Waking Up With a Rake (6 page)

Could Lord Rhys be right? Was she lovelier than she knew?

“Oh, don’t be a ninny,” she chided herself. “The man was only being polite.”

Then she teased a lock of hair loose so it seemed as if she’d only just plopped the hat on her head. She’d been ready for her ride with Rhys Warrington since the clock chimed seven, but she didn’t want him to know it.

A soft rap sounded on her door.

“Come,” she called softly. Her lady’s maid, Babette, slipped into the room.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle Olivia. Your gentleman caller,
alors
! He is here.”

“Lord Rhys is early,” Olivia said, the strange flutter in her chest starting afresh. She strode toward the door determined not to show how the mere mention of the man sent her pulse racing.

“Oh, mademoiselle,” her maid said, raising a hand to halt Olivia’s progress, “if I may make to suggest…”

“What is it, Babette?”

“You see, my last mistress always said—and she had a way with the gentlemen,
bien
sur
—she always said a man’s sense of appreciation for a lady, it is improved by a teensy bit of a wait.”

“Oh, really?”

“
Oui
, really.”

“And who was your last mistress that I should take her advice about men?” Olivia’s mother had hired all their servants and considered Babette an excellent find since everyone knew French lady’s maids were the best sort. Babette was assigned as Olivia’s abigail without consulting her as soon as the Duke of Clarence began to show interest in her. “What was your previous employer’s name?”

One of Babette’s pale brows twitched. “
La
Belle
Perdu
.”

The
Beautiful
Lost
One
. Olivia had heard of the famous French courtesan. The mystery surrounding her was greatly enhanced by the fact that she always wore a half-mask. Even her many lovers claimed never to have seen her whole face. Her life and exploits were emblazoned across the tabloids her mother read, and occasionally the fashionable highflyer even caught a mention in her father’s
Times
.

La Belle Perdu had moved in the most rarified of circles, privy to the secrets of the high and mighty in both London and Paris. Her death was as spectacular as her life. She died in a desperate leap from the London Bridge into the murky water of the Thames rather than be arrested as a French spy.

“La Belle Perdu. A way with the gentlemen indeed,” Olivia said. “So you think she’d advise me to wait until eight o’clock to meet with Lord Rhys?”

“Oh,
non
.” Babette shook her head. “She would say a lady must make to wait until a quarter
after
the hour before she puts her oh-so-dainty foot on the stairs.”

“Well, my feet are not oh-so-dainty, and there’s no lady before my name,” Olivia said. “I feel like riding now, so now is when I’m going.”

She pushed past her servant, feeling a bit surer of herself. Olivia tried to push away her mother’s unending advice as well, but that critical voice was too deeply engrained in her head.

Don’t talk too much. Don’t move too quickly. If this man recommends you to His Royal Highness, you’ll be a princess. Act like one.

How should Olivia know how a princess behaved? She could only act like herself. If Lord Rhys didn’t like what he saw, he could look the other way.

When she rounded the bend in the grand staircase, he came into view, pacing with his hat in his hands in the marble foyer. His garrick caped over his shoulders. If Olivia half-closed her eyes, it seemed the dark coat draped about him like leathery wings, trailing as he paced. He looked even more delicious—and dangerous—than he had yesterday in the parlor, but now a frown marred his brow, and his mouth was set in a tight line.

What
vexes
him
so?

She took another few steps and he must have heard her soft tread, for he looked up at her. The frown faded as he swept her with his gaze. A frank glow of masculine approval emanated from him.

“Miss Symon, you’re so radiant the sun will surely refuse to shine from pure jealousy.”

“Thank you, milord, but as near as we are to Scotland, the sun rarely puts in an appearance in any case. I fear you’re trying to shine me on with such extravagant praise.”

“Never think it.” He bowed over her offered hand. This time she’d been careful to wear gloves, but his penetrating gaze made her insides dance as drunkenly as his kiss on her hand had yesterday. “I’ll never lie to you…” and since no one was about, he added almost shyly, “Olivia.”

She smiled. It was a game, this little secret familiarity of theirs. Even the wager with its hidden stakes added a fizz of excitement. “If you won’t lie, then tell me. Why were you frowning…Rhys?”

“Was I?” He helped her don her spencer, then led her out the doors with her hand tucked securely into the crook of his elbow. Rhys might not lie, but the sun in the eastern sky did. It promised heat but lent no warmth to the crisp, cold day. Frost crunched underfoot as they strolled around the manor toward the stables.

“When I was coming down the stairs, you were a veritable storm cloud,” Olivia said, her breath puffing into the air. “What troubles you?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just that project of mine I mentioned yesterday.”

“The one you likened to my gardening?”

He nodded, his smile hardening a bit. “Toiling now to gather blossoms later.”

“It’s not going well?”

“No, on the contrary, it’s going quite well,” he said. “The problem is that my valet thinks I’m not sure I want it to.”

He was being cryptic enough she didn’t feel their fledgling friendship permitted further prying. “Now you have me completely confused.”

“That makes two of us.”

When they arrived at the stable, Rhys’s mount was waiting for him where he’d left it, with a blanket draped across its withers against the cold. After the ride from town, the horse was already warmed up. The bay gelding stood sixteen hands high with a deep chest and such knowing brown eyes Olivia felt it must surely possess a soul.

“Oh, what a lovely fellow!” She held out her palm and let him sniff it before she stroked his soft nose.

