Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (4 page)

Beyond the meticulously groomed boxwood garden, an immense central yard yawned before her. A vast expanse of very clean, and very new looking stables and fenced pasture beckoned beyond. What Manning’s lacked in comparison to the prime location of famed Tattersall’s it more than made up for in sheer size. It rested grandly on the outskirts of London, where wilderness met the sprawl of the city. But it was the gleaming, prime horseflesh one spied in every direction that explained its attraction to the masculine fast set.

Long shadows fell from the structures, revealing the lateness of the day, quickening Elizabeth’s steps. Ducking past a dozen gentlemen flocking several pens, she negotiated the maze of stables toward a door where one of the men suggested she might find Mr. Manning.

She turned and knocked once with the heel of her
foot and then wheeled about to enter without waiting for an answer. She refused to notice the colossal amount of paperwork before him.

“I’m sorry to inform that it’s time to face the trial of my cooking again, Mr. Manning.” She plopped the tray in front of him, obliterating the ledgers and papers from his view.

He had not moved a muscle. Finally, his unusual pale green eyes peered up at her, and for the barest hint of a moment she was certain she spied something so raw and primal in them that she took a step back before she recollected herself and lifted her chin. “Well?” she asked, a little deflated.

“Well what, madam?”

“Look, it’s half past five o’clock. Don’t play the sullen spoilsport. I’ve made what you asked. It’s your job to eat it.”

“The sullen—” He stopped, then glanced at the tray for a long moment before moving it to one side of his desk. “I asked for the meals to be left in my study.”

“Mr. Manning,” she said impatiently. “You are not going about this properly. Men have only to do three things in life: fight or work, in your case, and then eat, and sleep.”

“Really? And what are women to do?” he drawled.

“Well, for most females, we must cook, eat, and sleep.”

“You’ve forgotten one important element, madam.”

“Now Mr. Manning, do stop avoiding the task at hand.”

“You neglected to add the need to
rut
, Mrs. Ashburton.”

She sighed dramatically. “If you think to disarm me with such talk, I should warn you that there is precious little you can say that will surprise me. In fact, I could probably tell you a thing or three after a lifetime spent surrounded by—” She stopped herself abruptly. What on earth was she thinking?

“I’m all ears, Mrs. Ashburton,” he said, his voice as lazy as his eyes were not. “Surrounded by men, were you? No wonder those officers appeared to know you.”

She recollected her mission. “Botheration. Eat the food I prepared, you stubborn mule.”

“Hmmm. All those years surrounded by infantry and cavalry and you’ve never heard the old proverb about leading a horse to water and trying to make him—”

“Drink?” she interrupted, with impatience.

“No”—he smiled with a devilish grin—“
jump
.”

She stepped to the edge of his desk and grabbed the nut bread, poking it under his nose. “Jump over this. I dare you.”

He had to give her credit. She was one of the few—no, the
only
woman—who had the nerve to talk to him thusly…Most were afraid of him, or the reverse: interested only in all manner of sexual perversion. He suddenly grinned, unused to the feeling of his mouth stretching into a smile.

At that moment she shoved the intoxicating bread into his mouth. He could not help but to chew convulsively and swallow. It took a hill of determination not to stuff the rest of the blasted, heaven-made delicacy down his gullet. “A little dry, don’t you think?” A tinge of hoarseness tickled his voice.

“It’s perfect, you oaf.”

“Such coarseness, Mrs. Ashburton. And such undignified behavior. Careful, you—yes, Tommy?”

A young boy poked his head inside the cramped office. “It’s Gray Lady. Mr. Lefroy bade me fetch you. She’s a-pacing and not droppin’ as fast as he’d like.”

“Idiot,” he spewed as he knocked back his chair to stand. “I was to be alerted at first sign.” He turned and poked her in the chest. “This is your fault. That bloody food of yours is addling my men’s brains. And by the by, Mrs. Ashburton, since you’re so damned fond of the army, may I remind you that an order is an order? Leave those sodding trays of yours in the study. And find me a new cook before the end of the week, or else my men will eat what
I
prepare.” He stalked out and the boy stared at her with huge gray eyes, obviously amazed at her ability to withstand the force of his employer’s hurricanelike wrath.

“Ma’am? Don’t worry about the master. Mr. Lefroy slips him apples and carrots, he does,” the boy whispered.

“Perhaps if he keeps eating such fare, he’ll grow a tail and hooves and you can parade him around the yard and sell him to the highest bidder.”

The boy grinned. Before darting away, he added, “Can I takes the bread, mum? Might be the last I gets, the way things be a-lookin’.”

