“What’s its name?”
The duke blinked. “Name? I don’t—”
“What is the name of your horse?”
A deep flush rose in the duke’s face. “That doesn’t have anything to do with—”
“Afraid to tell me,” Christian said with satisfaction. He glanced down at Beth and winked.
She colored, a quiver of laughter touching her lips.
The duke audibly ground his teeth. “I didn’t name the horse myself! He was already two years old when I bought him and—”
“Perhaps his name is…Sir Lady Bud?”
“No! Of course not!”
Christian shrugged. “Fine. Don’t tell us your mount’s name. I daresay it is nothing unusual.”
“It is too exotic! It’s Bathsheba!”
“You named a horse Bathsheba?”
“I didn’t name it, I tell you! Not that it matters. I find Bathsheba a lovely name.”
“That’s a horrid name for a horse. It’s far too exotic and should be given, instead, to a creature capable of beauty and passion and desires.” Christian turned to smile down at the lady. “Someone like Lady Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks pinkened though her companion was not so circumspect. She choked out a laugh. “La, Beth! You, as Bathsheba!”
The duke sputtered out a protest. “B’God, Westerville! Quite improper of you to say such things!”
“Nonsense,” Christian said, leaning down so that only Beth could hear him. “Would you like to be rid of these fleas, my love? Or have you not yet finished amusing yourself at their expense?”
Beth’s eyes met his with a warm look. “Fleas? Surely not.”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than her companion cleared her throat in a very telling manner. Lady Elizabeth glanced at her friend, then colored and gave a short nod.
Intriguing. Christian leaned down to speak yet again when Standwich’s clumsy horse knocked against Lucifer.
Lucifer instantly whipped over to nip at the bumbling mare, which balked and tried to get away, bumping into the horses of two other determined gentlemen.
“Blast it, Standwich!” said one gentleman, glaring at the duke. “Take heed what you are about!”
His companion added with a heavy French accent, “Perhaps you should move to the back of the group if you cannot control your mount any better than that!”
Christian noted with amusement that several of the suitors had already given up and had fallen behind. There were but the three of them left, and he had procured the only spot where one could actually converse with the lady.
He leaned over to Lady Elizabeth from Lucifer’s saddle. “If you will not call these lumps of manhood ‘fleas,’ then how about ‘rats’? They are swarming in a pack, look as if they’d be delighted to nibble your toes given the chance, and several have rather frightening facial whiskers reminiscent of that species.”
Elizabeth laughed, her eyes crinkling beneath the brim of her bonnet. She looked damnably fetching at that moment and incredibly feminine.
She opened her mouth to answer him when Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton interrupted brightly, “They are more like little yapping dogs, don’t you think, Beth?”
Lady Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed annoyingly on her companion. There was a moment of silence, during which time her cousin sent her a warning look of such intensity that Christian raised his brows. Whatever warning Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton communicated, it caused Beth to sigh. She sent Christian a rather apologetic look before saying, “S-s-s-so, my lord. How would you rid me of this pl-pl-plague?”
For an instant, Christian was too surprised to answer. Lady Elizabeth winced at his expression, her cheeks flushing a bit before she looked away. He didn’t think he’d heard her speak in such a halting manner before, but perhaps he’d simply missed it; God knew her chaperone didn’t seem to want her to speak at all.
Not surprisingly, Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton broke the silence. “My cousin has some difficulty in forming words, as you can see.”
Shoving his surprise aside, Christian shrugged. “There are times I am not as eloquent as I would like.” He caught Lady Elizabeth’s gaze and noted she didn’t seem quite as distressed. He smiled, noting the gold and green that flecked her lovely brown eyes, a fact he’d missed last night in the dim light of the ballroom. “My lady, I would rid you of this rat infestation with alacrity. Of that, you can be assured.”
Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton nodded. “Beth, I suppose there is no harm in allowing the viscount to shoo away all of your suitors. We cannot run the carriage properly with so many people about. So long, of course”—and here the older lady pinned him with a determined smile—“he understands he is to leave as well.”
