Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (11 page)

“I doubt that,” he said. “But I meant, do you wish you could keep a stable in London?”

“Ordinarily I would say no, since I think it’s better not to ride at all if you have to keep to a sedate pace and can’t gallop freely. However, this short ride has demonstrated to me how much I miss being atop a horse, and now I’m wondering if perhaps a little something is not better than nothing at all. You see,” she said with unexpected earnestness, “I’ve always thought the reverse.”

“A Spartan, Catherine?”

She examined him carefully to see if he was teasing her, for she felt certain he must be, but nothing in his gaze indicated amusement. Reassured, she said, “No, not really. I have just found that it is far easier to want nothing than to pine for everything.”

“And what about the things you can’t live without?” He looked at her curiously and waited for her answer.

“Hmm,” she murmured consideringly, “I very much doubt that there is anything that I can’t live without. Except, perhaps, gooseberry pie. But Cook bakes one for me every Sunday, so I don’t have to pine for that.”

“Nor shall you pine for a horse,” he declared her regally. “I shall leave word with my groom that my stables are at your disposal. Please make use of Daisy whenever you like.”

Taken aback by his overwhelming generosity, she stuttered, “R-really, my lord, that…I, um, I am afraid that wouldn’t be proper.”

“Propriety be damned,” he said forcefully. “And if there is anything else you’re pining for, please let me know. Be assured I would help in any way I can.”

Catherine stared at him, trying to reconcile this kindness with the cruelties he had uttered about her not two days before. Disturbed, she reminded herself that he was a bored nobleman looking for some game to play. She was naught but a project to him, a project he only took on at the instigation of a friend.

To save herself from folly, she changed the subject. They’d talked enough about her for one morning. “Lord Deverill, I am going to begin to wonder at your reputation as a flirt if you continue in this solemn vein. Come, let’s talk of something lighter. Do tell me how you got involved with the Elgin Marbles. Some devil’s bargain you made, perhaps?”

He laughed. “Not at all. My late father was a crony of Elgin’s long before he went into diplomatic service in Greece. Elgin fell on hard times. He was in debt, as you know, and he lost his wife because his damned nose fell off—wretched business, that. I knew my father would have wanted me to help if I could. It wasn’t my idea to sell them to the British government, but I supported it and helped facilitate the transaction.”

“But the way he acquired them!” she point out emphatically. “How can one not disapprove? For a private citizen who was also a collector to use his position as special ambassador to the Levant is unconscionable. If he hadn’t been there as a representative of the British Crown, the Turks would never have given him permission to dismantle the Parthenon Frieze in the first place.”

At this charge, which was well founded and worthy of discussion, Deverill stared at her in amazement. “Remarkable,” he said.

His gaze was intense, and she immediately began to wonder what she had done wrong. Was there a ridiculous speck of dirt on her nose? Had she grown another head without noticing it? Discomforted by the intensity, she demanded that he tell her what was remarkable.

“That you know all that,” he explained. “Most of the ladies of my acquaintance know only where the modiste is on Bond Street.”

“I’m afraid I should get very lost indeed if I tried to find Bond Street, let alone the modiste,” she admitted.

“Don’t be absurd, Catherine, nobody except the coachmen know where Bond Street is,” he said, making her laugh again. “Come, explain to me how you are so knowledgeable in the news of the day.”

“It’s no great mystery, my lord. I simply make a practice of reading the dailies, which anyone can do. And I am quite a wretch about it, too,” she confessed, “perusing the paper in the breakfast parlor while the others in my family eat and discuss the modiste on Bond Street.”

“Ah, a bluestocking,” he said.

There was a teasing quality to his tone, not a critical one, and she didn’t feel the least bit offended or compelled to defend herself. “I prefer information citizen.”

He nodded slowly. “Let’s see about that. The corn laws.”

“Opposed,” she said.

“Lord Liverpool.”

“An undynamic prime minister. I am convinced I can do better.”

“Crop rotation.”

“An excellent idea and one that I’ve applied to my garden in Dorset. Viscount Townsend is a brilliant agriculturalist.”

“Remarkable,” he said again.

“Not really,” she dismissed lightly. “It’s expected that young ladies of my age and breeding know how to read. That’s why our parents employ governesses when we are young.”

“That is true,” he conceded, “but they very rarely retain information or form opinions on the matters.”

“Lord Deverill, I once again must express amazement at your reputation as an accomplished flirt,” Catherine said. “Do you subject all ladies to your low opinion of our sex or am I the exception?”

He turned in his saddle and examined her carefully with his unusual green eyes. “You are, my dear Miss Fellingham, quite the exception.”

Again he threw off her studied equilibrium with his words and deeds, proving that he was in fact the accomplished flirt he was reputed to be. “And what is your excuse?” she asked, grappling for a topic to keep the conversation going, anything so that he would stop looking at her like that.

“My excuse?”

“For being an informed citizen,” she explained. “You will own, I trust, that the male half of society is not quite famous for its knowledge of political matters. Once, during my misspent youth, I attempted to converse with a gentleman—I believe he was an earl—by asking what he thought of the Treaty of the Dardanelles and he replied that the Dardanelles were a lovely couple and he was delighted they had worked out their differences.”

Deverill laughed, as she hoped he would. “My excuse is very mundane. I’ve taken up my seat in the House of Lords.”

At this, Catherine looked at him in surprise, for never in all her rhapsodizing over the unrivaled Marquess of Deverill had her sister mentioned an interest in politics. Knowing of it made her think better of him than the loan of any number of sweetgoers ever could. “You are to be congratulated, my lord. I understand from my father that the benches are too hard for the successful completion of any legislative business.”

