thinking till she was almost finished that she should have rung the bell for Peggy. Well, time enough to start being a lady tomorrow. She ran the brush through her hair and went downstairs.

The breakfast room was empty except for the patiently waiting footman. “His Lordship?” she asked. “Has he gone out?”

The footman nodded. “Yes, my Lady, but I heard him tell Mr. Purvey he’d be back directly.”

“Thank you.” Bridget picked up a plate and surveyed the sideboard. She really must ask Andrew the reason for so much food.

* * * *

At that moment Andrew was outside White’s, engaged in conversation with Peter, who had run into him as they approached the club’s sacred precincts. “My word,” Peter exclaimed, showing his teeth in a devilish grin. “If it isn’t the man all London’s talking about! Shall we go in and have a glass together?”

“Yes,” Andrew said. “From the sound of things, I shall need it.”

Peter’s grin grew even bigger. “You mean you aren’t finding married life to your liking?”

Thinking of last night, Andrew experienced a surge of warmth. “Married life is—so far at least—quite to my liking. This is something else.”

“How do you suppose the news got about so quickly?” Peter asked as they found a table. “Why, six or eight people must have informed me already this morning.”

Andrew dropped into a chair, glowering. “It’s those abominable Lindens! Too bad they can’t be shrunk and put on display at Farrington’s Folly like Lady Elizabeth’s shrunken heads.”

“A charming idea,” Peter agreed, summoning a waiter. “But one I’m afraid will never achieve the Lindens’ assent. Besides, can you imagine the monumental task of shrinking Lady Linden?” He paused to order, remaining silent till the waiter left. Then he said, “I take it you ran into the messengers of scandal sometime yesterday.”

Andrew nodded. “Yes, I did. On Bond Street. And that miserable slip of a daughter shrilled out that Bridget was Durabian’s daughter. All heads turned, you can believe, to see what all the yapping was about.”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t see how you could expect to keep it a secret. Either your marriage or Bridget’s parentage.” He grinned. “I mean, Bridget’s no ordinary wife. She won’t be a sit-at-home.”

“Don’t I know it,” Andrew agreed with a half groan. “But how can I take her out in company? Why, yesterday she was outraged to find that we use different spoons for the soup, said it was a waste.”

He found himself growing red and lowered his voice. “And do you know what else she told me?”

Peter looked agreeably curious. “No, what?”

Andrew leaned closer. “That she couldn’t understand why wealthy people are so foolish.”

Peter grinned. “We are, I suppose, at least to her, but did she mention specifics?”

Andrew nodded. “Oh, yes, she said it was a waste for married people to sleep apart—a waste of space, of beds, and of—” He paused, unaccountably embarrassed. “And of warm bodies.”

Peter’s guffaw echoed through the dining room, causing several grizzled heads to turn questioningly in their direction. He smiled at them. “That’s Bridget,” he said, lowering his voice. “You’ve got quite a filly there, Andrew, my boy. Are you going to be able to tame her?”

Remembering last night, Andrew smiled. “There’s never been a filly I couldn’t tame. I don’t expect Bridget to be any different.”
He hesitated. “But don’t you dare tell her I said so!”

* * * *

Bridget enjoyed the ride out to the stables. Fortunately Andrew had assumed she’d ride the stallion and he the filly, so there was no problem there. The day was sunny, Andrew was a pleasant companion, and riding Waterloo was, as always, exhilarating.

But the new riding habit was a nuisance, always tangling about her legs in the most infuriating fashion. It must have been men who put women in skirts, she thought with some annoyance. No one else could have come up with such a cumbersome way of dressing.

The sidesaddle, too, though a good one and as comfortable as such a saddle could be, was aggravatingly constricting. Surely no man had ever attempted to ride in such a ridiculous seat.

But she had not suggested to Andrew that she wear her breeches and ride astride. She had a strong feeling that he would not find such attire appropriate, and since she didn’t wish to directly go against his wishes, it would be better if she didn’t know what those wishes were.

She would save her breeches for when she was alone. She and Ned had had quite a satisfactory talk. He had agreed—quite happily—to serve as the stallion’s personal groom and to show her about the city.

As they neared the stables, she felt an unaccountable shyness. What should she say to Papa today? Should she tell him that she knew about his debts and that Andrew had paid them for him? She frowned. Papa was such a proud man. It must embarrass him terribly to be beholden to his daughter’s husband. Maybe she should just be quiet about it and preserve his pride.

As they rode into the yard, Papa came out of the tack room. “Papa!” she called, pulling up the stallion so sharply that he tossed his head and snorted, throwing her an injured look over his shoulder.

“Sorry, boy,” she said, stroking his smooth neck. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

She managed to slide down from the horse before Andrew could get to her. In spite of last night, she didn’t appreciate needing a mans’s help, help she wouldn’t need at all if she hadn’t been forced to wear these stupid female clothes.

She straightened the skirt, took a step toward Papa, caught a toe in her hem, and catapulted right into Andrew’s arms. He caught her easily and set her back on her feet.

“Careful, love,” he said softly, smiling down at her. For a moment she remembered the night before and her knees went all wobbly, so wobbly she had to cling to his arms for support.

But the moment passed and she turned. “Papa, how are you?”

A frown crossed his face and was instantly gone. “And how should I be?” he asked, his voice hearty. “I’m as well as ever I’ve been. And things here are fine,” he went on. “We’ve a new foal in the south paddock. Born yester eve, it was. A pretty little thing.”

So he wasn’t going to say anything about his debts.

He looked her over carefully. “Ye’re looking quite the lady, Bridget. 'Tis pleased I am to be seeing ye looking so well.”

She felt that shyness again and murmured, “Thank you, Papa.”

He grinned at her. “Well, girl, aren’t ye going to have a look at the new foal? I swear, that mare kept looking round the whole of the time. Like as if she wondered why ye weren’t there.”

“Of course, Papa. I’ll go right now.” She lifted the heavy skirt and set off across the grass. Men were so comical. If Papa wanted to talk to Andrew alone, maybe to thank him for paying his
IOUs, why didn’t he just say he wanted to talk to him? Why go through all this silliness and pretending? But she would like to see the foal. Baby horses were always beautiful.

* * * *

Andrew watched as Bridget, clutching the unaccustomed weight of her habit skirt, made her way toward the paddock. For a moment he wished her back in her breeches again. He was going to miss those pants.

“Well now, milord,” Durabian said, clearing his throat and pulling his pipe from one pocket and his tobacco pouch from the other. “Yer factor come here yesterday and he told me what ye done. It weren’t necessary, milord. That is, I was ready to go to prison.” He swallowed, tamping tobacco into the bowl of the pipe. “Bridget and her horse was safe with ye. That were me only concern.” He reddened. “I never meant that ye should—”