His Lordship's Filly (15 page)

Of course, if she lost the race, it might calm her down a bit, might prevent her from accepting any further challenges—and maybe give
him
some peace of mind. But was that what he wanted? Really wanted?

The riders were up; the starter gave the signal. The horses were off.

Andrew craned forward, trying to see over those in front of him. Blackberry pulled ahead by about a nose. And there he stayed, unable to gain any more ground. As the horses pounded round the track, Andrew tried to think as Bridget would think. What was going on inside her head? Was she holding the stallion back till she was ready to make her move? Would she let him go at the last moment and win the race in a great burst of glory? Or was she thinking of Wellington’s pride?

The crowd was going crazy, yelling and screaming for their favorites. Some distance away he could see Wellington, laughing with a companion, entirely at ease. Evidently the duke saw nothing wrong with Bridget’s behavior. But then, she wasn’t
his
wife.

The horses came round the turn on the final lap of the race. Over the heads of the crowd, he could see Bridget lean forward, whispering something into the stallion’s cocked ear. The great horse shook his mane. And inch by inch, he pulled steadily ahead.

She was doing it! Bridget was winning the race—and without making Wellington’s animal look bad. He felt a surge of pride. She was something, his Bridget. A real winner.

But then, across the throng, he saw a huge orange bonnet and the even greater bulk of Lady Linden in a gown that resembled a carnival tent. He swallowed a curse. That busybody would have her mouth going steadily—she’d already set the city on its ear with her talk—and now they’d all be gabbling about Bridget in her breeches—and who knew what else.

“There she goes!” Peter cried, appearing at his elbow and clutching his arm in excitement. “She’s going to win!”

“Of course,” Andrew said, pride overcoming his uneasiness. “Bridget always wins.”

“And she has!” Peter clapped him heartily on the back. “Come on, let’s go. You’ll want to congratulate her.”

“I—” Andrew thought of refusing, of making excuses, but with Peter pulling at him, he could hardly disappear back into the crowd. Besides, someone had surely seen him there, someone who would spread it about if he didn’t show up at Bridget’s side after such a victory. “I’m coming,” he said.

Bridget was surrounded by clamoring people, all crowding close, all wanting to congratulate her. The stallion stood still, looking every inch the king. But it was easy to see that the crowd meant nothing to him, all his attention was on Bridget—his mistress, the center of his life.

And she, she stood leaning against him, her arm flung familiarly over his sweaty neck. Andrew swallowed a curse. There was that jealousy again.

“Here, here,” Peter cried, using his elbows to push ahead. “Let the triumphant husband through. Make way now, I say.”

Bridget turned to them, her lovely face flushed with victory, but when she saw him, Andrew thought anxiety crept into her eyes. “Andrew! I didn’t know you were here.”

He pulled himself together and managed a smile.
“Of course, I’m here. I wouldn’t miss seeing you race. You should know that.”

He saw her surprise, and for a moment he thought she’d say something—tell him she hadn’t known he’d be there at all. But she masked it quickly, tucking an arm through his and drawing him closer to the horse. “Wasn’t he marvelous? He’s such a great runner.”

“Yes,” Andrew said, patting the horse’s neck. “He’s capital.”

“The horse is just an animal.” Wichersham shoved his way to the front of the spectators, his blotchy face shining with sweat, his raspy voice grating on all ears. “And not such a great one at that.”

Bridget stiffened. “What do you mean? Why, he’s the fastest—”

“That’s enough,” Andrew interrupted, looking Wichersham right in the eye, an uncomfortable sensation rather like sinking into a mudhole. “Your opinion of the horse means nothing to us,” he said brusquely. “And now if you’ll excuse us.”

Wichersham didn’t move. His shifty eyes slid over Bridget, resting overlong on the swell of her bosom under the white shirt and then on her leather breeches. Andrew sensed her outrage before he heard it in her angry gasp, felt it in the way she pulled her arm loose from his. He saw that arm swing up, her hand forming a fist—a fist aimed at Wichersham’s sneering face.

For a second he wanted to let her do it, let her give the scoundrel the facer he deserved. But that would cause no end of scandal, and Bridget didn’t need scandal. Andrew grabbed her arm, stopping the blow in mid-swing. “He’s not worth it, Bridget,” he said softly. “Don’t dirty your hands on such filth. Forget him. He has no class.”

