His Lordship's Filly (5 page)

Andrew shook Durabian’s hand again. “I’ll send for the stallion in the morning,” he went on. “If that’s agreeable.”

“The sooner the better,” Papa said cheerfully. “I know Bridget’ll be wanting him close at hand. Him being like her baby and all.”

For the first time it struck her that Papa would be left alone. “Oh, Papa!” she cried, taking a step toward him. “I don’t want to leave you!”

He grabbed her in a warm comforting hug. “Remember,” he whispered in her ear, “ ‘tis all fer the best now.”

She blinked back her tears. “Yes, Papa.” Why did she have this silly desire to cry? She could come out to the stables every day if she wanted. She was a lady now. And ladies did as they pleased.

“I’ll send the carriage out tomorrow,” Andrew said, “when the groom comes for the stallion. I’m sure Bridget has some things she’ll want besides what she’s bringing along with her today. Her mother’s books and such.”

She nodded. “I have them all ready.” No need to tell them that under the books she’d packed her breeches and boots. At least she’d have Waterloo—she’d be able to ride. Perhaps being a lady wouldn’t be so bad. And it was what Papa wanted.

* * * *

A while later Bridget wasn’t so sure. The drive back to London seemed to be taking forever. She was bounced and jiggled around on the seat. Hav—Andrew must have the best carriage available, but riding in it was nothing at all like riding a horse. She knew what the trouble was— there was no connection between her and the animals pulling the carriage. Perhaps . . . She turned to the man beside her. “Andrew, could I drive the carriage?”

The look he gave her was shocked, but his voice was even. “I’m afraid not, my dear.” He glanced down at her fancy clothes. “You’re not really dressed for it anyway.”

“That’s unfair,” she cried, unable to stop herself. “I didn’t ask for these clothes. I didn’t ask to marry you!”

Instead of getting angry, he put on a look of patience, like she was some skittish filly who needed a firm hand. “I know that, Bridget. But you did agree to it.” He heaved a big sigh. “The deed is done. So why don’t we make the best of it?”

He turned on the squabs, looking her squarely in the eyes. “You’re a lady now, and—”

“I don’t
want
to be a lady! I want to be the Bridget
I’ve
always been!”

He heaved another, even greater, sigh. She heard it clearly, even over the sounds of the horses’ passage along the road.

“Nevertheless,” he said in that calm soothing voice she was beginning to loathe, “you
are
a lady. You are the Marchioness of Haverly.”

She glared at him. “How can I be a marchioness? I don’t know anything about being a lady.” She looked down at the gown—her wedding gown. “Except that they wear these stupid clothes. I can’t see how they can get any work done in these things. I really can’t.”

“Ladies don’t work,” Andrew said, his lips twitching as though he were trying not to smile. “They paint in water-colors, they play the pianoforte, they sing a little, and they do needlepoint.”

This was ridiculous. “Lord love a duck! That’s no life at all.”

Andrew was looking more and more pained, but he still held to his patience, artificial though she could tell it was. “Most ladies are quite content with their lives,” he went on.

She barely kept herself from voicing her contempt for such emptiness. “Do they ever go outside? Do they get to ride?”

“Oh yes.” He seemed pleased to be able to tell her that. “A few even drive carriages. Female Jehus, we call them.” He frowned. “You’ll have Waterloo, and you can ride all you please, so I hope you won’t feel it necessary to drive a carriage, too.”

Bridget managed a smile.
It was time to remember that this man was her husband, that in the eyes of the law he was her legal master. They would probably have a lot of disagreements as it was. It wasn’t smart to raise his hackles over something silly, something that meant so little to her.

“I won’t drive,” she said. “I promise. I was just feeling restless. Usually by this time of day
I’ve been working the horses for hours.” She squirmed on the hard seat. “I’m not used to sitting still—or riding in a carriage.”

“I think I understand,” he said, patting her hand. She felt a little twinge of that excitement she’d felt that first time he touched her. Would she feel it every time he touched her?

He smiled at her, a smile that made him look more like the man she knew. “Why don’t you sit back now and relax a bit? It’s a while yet till we reach home.”