She was being ridiculous, she knew. Lord knew the man ate. Why, he was the height of one of those legendary Spartan warriors and just as ruthless. Still…there were those gaunt cheeks of his, and not a spare ounce of fat on him. Why, his aristocratic half brother appeared much more hale and hearty.

She gave the boy the bread, covered the tray, and departed with it in hand. But, curiosity got the better of her. A small group of men were gathered before a huge stall at the back of the stables. Eliza set the food aside and joined them.

A mare paced within, but halted momentarily at Eliza’s approach, and whickered. The mare snuffled the straw strewn about the confines of the enclosure and resumed her pacing.

“Is loikes I tolds you. She be awaiting him, she is,” an older stableman said quietly to a younger from the edge of the stall.

Elizabeth peered past the jumble of men, all of whom smiled warmly upon her approach, and saw Mr. Manning in the stall, apparently oblivious to all of them as he intently watched every movement of the small gray mare.

“Shhh, Jimmy,” the older man warned. “Watch now.”

Mr. Manning eased forward, talking to the mare in some sort of incomprehensible language. The mare stretched out her supple, arched neck and blew softly into his empty outstretched hand. Slowly he traced the muscles of her neck with his hands. Starting at the poll, his wide palms stroked past her strong neck to the valley of her chest. Sweeping past her strong, sloping shoulders, he slowed. His work-scarred, beautiful hands carefully noted the movements of her flanks, and the mare tossed her head once and turned sharply to rest her muzzle on the crook of his arm. “Yes, Lady,” he whispered with encouragement. He suddenly turned toward the gawking stable hands as if he had forgotten they were all there. “Clear ’em out
of here,” he said, his hard eyes telling Lefroy what his voice did not.

Mr. Lefroy gathered the man, “Come on, lads, you know the master’s rules. The mares need their privacy.” While the men and boys grumbled as they dispersed, the stable master turned to Elizabeth and winked. “You can stay if you’re quiet-like.”

She edged away to sit on a nearby stool. She could see everything through the cracks of the wooden stall beams.

Caught in the beauty of the moment, Elizabeth watched man and animal lost in the timeless moment of creation. Rowland Manning stroked the protruding flanks of the mare and alternated between calming her and encouraging her. Each appeared to rely on the other, the man’s quiet, strong patience rewarded by the mare’s trust and desire to please. It would be obvious to anyone who watched them in this
pas de deux
of stalwart guardian, willing to bear the weight of danger, and the creature who depended on him. She would not have guessed him capable of such gentleness.

And then suddenly, with the instinct of an animal used to outrunning prey in the wild, the mare quickly dropped her foal; Mr. Manning taking care to ease the newborn onto the straw bed. What she was witnessing was about as far from the norm as possible. Most horses foaled in the dead of night, in the farthest corner from every other living thing, using the instincts with which they were gifted to avoid predators.

At the basest level, horses fretted with man. And yet, everything in front of her now spoke the opposite.

Sitting motionless so as not to startle either of them, Elizabeth watched as Mr. Manning efficiently tended the mare and foal. He rubbed down the animals and peered at the water bucket, and all the while he calmed in soothing, nearly rhythmic tones.

A ray of late afternoon sun poured onto the edge of Elizabeth’s gown, and she looked away for a moment. When she trained her eyes back to the crack between the wooden beams, he was staring at her. Oh no, not another lecture…just when she was starting to find him—

“Get fresh water,” he ordered quietly without a false “please” or “thank you.”

Elizabeth merely nodded and obeyed.

Jimmy, the stable boy, watched her in awe as she filled a bucket from the large water trough outside the stable. “The master never let anyone but hisself and Mr. Lefroy get Gray Lady’s food or water.”

Well…progress, finally. It was just too bad she would not stay long enough to find out when he might take food or water from her hand too.

Little did Elizabeth Ashburton know that the next day would bring progress on that front. With an equal measure of disaster.

T
he next afternoon, the broad, red visage of Lieutenant Tremont examined Rowland lazily from across the fat man’s neat desk. “It will take a lot longer than a fortnight to reconfigure the cavalry’s needs, Mr. Manning. Why are you bothering us about this again?”

He wanted to slam his fist down the lazy man’s gullet. “Uh, perhaps because until last month, I was to deliver eight hundred twenty battle-ready mounts, according to this contract.” Rowland waived the document out of the other man’s reach. You couldn’t trust the bloody army with a gawdamned thing.

“Yes, well, until last month, we had a war now, didn’t we? You
can
read, man, can’t you?” The hint of a sneer slid across the other man’s thin lips. “Oh, perhaps not.”