“You’re right,” she said firmly, her voice suddenly regal. “He has no class at all.”

“Bridget!” Wellington cried, pushing through the front of the crowd. “An excellent race! Did you see how well Blackberry ran?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Bridget turned her back on Wichersham, extending a hand to Wellington. “He’s a fine horse. Waterloo really had to stretch to beat him.”

Wellington laughed. “You’re too kind,” he said. “I suspect you could have won by more.”
He turned to Andrew. “You’re a lucky man, Haverly. A really lucky man.”

“I know,” Andrew said, the enthusiasm in his voice rather surprising even to him.

It must have surprised Bridget, too, for she turned to him, a great smile lighting her face. “Oh Andrew, I’m lucky, too. To be your wife.”

“Why don’t we see you on the stallion, Haverly?” The voice came from the crowd, but it sounded suspiciously like Wichersham’s hard rasp. “Can’t you manage him?”

Andrew looked out quickly, searching, but Wichersham’s ugly face wasn’t evident. He decided the best thing to do was to ignore the remark. He would ride Waterloo soon enough.

He turned back to Bridget, who was busily engaged in talking horse breeding with Wellington. When he got a chance, he’d suggest that he have a go at the stallion. What was that Bridget had said? Something about him being a woman’s horse? Ridiculous, of course. There wasn’t a horse living he couldn’t ride.

“Breeding,” Bridget was saying to the duke. “Yes, Your Grace, breeding is important, of course. But it’s the training that counts.” She lowered her voice. “And the love you give a horse. That’s what really does it—the love.”

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning Andrew woke early. He had returned to his own bed some hours before because sleeping beside Bridget only reminded him of the problems facing him. He hated having her name bruited about the city. And as for them calling her his filly and laying bets as to whether he would tame her, that was sheer foolishness. Bridget was far likelier to tame him—or drive him to complete distraction.
He wasn’t sure which she would do first.

He sighed and turned toward the window where the rising sun was just beginning to streak the morning sky with pink and gold. Bridget. What a difference she’d made in his life.

On impulse he threw back the covers and slipped into his robe. He’d never gone to her room at dawn, but there was always a first time. He opened the door softly, hoping not to startle her, thinking to slip beneath the covers beside her and wake her in other, more pleasurable ways.

And then he drew in a breath. Bridget wasn’t asleep, she was already out of bed, her back to him. Standing on one leg, she had the other halfway into her breeches. Breeches! Why was she putting on breeches?

“Bridget!” he called. “What are you doing?”

At the sound of his voice, she whirled, lost her balance, and started to topple. He rushed forward, catching her just in time for the both of them to end up on the floor in a wild tangle of arms and legs.

“Andrew,” she said, disengaging herself from him with some difficulty. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I came to you—to be with you.”

“Oh.” The word was a mere whisper.

“What are you doing? Why are you wearing these?” His hand slid down to the breeches, lingered there overlong.

She turned her face away. “I—I’m going for my morning ride.”

She was avoiding his eyes. A dreadful suspicion snuck into his mind. “Do you—Every morning do you ride—like, this—in breeches?”

She straightened, meeting his gaze squarely.
“Of
course. How else? No one can really ride in a skirt. You should know that. Well, you couldn’t
know,
but you could guess.”

He nodded. What she said made a certain perverted sense. Another suspicion slithered in to join the first. “Please, don’t tell me you ride
alone.”

She cast him a quelling look. “Of course I don’t. Ned always goes with me.”

Relieved, he expelled a long breath. “Thank the good Lord for that!”

She drew herself erect. “I’m not stupid, Andrew,” she said testily. “Don’t treat me as though I were.”

“Of course not.” She seemed a little touchy this morning. He hoped nothing was wrong. He turned toward his door. “Just let me get dressed. I’ve been wanting to try a ride on the stallion. This morning’s as good a time as any, I guess.”

She looked about to comment at that, then snapped her mouth shut instead and resumed her dressing.

* * * *

When they reached the stable, Bridget saw Ned start, then quickly recover. “Morning, yer Lordship,” he said humbly. “Will ye be wanting Sable this morning?”

Andrew nodded. “Yes, Ned. Saddle her up, please.”

“Aye, yer Lordship. Will ye be wanting me to follow along of ye?”