I’ve left my home,
she thought,
and my father,
but she didn’t say it aloud. Andrew was doing the best he could. After all, he couldn’t help it that he was a lord. They
were
married and they would have to learn to deal together. Perhaps after tonight . . .

She had no experience of men, but she understood the act of consummation. She’d seen horses mate. Of course, Papa had said that for people, mating was more gentle, more tender. And he’d assured her that she’d learn to like it.

She sighed and closed her eyes. She’d always trusted Papa—all her nineteen years. He was her teacher, her best friend, too. And since he’d told her Mama had liked it—well, he’d sort of told her that—she knew she would like it, too.

* * * *

On the squabs next to her, Andrew frowned. This marriage looked to be more difficult than he’d thought. The fashionable clothes had not made a lady out of Bridget. In sober fact, she looked odd in them. And she walked as though she still wore boots, which made her look odder still. She’d stripped off her gloves the moment they’d settled in the carriage, throwing them and her bonnet on the opposite seat. Her hands and arms were brown from the sun—her face, too. And a bridge of freckles marched across her nose.

She looked like a child, a ragamuffin child, washed and dressed up in a lady’s clothes. When he let his gaze wander lower, though, to the swell of bosom that even the shawl didn’t hide, he knew better. This was no child sitting here beside him. This was a woman—a full-grown woman.

He wasn’t at all sure that marrying her had been wise—several times he’d almost decided to call the wedding off. But that look of desperate urgency in Durabian’s eyes had made him go ahead with it. Durabian wanted this marriage, that much was clearly evident. And that meant—it must mean—that Bridget was in some kind of danger, danger from which only marriage to him would save her.

He was flattered Durabian thought him a suitable husband for Bridget—he knew how much the man loved the girl—but he wasn’t at all sure he was up to being husband to such a creature.

Tonight, for example, should he—? He found the thought was bringing the blood to his face and heating his body in a very disconcerting way.

He shifted his thoughts. The more he considered it, the more he was forced to conclude that Durabian’s action in pushing this marriage on him was very odd. And, given the importance he attached to having Bridget safely married, why had Durabian hung the marriage on a wager that he knew had little hope of being won? Unless—

Andrew stifled a sigh. As soon as he reached home, he’d have to send a man to look into Durabian’s affairs. Something was rotten, and it wasn’t in Denmark.

* * * *

They reached London in midafternoon. Bridget had been alert for some time, taking in the sights around her. The city was a strange place, full of loud dirty people, half of them wanting to sell something to you, the other half wanting to steal something from you. She’d been to the city before a few times when Papa went in to Tattersall’s to look at the horses. But she hadn’t liked London then and she didn’t like it now. She much preferred the company of horses, the clean fresh air of the country, and the quiet of fields and stables.

But they went on through the noisy part of the city, eventually coming to quieter neighborhoods. She looked around her with interest. Strange that such wealthy lords and ladies should live in houses all squashed up together. They were nice-looking houses, of course, rich-looking, and she supposed with so many people about in a city, a man, even a lord like Andrew, couldn’t take up too much space. Still and all, she much preferred the country. Papa’s cottage might be small, but at least there a person had room to move around, room to breathe.

The carriage came to a halt in front of one of the great houses. “We’re home,” Andrew said.

He helped her out of the carriage and led her up the walk and in the front door, past the butler, to where the household staff stood waiting in a long line. Lord! Why did one man need so many people to take care of him?

Drawing her arm through his, Andrew took her down the line, introducing each servant in turn. “And this,” he said with a smile to the round little woman who stood apart, “this is Mrs. Purvey, the housekeeper. If you need anything, you have only to ask her.”

Bridget nodded. She liked the look of the woman, but she wasn’t sure how a lady would behave to a housekeeper. “Thank you,” she said finally. “I’ll do that.”

Then he led her upstairs to the yellowest room she’d ever seen, all furnished with fancy gilt furniture that looked too fragile to sit on and a great satin-covered bed big enough to hold the stallion—and a filly, too. She swallowed a sigh. She missed Waterloo already.

“Pay no attention to the way the room is done,” Andrew said. “I know this isn’t the proper color for you. You can redo the room however you please.”
He motioned toward another door. “That door connects to my chamber.”