Lady Elizabeth flicked a glance up at him. “Y-y-y-you are incorrigible.”
Christian bowed. He could have sworn that the few brief sentences she’d spoken to him before had not been so encumbered. But perhaps it had been a simple case of the order of her words.
Whatever it was, he decided that he didn’t really care if Lady Elizabeth’s speech was halting, though it was possible that explained the mysterious lack of suitors. Truly the men in London were lily weak.
For Christian, it was damnably fascinating to watch her lush lips forming each word, stuttered or not. In fact, he realized with some surprise, her stutter made him want to kiss her all the more.
He grinned and touched the brim of his hat. “You, my lady, are too beautiful to sit in such a mundane manner, surrounded by such fools who think to amuse you with empty compliments.”
Beth had to admit the viscount had taken an accurate measure of her suitors. They were indeed bothering her, the lot of them. Beatrice’s new cabriolet was designed for a spanking pace, and because of the small squadron that had followed them down the path, they were forced to crawl along as if they were in a tiny cart pulled by fat ponies.
Westerville glinted an amused smile her way as if he could feel her frustration. She couldn’t help but respond. It was odd, but though the man irritated her with his overconfidence, she found his presence both stimulating and reassuring in some way.
Westerville glanced at the few remaining suitors, all of whom seemed determined to ride abreast of the cabriolet. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded as if making a decision, then leaned down. Pale green and rimmed by the thickest black lashes, his eyes were almost level with hers. “My lady,” he said, his deep voice rumbling over her, “pray move to one side.”
Beth raised her brows. “One side?”
Beatrice kicked her ankle.
Beth winced, then said in an oddly bored voice, “Wh-what I mean is, one s-s-s-side?”
Something flared in the viscount’s eyes, an expression quickly shuttered by the fall of his lashes. Beth winced. Oh blast her stutter! She never seemed able to remember it when the man was around. Yet…when she’d finally remembered to use it, he hadn’t been discouraged at all and had accepted her flawed speech without comment or even an outward wince. In many ways, he’d accepted it much better than the charlatans who continued to hound her.
In fact, she didn’t think a single other gentleman had reacted so well. She stole a glance at him from under her lashes and caught him looking back at her, boldly and without pretense. There was a look in his eyes, one of enjoyment and…knowledge. As if he’d just discovered something about her and was relishing it. Goodness…did he know?
He winked, slowly and sensually, sending a flutter of heat across her skin. Beth could only stare. Had he guessed at her subterfuge? Heaven knew that if he had, it was her own fault. She really should be upset. But instead…she winked back.
There was a stunned second’s worth of a pause, just long enough for the viscount to blink once in astonishment, and then he tilted back his head and laughed—long and loud.
Beatrice looked from him to Beth and back. “What? What is it? Did I miss something?”
Beth bit her lip, trying to keep her own laughter from ringing out with West
erville’s. Heaven help her, but the man was dangerous for a million and one reasons, not the least of which was his sense of humor that so closely mirrored her own. An intelligent, cautious woman would avoid the man.
But somehow, today, looking at him astride such a lovely horse, his green eyes shaded by the brim of his hat, his broad shoulders perfectly lined by an expertly cut riding coat, his finely carved mouth curved in a smile…What was one more day? she asked herself.
“So, will you slide over?” he asked, a rakish challenge in his gaze.
“She cannot,” Beatrice said, leaning forward in a bristling mass of skirts and protectiveness.
Beth’s smile did not waver. “Ah, but I can, too.”
Had Annie seen her lady’s smile, she would have been able to tell Beatrice to tread carefully. The maid knew that when Lady Elizabeth smiled that certain calm, determined smile, she’d made up her mind about something. And when Lady Elizabeth made up her mind about something, there was no changing it. But Annie was not here, and even had she been, it was highly unlikely Beatrice would have paid the maid the least heed.
Instead, Beatrice said with even more insistence, “No, Beth. You may not move aside. I will not allow it.”