“Yes, Ned. Attend us. Just as you do her Ladyship.”

Bridget swallowed a sigh. Too bad they couldn’t leave Ned at home. Andrew wanted to ride Waterloo and he wasn’t going to listen to her. She knew what would happen, knew it as well as she knew her own name. Andrew would mount, and Waterloo would unseat him. One way or another he would unseat him.

They reached the park with little conversation between them. Then Andrew pulled up the filly and looked around. “I can see why you like coming here early. It’s very pleasant.”

“Yes.” She managed a smile. “It reminds me somehow of Papa’s place.”

Andrew smiled, too. “I think I’ll have that ride on Waterloo now.”

Sighing, Bridget swung down. “You know, Andrew, you ought to get acquainted with him first. Remember, Waterloo doesn’t like—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted in that brusque overriding tone she loathed. He swung down easily. “There’s no need to get acquainted. The horse knows me. I’ve been in the stable often enough. Besides, horses always take to me.”

“But—”

He didn’t wait for the rest of her sentence, but turned Sable over to Ned and took Waterloo’s reins from her hands.

When Andrew swung up, Waterloo turned his head, cocking an inquiring eye backward at his rider, an eye that showed the warning of white. Trouble was coming, Bridget knew. Andrew was going to get a big surprise. And soon.

“You see—” Andrew began. But he didn’t even get to finish his sentence. Waterloo leaped. Straight up into the air the stallion went, coming down on all four feet so hard that the earth seemed to shake. Twice. Three times.

On the fourth, Andrew bounced right out of the saddle, hitting the turf with a thud—and a muttered curse. But since he was cursing, he must be all right. Bridget went to calm the horse, patting him and murmuring soothing words till he settled down, nuzzling her shoulder and crowding close, almost like he wanted comfort.

By the time she left the horse and reached Andrew, he was struggling to his feet, his face reddening in embarrassment. “Damnation! What in blue blazes is going on?”

Bridget swallowed a sudden urge to giggle but she clamped her teeth together—giggling in this situation would never do. It didn’t take much intelligence to know that Andrew wouldn’t like being laughed at. She struggled to keep her voice calm. “I tried to tell you, Andrew. It’s not you. He just doesn’t like males.”

“That can’t be,” Andrew said, dusting off his breeches. “It’s simple enough. The horse is just a one-man, that is, a one-woman horse. No one else can ride him.”

“That’s not true,” Bridget insisted, “Any female can ride him. Any female at all.”

“Nonsense.” Andrew turned back to the filly, grabbing her reins from Ned and swinging hastily up.

She was tired of this arrogance, of him thinking that he knew so much more than she did, especially about horseflesh. “All right, then how about a wager?”

He turned back, his face curious. “A wager? What kind of wager?”

She chose her words carefully. “I’ll show you that I’m light about this. On the way home, we’ll stop some child on the street. Some
girl
child. You can even choose her. And if she can ride Waterloo, then I win.”

“Win what?”

She thought for a minute. “If I win, you’ll listen to me. You’ll get acquainted with him the way I say. You’ll let me show you how to make friends with a horse.”

Andrew laughed in disbelief. “If some child can ride that horse, I’ll listen to you all right. You can be sure of that.” He laughed again. “But if she can’t, then you’ll give off saying such ridiculous things. Like a horse being able to tell the gender of its riders.”

“Agreed,” Bridget retorted. Why must he be so prickly? Couldn’t he just believe her?

Andrew grinned, his good humor suddenly restored. “In fact, since it’s so impossible, I’ll give you an extra incentive.”

“What kind of incentive?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“If you win, you can make one request of me. And I’ll grant it. One request. No matter what it might be. I promise.”

“Agreed.” Obviously he didn’t think she had any chance of winning or he would never have said such a foolish thing. Imagine! Anything she wanted. She smiled to herself. Andrew should remember he wasn’t so good
at
the betting game. Last time he’d wagered he’d ended up with a wife.

At his signal, they set off, racing across the park, the two horses side by side. She was careful to keep Waterloo from pulling out in front of the filly. They had a good gallop, an invigorating ride. Bridget relaxed, enjoying the wind in her face, the power of the stallion’s great body between her legs. Yes, this was living. A great gallop on a great horse, the man she loved beside her.