She stared at him, her heart pounding. She knew little about marriage, it was true, but she knew one thing. Married people shared a bed—and this one was certainly big enough to share.

“We don’t—” she began, unsure how to ask, “sleep together? In the same bed?”

A funny look crossed his face. “We may. But it’s customary for a lady to have her own boudoir.”

Stupid, that’s what it was. Wasting all this space just for sleeping. Rich people didn’t seem to have much sense.

“I’ll leave you now,” Andrew said, “to freshen up.” He indicated the pitcher and basin, the stack of fresh linen towels. “And perhaps you’d like to rest a little before dinner.”

Rest! Good grief, that’s all she’d
been
doing. But she bit her tongue and didn’t say so.

“I’ll send up a girl to help you dress.”

“I can dress myself,” she pointed out, turning away from a vanity table that had obviously just been brought into the room. “I’ve done it all my life. Besides, this is the only decent gown I’ve got.”

He frowned. “That’s right. But we’ll fix that tomorrow. We’ll go to Bond Street and get you all fitted out.”

“Can’t you do that kind of thing without me?” she asked. “I want to go see Papa.”

Andrew took both her hands in his, holding them tightly. “Bridget, listen to me. We both know your Papa wanted this marriage. Don’t we?”

She nodded. She wouldn’t have gone through with it otherwise.

“Do you know why?”

That made her curious. “No, do you?”

“No,” Andrew said, “except that I feel that he was afraid of something. Afraid for you. And until we find out what that something is, perhaps you’d better stay away from the stables.”

She knew he made sense but she still had to protest. “But Papa, and Waterloo?”

“I’ll send out for the stallion just as I promised—and for your other things. Just don’t go out there. For now. Give me—let’s say, give me three days to look into this thing, to find out what’s going on. Just three days. Then I’ll take you out there myself.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Will you give me your word?”

She swallowed over the hard lump in her throat. Three days seemed like forever. And she never broke her word.

But Andrew was right. She knew something was wrong with Papa, something was very wrong. “All right,” she said. “You have my word. But in three days we’ll go together to see Papa.”

He smiled at her then, squeezing her hands and releasing them quickly. “In three days. You have my word on it.”

Chapter Six

Dinner was a dismal affair. Bridget missed Papa so much that even the distraction of new foods and the fancy furnishings in Andrew’s great dining room couldn’t make her feel better. And the way rich people ate—so much food and so many different utensils to eat it with—was ridiculous. Who ever heard of a special spoon just to eat soup? And there was enough food in the dishes the footman offered her to fill the stomachs of several country families.

She was going to ask Andrew about such waste. Why did the rich have such peculiar habits? Didn’t they think about other people at all? But Andrew seemed distracted, hardly talking. The meal was scarcely over before the butler Purvey appeared to announce, “Blackburn to see you, milord.” And Andrew excused himself and went off into his study with the stranger.

She wandered around the library, admiring all the books that were now hers to read—if she wanted to. She would read them someday, but she couldn’t settle down tonight. She couldn’t sit still, let alone concentrate on reading anything.

Tonight, tonight was her wedding night. And in spite of all she knew and all Papa had said about the naturalness of the marriage act, she was nervous about it. She paced the Persian carpet. Back and forth, back and forth, in those flimsy satin slippers that were hardly better than nothing at all.

She paused, looking up at the landscape over the mantel. Turner, she read the painter’s name in the corner. How did the man get sunshine to look so very real? It was amazing what he could do with a little paint.

But in a moment she turned away. Why didn’t Andrew finish his business with that stranger and come to her? All this waiting was quite nerve-wracking.

What was Papa doing now, eating his supper alone? And Waterloo, was he fretting in his stall because she wasn’t there to care for him? Poor Waterloo. He wouldn’t understand any of this. But then, neither did she. Not really.

Three days. Why had she promised Andrew she’d wait three whole days before she went back to Papa’s? Three days seemed like forever. She wanted to see Papa now.

* * * *

From the doorway of his study, Andrew watched Blackburn go down the hall toward the front of the house. Blackburn was a good man, thorough and fast, one of the best. Of course, as he’d pointed out, the information hadn’t been that hard to find.