That did it. A smile firmly on her face, Beth gathered her skirts and slid over on the seat. Before Beth knew what the viscount was about, he had swung off the horse and, with a graceful vault, deposited himself neatly in the seat beside her, his horse never breaking stride.
“Well!” Beatrice said, her cheeks red. She glared at Beth.
Feeling a little guilty, Beth reached over and took her cousin’s hand. “I am sorry. But you vexed me a bit.”
Westerville handed his horse’s reins over his shoulder to the outrider who held on to the back of the cabriolet. The man obediently looped the reins over a hook, and soon the beautiful gelding was trotting along behind the cabriolet.
Now, of course, Standwich was free to move closer to the cabriolet, but for naught. All he could do was ride beside Christian, who had his back toward the suitors.
“Well, my love?” Westerville said, leaning into the corner and trying to find room for his long legs inside the cabriolet’s rather limited space. “Shall we take this smart carriage through its paces?”
Beatrice freed her hand from Beth’s and sent an irritated glare toward the viscount. “My lord, please do not address Lady Elizabeth as ‘my love.’ It is vastly improper, as I am sure you are aware.”
He slanted Beatrice a glance, a slow grin lifting the corner of his mouth in a way that seemed to light his green eyes from within. “Madam, I may not always act in a manner you think proper. But I can promise you this…I shall never bore either you or Lady Elizabeth. I don’t think you can say the same of these paltry hangers-ons who are following us even now.”
“Oh! The nerve!” Standwich protested miserably from his place beside the coach, well out of conversation range of everyone in the carriage.
“What did that man say?” demanded the Frenchman who rode at his side.
Christian looked at Beatrice. “Why don’t you ask the coachman to give your carriage a good run? Didn’t you say you wished to see how she’d go through her paces?”
Beatrice hesitated a second, her gaze meeting Beth’s. Beth offered an encouraging nod of her head. Why shouldn’t they enjoy a ride? After weeks of stultifying convention, it would be lovely to feel the wind in her hair.
As if he knew her thoughts, the viscount’s leg moved ever so slightly to one side, touching hers through the skirts of her gown. It was a simple movement, with several layers of clothes between them, yet it sent a shock through her so sudden, so physical, that she had to grasp her hands in her lap as hard as she could to keep from reacting. The man was a menace to her peace of mind.
Beatrice saw none of this, for she was in deep discussion with the coachman. After a moment, she turned about in her seat with a decided flounce. Her eyes sparkled with indignation. “My own coachman tried to tell me he couldn’t go any faster than what we were—ambling like old women in a farm cart! So I told him that Harry had bought this cabriolet for me to cut a dash in, and a dash I would cut.”
“Good for you!” Beth said. She would have congratulated her cousin more, but the coachman chose that moment to let the leaders have their way, and soon they were flying down the path, traveling much faster than propriety allowed.
Beatrice grabbed the sides of the cabriolet as they swayed wildly down the path, one hand on her bonnet. The fresh air made her lift her face to the sun, and she laughed, glancing behind them. “Beth, your suitors appear quite put out!”
Beth turned to look back over her shoulder, but a curve in the path sent her sliding along the seat—and brought her firmly up against the viscount.
He looked down at her, a smile on his lips, his eyes alight with amusement. “Going somewhere?”
She pushed herself back to her side, grabbing her bonnet as a puff of wind threatened to rip it from her head. She began to say something, but the thought of stuttering at such a lovely moment was abhorrent, so instead she just smiled. That seemed to please him well enough, for he grinned back, his eyes bright beneath the brim of his hat.
It was a wonderful moment, Beth decided. Her bonnet ribbons flew behind her, slender banners of blue, the fresh wind ruffling her skirts and toying with her hair. Beatrice looked just as pleased even though the wind was hitting her full on and picking her hair apart, tossing her curls about her head until she looked like a medusa.
“Heavens!” Beatrice exclaimed as they rounded a corner at such a spanking pace. Her eyes shone, her face filled with mischief. “Wait until I tell Harry how I sprung ’em in the park! He’ll have an apoplexy!”