“Thank you,” Deverill said with the utmost sincerity, though his eyes gleamed in a way that Catherine found entirely disconcerting. “They say the secret to parliamentary greatness is a stiff upper lip but I think it’s a stiff upper back. If you can learn not to mind a creaky feeling between your shoulder blades, you can impose any number of protective tariffs.”

“So you were in favor of the corn laws, then?” she asked, her tone only slightly censorious, for she was enjoying herself too much to disapprove fully.

He flashed her a smile. “You would think so, wouldn’t you, given the deplorable role I played in the Elgin drama. But, in fact, I’m more liberal in my ideas than you would credit. As I said, I helped Lord Elgin out of a sense of obligation to my father, who, it should be noted, would have been appalled by my nay vote on the corn matter. He was a very good man, honest and fair with the tenants and generous and kind to the servants, but rather traditional in his beliefs. I fear my untraditional bent frequently frustrated him.”

Despite the implied friction between father and son, it was clear from his words that they had rubbed together well. “You still miss him very much,” she observed.

He shifted his grip on the reins to one hand, turning slightly in his seat, and it seemed to Catherine as if he was about to reach for her with his other. She braced for contact, fearful of how it would affect her and uncertain of what it could mean, but then he straightened his shoulders and looked directly ahead at the bridle path, which was quiet. Only a few other riders were out, mostly grooms taking horses out for some exercise.

“Perceptivity, my dear Fellingham,” he said softly, “is as rare among the
ton
as intelligent conversation. I imagine you learned that, as well, during your misspent youth.”

Catherine had learned nothing of the sort, for she rarely made comments that one could classify as perceptive, and she felt self-conscious now as she wondered if she had put off the marquess with such a personal remark. He had spoken matter-of-factly about his father, and yet she had introduced a note of sentiment. Embarrassed, she looked down at her fingers holding the reins and felt her enjoyment in the morning fade. What she had liked most was the ease of conversation between them, and determined to restore them to solid footing, rather than retreat into her silent shell, she tried to think of harmless subjects to introduce. It could not be that difficult, for Evelyn did it all the time and she made it seem effortless, as if all she had to do was smile for clever nothings to fall from her lips.

Finally, she settled on the weather. She knew, of course, that it was the most insipid topic possible and the last resort of bores, but that was why it was ideal. She needed to brush up on her light conversational skills if she was going to take this time around.

“It’s a beautiful day, is it not, my lord?” she asked.

He gave her a curious, sideways glance before agreeing. “Why, yes, Catherine, it is. The sky is a deep cerulean and the clouds look alarmingly like fluffy, white bunny rabbits. Do you think it will rain tomorrow?”

Grateful that he took her cue, she responded, “My predictive skills are sadly lacking, but I would venture to guess yes, based on the fact that this is England and it rains frequently here. What think you about the temperature? Shall it grow seasonably warm any day soon?”

“I should imagine it will grow unseasonably hot just in time for Lady Rivington’s ball,” he returned with a smile. “I can do this endlessly, my dear. I’ve been conversing with
débutantes
and dowagers for what seems like centuries, although in fact I know the period can only be measured in years, and I am capable of holding any number of extended conversations on the weather or the modiste or the fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens. I’m familiar with all the polite courtesies expected of me and I am happy to follow them if that’s what you’d prefer, but for my part, I’d much rather enjoy your company silently than partake in the insipidness that society would call lively conversation.”

This speech, which Catherine listened to with growing wonder, unsettled her greatly, for she felt certain that somewhere buried in his words was the highest compliment she had ever been paid. Fearful of her own susceptibility, she reminded herself that he was only following Lady Courtland’s orders.

Determined not to linger on the uneasy feelings he inspired—determined indeed to ignore them entirely—she looked at the marquess with a bold expression. “My lord, may we run?”

“Run, Catherine?”

She leaned into him as if revealing a great secret. “Gallop,” she said, her eyes focusing on the path ahead. “I know it’s not the thing, but it’s early and so few people are here to disapprove. I feel confident that if the park authorities should take us to task, your consequence will pull us through. Is that very wrong of me?”

His eyes glowed for a moment, and Catherine was almost frightened by the look he gave her
.
She began to worry that she had again said something very wrong. Perhaps one did not talk of a marquess’s consequence to a marquess. Her tone had been playful and she had meant no real harm. She was about to apologize when Deverill said, “I should like nothing better. Race you to the end of the path.”

Catherine pulled in her legs, tightened her grip on the reins and took off in a full gallop after Deverill, who already had a sizable lead, thanks to the advantage of his horse’s long legs. But Catherine was no novice at racing. She and Freddy used to ride hell for leather to the old barn every morning when they were children. She flattened herself against the horse’s mane and talked gently into Daisy’s ear. She had discovered early on that horses were much like people: They wanted only encouragement. “Come on, Daisy, we are so close. Thatta girl.”

But Catherine didn’t really care if she and Daisy won the race. All that mattered was that she was out here in Hyde Park on this beautiful morning under this deep cerulean sky littered with bunnylike clouds riding this chestnut mare at breakneck speed alongside Julian Haverford, Marquess of Deverill, one of the most sought-after peers of the realm. It might have been the happiest Miss Catherine Fellingham had ever been.

She arrived at the finish line a few seconds after Deverill. He, too, was out of breath—and smiling.

“Jolly good,” he said when he was no longer quite so winded. “I have never seen Daisy move so quickly. I must admit, at the onset, I meant to do the gallant and ease up a bit so that you would feel as though it were a close race. But that, my dear, was genuinely a close race. Indeed, I’ve never pushed Gale so hard in the city before.”

Flushing with pleasure at the compliment, she said, “I’m glad, my lord, that the season hasn’t made me too rusty. It feels as though it’s been years and years since I’ve ridden like that, but it has been only a few months.”