Funny how much more polite the lieutenant had been when he was desperate for horses four months ago, at the precise moment Wellington was in danger of getting his arse kicked back to Portugal.

The man must have sensed Rowland’s murderous rage, and he straightened in his chair. “Now see here, Manning, it’s as I told you. We’ll probably take the
horses. As soon as Wellington and Pymm finish their work here, they’re for Vienna.”

“I know where the bloody peace talks are.” Rowland withheld adding, “you idiot,” by the whisker of patience he still possessed.

“Look, we’re still waiting for accurate numbers of troops and stock after that last drive to Bayonne. Then we’ll know how many replacements we’ll request. General Pymm has indicated he wants at least two divisions as a show of strength in Paris and Vienna.”

“Yes, well while Pymm and Wellington kick up their heels and accept their bloody titles and laurels for packing off that short, balding frog to Elba, I’m feeding and housing in the country an extra eight hundred and twenty heavy horses suited to face cannon at dawn, not Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.” Rowland shot up from his chair and leaned over the stupid lieutenant’s desk to press the point. “You can add another two hundred fifty pounds a day for their upkeep until you take them off my hands. And may I remind you that I was promised full payment four bloody weeks ago.”

The man cleared his throat nervously and smoothed his thin moustache, a slight tremble in his hand betraying his fright. “Yes, well, we’ll have to see about that, Manning. Now then, you will have to excuse me. I have to—”

Rowland waved his hand. “Yes, let me guess. Being fitted for ballroom frocks? Got an invitation to Prinny’s little tea party for Pymm at Carlton House, did you?”

The portly lieutenant called out to his two assis
tants in the hall, who immediately came to his aid.

“At least I won’t have to worry that we’ll be rubbing shoulders with the likes of you, Manning. Money and power such as yours can’t buy everything. Only Quality have been invited to witness Pymm’s elevation to duke.” The man’s wattle shook in righteous, if not ill-advised anger. “Can’t imagine what the Earl of Wallace was thinking when he acknowledged you as his half brother. But you can never erase being born on the wrong side of the blanket now, can you?” He turned to his aides. “Who do you think his mother was, men? Do you wager she was a whore or a dairy maid?”

It took precisely thirty seconds for the lieutenant to regret his folly. In that time Rowland rendered inert both weak-kneed assistants with several well-placed blows. But he had not gained his footing in the world to be thrown in the garrison for murdering a brainless lieutenant. Instead, Rowland leaned over the man’s quivering mass of glistening porcine skin and bones still sitting in his chair unharmed. “I’ll thank you to remember my gift when I see you next,” he whispered.

“Gift?” the man sputtered, spittle flying in nervousness.

“The gift of not drawing and quartering you with eight hundred and twenty unpaid for horses. I shall return in three days, and if you do not have the blunt owed to me at that time? Well, I shall tell Pymm or Wellington the name of the incompetent lieutenant
of Quality
who is refusing to settle the accounts of the person who supplied a bloody cavalcade of horses to them in Spain.
Comprende, amigo
?”

He was doing it on purpose, she was sure of it. Elizabeth looked down at the untouched breakfast tray—the one she had carted to his small office in the stable this morning—despite his instructions to the contrary. She sighed. If she had had fewer morals she might have enjoyed returning the same boiled eggs and bread to Mr. Manning’s desk until they turned green with mold.

Tray in hand, she grumbled in irritation and headed across the immaculate yards toward the main buildings. Something itched the side of her wrist and she looked down to see the edge of the letter she had found this morning in the deep pocket of one of the two gowns Sarah had packed in the valise. Her friend had taken care to hide it well, stitching the pocket closed. It had evaded Mr. Manning’s prying eyes and fingers.

Oh, she was avoiding it. Looking for every excuse to put off what she should have done the minute she’d found it.

Throughout the day, the letter had burned a hole in her pocket. But like a child unwilling to face unpleasantness, she had used a mountain of tasks to avoid scanning the words, which were sure to scald her mind, and allow even more ill-ease to dog her every waking thought.

But her departure was imminent. She had so little to fear, really. She would interview three cooks tomorrow, and Sarah was sure to come or to send word about a plan to leave London by then. And even if no elaborate plan was hatched, as soon as Sarah arrived, they could simply walk past Mr. Manning’s pastures
and keep walking until…well, until they found a remote village where Elizabeth could find work as a cook or a maid. And the way things had unfolded, she could even take on the job of watering and feeding horses, for goodness sakes.

Alas, she could no longer ignore Pymm’s letter. It wasn’t like her to be so hen-hearted. In a rush she darted behind an oak, put down the tray, and crushed the blood-red seal.

Her breath caught at the first words.