They rode the rest of the way around the park, the viscount taking advantage of the sway of the carriage to lean against Beth whenever he could. She was achingly aware of him, and instead of watching the gorgeous array of flowers flying by, she found herself sneaking glances at him. Each and every time she did so, she discovered his gaze on her. She found herself admiring the masculine line of his mouth, the handsome set of his shoulders, the delicious contrast of his light eyes against his darker skin.
Beatrice and the viscount made desultory small talk, the viscount leading the way. Beth spoke but little, managing a minimal stutter, enough to keep Beatrice from kicking her ankles. It wasn’t until fifteen minutes into the conversation that Beth realized something rather odd. The viscount was asking an inordinate amount of questions about her grandfather.
Warning bells sounded in the back of her mind. Why was the viscount so interested in Grandfather? There was no mistaking the intense focus that appeared on Westerville’s face when Beatrice answered his questions, as if her every word was of great import.
The carriage finally returned to where they’d begun, and slowed. Beth was glad to note that her suitors had dispersed; she had other things on her mind now.
“Well!” Beatrice said, a happy flush to her face as she attempted to stuff her rioted curls back beneath her bonnet. “That was certainly refreshing. I do hope your horse didn’t get too fatigued.”
“I am certain he enjoyed a little canter. He doesn’t receive enough exercise in town.” The viscount stood, opening the carriage door, and lightly stepped to the ground. He turned as he shut the door and tipped his hat. “Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton. Lady Elizabeth. Thank you for allowing me to join you.”
“You are qu-qu-quite welcome,” Beth said, a sinking in her heart. She could not deny the viscount’s charm. Yet neither could she pretend he was like her other suitors. There was something amiss about his pursuit. Something…suspicious. Why had he asked so many questions about Grandfather?
Westerville took the reins for his horse from the waiting groom, but before he mounted, he lifted Beth’s hand from where it had been resting on the edge of the carriage window and pressed her fingers to his mouth. Tingles traced up her arm and settled in her breasts. Her fingers curled closed, and he released her, t
hen stepped back to swing up onto his horse.
Once there, he smiled down at her, his green eyes aglow beneath the brim of his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton. Lady Elizabeth. I hope we meet again.”
Beatrice sighed. “It was a lovely ride! Thank you for your company.”
Beth, meanwhile, didn’t say anything.
This didn’t seem to bother the viscount at all. He merely smiled in her direction, turned his horse, and rode off.
Beatrice watched as he rode away, saying in a rather grudging voice, “I vow, but that is a handsome man.” Beth raised her brows and Beatrice colored. “Well,” she temporized, “he is handsome, and thoroughly ineligible.”
Beth shook her head. “You are such a goose. All a man has to do is smile at you and off you go, melting into a puddle at his feet.”
“I know. Harry says he despairs of ever going on holiday without me for I’m likely to fall in love with the new footman before he returns.”
“You would never leave Harry.”
“I know,” Beatrice agreed, though she still watched the viscount’s receding figure with admiration.
Beth opened her gloved hand to smooth her skirt where the wind had ruffled it. As she did so, a small scrap of paper fluttered out and fell to her feet.
Beatrice was still busy tucking her curls back beneath her hat, so she failed to see Beth bend over and pick up the small folded paper.
She carefully unfolded it. In bold, sweeping letters, it read, Meet me at the British Museum tomorrow at ten. If you dare.
Beth turned to look at the viscount, who was even now cantering away. He rode so confidently, a dark figure on a horse that far outshone any of the others in the park. Both the rider and the horse drew the eye, and more than one lady looked rather longingly after the retreating figure.
Beth’s fingers tightened over the reticule she held in her lap. He was just so…delicious. Yes, strange as it sounded, the man was plain delicious, like a raspberry ice or a bonbon from the confectioner’s shop. Odd, but she’d never really thought of a man in quite those terms. She slid a glance at Beatrice and caught her cousin staring after Westerville as if she’d like to taste him that very minute. “Beatrice!”