“Duncan’s a good lad.” Rhys patted the beast’s strong neck. “I’d say he has the manners of a prince, but I’ve known too many princes and wouldn’t want to insult him.”

“Is that your way of trying to put me off the Duke of Clarence?”

“Not at all. Just an observation about princes in general,” he said.

Olivia really didn’t want to talk about princes, in general or otherwise. The Duke of Clarence was a dissolute stranger in his early fifties. Everything she’d heard about him made her less anxious to learn more. Horses seemed a safe topic.

“I’ve read that the cavalry favors Thoroughbreds. Did Duncan go to war with you?”

“No, I took his brother, Dougal.”

“And now I suppose he’s retired from the military too.”

A shadow passed over Rhys’s face and his jaw tightened. “I left him on a battlefield in France.”

Olivia bit her lower lip. She should have stuck with princes. After so many English lads bled to see Napoleon defeated, did one offer condolences for a fallen horse?

Rhys’s strained expression made her wish she could.

The head groom, Mr. Thatcher, came to her rescue, leading her dapple gray mare out of the stall. Molly was already saddled and ready to go, but with a dainty sidesaddle instead of the sturdy regular one Olivia preferred.

“Mr. Thatcher, where is my other saddle?” she whispered while Lord Rhys was occupied with checking Duncan’s hooves for stones.

The groom grimaced in apology as he bent his back and offered his laced fingers, inviting her to step into them to mount. “Mrs. Symon sent word that you were to use this one today.”

Olivia fumed in silence. It wasn’t as if she were going to be trotting down London’s Rotten Row to see and be seen. Granted, she was an accomplished rider no matter which style of saddle she used, but she always rode astride on her father’s land.

And it always irked her mother. Beatrice Symon thought riding astride mannish and unrefined, but her father was amused by it and encouraged Olivia whenever he was in residence. When he was not, it was a small point of rebellion for Olivia to do it in any case. However, to insist on a change of saddle now would only make her appear hoydenish before Rhys Warrington.

Drat
Mother
and
her
interfering
ways.
It would almost be worth marrying an aging royal duke in order to get out from under her domineering thumb.

Olivia slipped her foot into Mr. Thatcher’s waiting palms and allowed him to heft her up. Then she hooked her right thigh over the horn and settled her left foot into the single slipper stirrup.

“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher.” It wasn’t the groom’s fault that her mother thought she needed to be hemmed about at every turn. “That’ll do.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but I’ll be accompanying you and the gentleman this morning as well,” he said softly. “Your mother’s orders.”

“As you will, Mr. Thatcher,” she said as she tucked her riding crop under her arm. “But I trust you won’t fall afoul of Mother.”

“Why would I be doing that, miss?”

“Her order presumes you can catch us!”

Chapter 6

Olivia Symon wheeled her mare around and dug her heel into the horse’s side. With a surprisingly loud “hi-up!” she bolted past Rhys and clattered out of the stable yard, making for the open, frost-kissed meadow beyond.

Rhys mounted his gelding in a smooth motion and streaked after her, wondering how on earth she managed to keep her seat riding aside at that breakneck pace. She was slight enough; he hadn’t expected she’d have that much strength in her legs. But what Miss Symon lacked in body weight, she made up for in balance.

As he gained on her, she leaned forward and crooned urgent endearments to her mare. Her words brought out more speed than the well-laid smack of a crop. Olivia’s body rocked with the mare’s gait in perfect rhythm. They took the hill that rose before them as if the going were straight and level. When they reached the top of the rise, she drew back on the reins and the mare danced in tight circles, still aching to run but willing to obey the superb horsewoman on her back.

Olivia’s color was high, her eyes bright. Her unabashed pleasure in the ride lent her a sensual glow. There was an appealing flush on her skin, and she panted slightly from exertion. She was fairly quivering with excitement and the rush of risk-taking.

That’s how she’ll look after a good hard swive
, Rhys thought, warming to his goal, his guilt over it be damned.
If
the
rest
of
the
ton
could
see
her
now, she’d never be a wallflower again.

“You’ve a marvelous seat,” he said, smiling and remembering how her neat little bum had bounced along. “If you were riding astride, you’d be the equal of any male equestrian.”

She laughed, not the affected twitter of so many debutants but the full-throated sound of a thoroughly pleased woman. Why had he ever thought her the least girlish?

“Even aside, we beat the two of you up this hill, didn’t we, Molly?”

She leaned forward to stroke the mare’s neck and gave Rhys a quick inadvertent peek down the front of her riding habit. Her breasts were small but perfect. At every step, Olivia was a surprise to him. He was usually drawn to more buxom women, but his body quickened readily enough to her slender figure.

The mare whickered softly in response to Olivia’s praise and bobbed its head as if in agreement with Rhys’s unspoken assessment of its mistress.

“You did have a head start,” he pointed out.

Her gaze flicked back toward the estate’s manor. The groom was only just now trotting out of the stable yard. If Thatcher intended to join them on their ride to act as a chaperone of sorts, at least he seemed intent on giving them a sense of privacy.

“Are you going to quibble over details, Rhys, or are you game for a jump or two?” she asked, her pixyish face alight with mischief.

Rhys swallowed back his surprise. He’d only heard of a handful of equestriennes who jumped while riding aside. “You don’t need to attempt it to impress me.”

She laughed again. “There’s no attempting about it. Molly and I can clear yonder hedgerow as easily as breathing. Or is jumping too unladylike an activity for the Duke of Clarence’s liking?”