Bile rose in the back of Elizabeth’s throat, and the old panic that had led to her ill-planned escape through Spain two years ago nearly overwhelmed her. And then she could not stop it. She rushed around the rough bark of the old oak tree and allowed the wave of nausea to convulse through her.

It was worse than she remembered. She fought against the crippling effect of despair, and forced herself to stand straight. She tried to remember the advice of her father. This would pass. Everything always did with time. A decade from now she would look back on these years and find black humor in the horror of it. But her father’s worldly wise counsel failed to soothe her.

She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. All her father’s acts of valor would be forgotten, and her reputation would crumble with just one false, salacious word from Pymm, a man all of England now revered.

But she was not without power. Pymm would not
dare utter a syllable against a lady he hoped to make his duchess while she remained in hiding. It was not his way. Her tormenter would only expose her to censure if he found her, and was unsuccessful in his efforts to overcome her resistance to his proposal. In darker moments she wondered if he would have the audacity to bind her bones and haul her to Scotland if she protested. And if she dared defy him before the eyes of the rest of the world? He would not stop at a simple assassination of character. His was the word of a man second to the Duke of Wellington, versus the word of the daughter of an army captain. She had no proof against him.

Oh, it was all so hopeless
. Her empty stomach roiled again. She had prayed time and absence would put an end to Pymm’s unnatural obsession. But her refusal and disappearance only appeared to have augmented it. She would never master the ever-changing rules of his ridiculous fixation.

She loathed the idea of buckling under the pressure and marrying him. She didn’t think she could do it. And she was older now, and trying desperately to overcome her great defect of character—that of action before a thorough reflection on the matter at hand. But oh, how her feet itched to run again. Far, far away.

Her situation was entirely ironic, for she had no natural talent for clandestine affairs. Her father had always said she was just like her mother, far too open, and incapable of carrying off deceit with any degree of success. She was certain Rowland Manning would heartily agree with him.

Truly, if she were to follow her first inclination,
even before running away again, she’d inform Pymm that she would rather marry his lily-livered bulldog than him.

Yes, she’d very much enjoy telling him that he could jolly well go ahead and brand her father and her traitors to the crown and imprison her in the Tower if he liked. But, well…she didn’t fancy dying quite yet.

“What’s got that fair face lookin’ like the end o’ the world is at hand?” Mr. Lefroy’s kindly face peered around the tree.

She jumped. “Oh, Mr. Lefroy. I’m sorry. It’s nothing, really.”

The older man studied her for a moment. “You looks like you’ve gots cobwebs growin’ ’tween yer ears, lovey. You wants to join old Lefroy? Does you loikes a little gallop now and again?”

She swallowed against the remembrance of the moments she’d spent in Cornwall racing the downs and vales with the widows in the club who enjoyed a little danger. “More than anything,” she avowed.

“Leave the tray. You can retrieve it later.” He steered her toward the stables. “Nofin’ loikes a good gallop to clear away the dismals. Vespers loikes to run wiv a partner. Let’s see if’n you can keep up.” He smiled wide, showing the small gap between his teeth.

“Vespers?”

“Eventide Vespers,” he clarified with obvious pride. “The master’s prize racer. She’s to have a go at Ascot.”

He mounted her in a sidesaddle despite her grumbling. At least he’d trusted her and let her pick a powerful chestnut gelding with an intelligent eye if not the deep chest of the warhorses she had known.

“She’s a beauty,” Elizabeth murmured as she looked longingly toward the tall, dark bay mare with the star in the center of her fine head.

“Aye, Vespers is that,” Mr. Lefroy said as he adjusted his stirrups. “Unless she sees the whip, o’ course.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but she don’t care for the notion of a spankin’.”

“She’s smart then, too,” Elizabeth said, a smile finally curling her lips.

Mr. Lefroy’s eyes popped out.

“What?” she asked.

He blushed furiously. “You sure are a pretty thing when’s you smile, ma’am. You’s got dinkles.”

She grinned. “Dinkles?”

“Dents in yer cheeks wots drive menfolk mad. Lucky for you I’m too old for yer.”

They rode out past the paddocks and rings, past the stand of trees near the northeastern corner, until they came to a small lake. An irregular racecourse was laid out around the perimeter. She studied the layout for a few moments, noting the graduated rises and falls while the two horses jigged in anticipation.

She turned the full force of a smile on Mr. Lefroy. “Loser peels the dinner potatoes?”

He sputtered, and she was off. Oh, the feel of the wind rushing against her face. How she had missed this. The gelding was a real goer. A few moments later, she dared to glance behind her, only to see Mr. Lefroy holding back the mare. What on earth was he thinking?