Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (7 page)

Before she could utter a word of protest, he had urged his mount to a trot. Trotting, she discovered, was a great deal harder than walking. Merlin bounced, and so did she. His lordship, she observed, riding astride, was able to rise and fall to the rhythm. In a side saddle she had no such option.

She gritted her teeth, sat up even straighter and tightened her right leg around the pommel. As far as she could see, she was going to earn every last penny of her one hundred pounds per annum.

They had not gone far before the younger members of the party were well out of sight around a bend in the woodland ride. The sound of pounding hooves and faint laughter floated back. Breathless from the bouncing, Christy managed to say, ‘Should we not catch them up, my lord?’

He flicked her a glance. ‘You’d break your neck at that hell-for-leather pace.’ He frowned. ‘If you wish to stop bouncing, sit straighter and keep your heel down. It will keep your…seat in the saddle.’

Her…seat was already so sore that the last thing Christy wanted was to have it in closer contact with the saddle, but she obeyed, and, sure enough, she bounced less. Whether or not she was any more comfortable was a moot point.

‘I cannot but think that Miss Trentham will find riding with me in attendance somewhat boring, my lord,’ she said a few moments later.

‘Probably,’ he said.

She flushed, suddenly aware that he too must be finding the restricted pace a bore. ‘I am sure if you wish to catch up with the children, that I will be perfectly safe. Merlin seems very quiet.’

His brow rose. ‘Certainly not, Miss Daventry. Whatever my shortcomings, I have a little more consideration than that.’

Christy subsided. Surreptitiously she patted Merlin’s neck, finding it warm and silken. Despite still feeling like a bug perched on top of him, she found that she rather liked Merlin. She liked the friendly way he occasionally swung his head and blew at Lord Braybrook’s mount. And once or twice lipped at Lord Braybrook’s breeches. At least, she assumed he was only using his lips.

It would be nice to ride him again.

She flinched away from the thought. Becoming fond of Merlin would be as foolish as becoming fond of Lady Braybrook’s cat. Or feeling herself to be part of the family. This was not her place. The landing—that was her place; no matter how kind and considerate the family might be, she was not one of them. She would do far better to take her cue from his lordship’s hauteur and remember that she was not riding for her own pleasure. That was incidental. His lordship had insisted because it made her more useful to him.

‘Dare you attempt a canter, Miss Daventry?’

This appalling suggestion broke in on her thoughts just as they came out of the woods on to a sunny watermeadow.

‘A canter?’ He’d said
dare
, curse him! ‘Of course, my lord.’

Something that might have been a smile flickered across that impassive countenance. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Shorten your reins a little, but don’t put any more pressure on his mouth. It is just to give you a little more control
if
you need it.’

Carefully she followed his instructions.

‘Good. Now—sit up, and give him a kick.’

She did. Merlin remained in a trot.

‘His ribs are quite strong. You won’t break him,’ came the comment.

She tried again. And found herself swinging along a great deal faster, his lordship’s horse keeping pace beside them. It was…exhilarating. She could feel the wind rushing past, feel the power of the horse surging beneath her, part of her. It was like…like flying.

It was also a great deal more comfortable. Nowhere near as much bouncing.

‘I’m doing it!’ she said in breathless delight. ‘And I’m not bouncing any more!’

‘Merlin’s paces are particularly smooth,’ was the dampening rejoinder.

Killjoy.

‘I
beg
your pardon?’

Blushing, Christy realised she had spoken aloud.

Buoyed by her delight, and determined not to be cowed, she repeated obligingly, ‘Killjoy.’ And flicked a glance at him.

He was grinning. Laughing with her. Something leapt inside her, bubbling, part of the mad delight of the swinging motion beneath her and the glorious summer’s day.

Killjoy?
Julian fought not to laugh out loud as he rode beside her. He should have known. He’d taught both Emma and Davy to ride. How could he have forgotten that moment of joy on their faces when they first broke out of a trot? How could he have forgotten his own first canter? The sudden realisation of power coiled beneath him. The sensation that one had somehow harnessed the wind…

He set his jaw. He had not forgotten. But Miss Daventry was the governess. The companion. He had no business to feel her triumph so keenly. No business to note the flush on her cheeks, the sparkle behind the spectacles. Definitely no business remembering the firm suppleness of her waist, the dainty ankle in Serena’s old boot. He took a deep breath and willed his blood to
steady. He certainly had no business thinking of another way to bring a flush to her cheeks.

He rode on in silence, ignoring her, except for necessary instructions. For her part, Miss Daventry appeared to have taken the hint. She volunteered nothing further, but obeyed him in silence. Exactly the way it should be. Except she was still flushed, smiling. After half a mile he said, ‘Sit up straight and feel his mouth by closing your fingers, then pull him in gently.’ He watched carefully as she obeyed, matching his pace to hers. Somewhat to his surprise, she managed quite well, Merlin responding to her hands. They came to a halt. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think we can dispense with this.’ And he leaned down and removed the leading rein. Looking up, he met Miss Daventry’s shocked gaze.

‘But—’

‘If he really decided to go, I probably wouldn’t be able to hold him,’ he told her. ‘That was just until you felt in control. He’s very quiet. You know how hard you had to kick to make him canter.’ Seeing that she still looked slightly nervous, he said, ‘Miss Daventry, whatever you may think of my duty of care to you, trust me when I say that I do not take risks with my horses!’

Behind the spectacles her eyes narrowed. Not a flicker of her mouth as she said, ‘A point indeed, my lord.’ But that blasted dimple was there—hidden laughter. Hidden pleasure beckoning unbearably.

With a curt nod to her to follow, he rode on.

The river slid and sparkled beside them, the wooded hills rising on either side. Further up, the river went into a gorge and they would meet the others coming back. Unless they took a track up into the forest, but he hoped they would wait before doing that. Being alone with Miss Daventry was dangerous. Not because he thought she had the least idea of entangling him, nor yet because he intended to entangle her, but because the curiosity to know what would happen if he did so, shocked him.

So where in Hades were his siblings?

Laughter and hoofbeats came from the trees and sure enough,
a moment later, they appeared. The little group had been enlarged. Two young men now rode with them.

Julian recognised them. Harry Daventry and Ned Postleton—the squire’s son—riding either side of Lissy. Neither man was bothering to look ahead towards where he sat awaiting them with Miss Daventry. Both were competing for Lissy’s attention.

But as he watched, Lissy leaned towards Daventry and spoke, nodding and pointing with her whip. Daventry looked towards them and even at fifty yards Julian saw puzzlement on his face. Lissy said something else, and the puzzlement vanished. Every line hardened as he stared towards his sister. With a brief word and nod to Lissy, he spurred forwards, then pulled up beside them, his face grim. ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ he said. The young horse he rode fidgeted, tossing its head and mouthing the bit.

‘Good afternoon, Daventry,’ returned Julian. ‘I don’t need to introduce you to our companion, do I?’

‘No, my lord. You do not.’ It was said between gritted teeth. Daventry turned to his sister. ‘What are you about? What are you doing here? Why are you not in Bristol?’ His voice indicated the complete opposite of delight. A surge of anger rippled through Julian. No matter how shocked the cub was, at least he could greet his sister civilly! He waited for Miss Daventry to annihilate the boy.

‘Did you not receive my letter?’ she asked in diffident tones. ‘I sent it last week, as soon as I knew I was coming. It should have reached you.’

Daventry flushed. ‘I…a letter came yesterday.’ His scarlet deepened. ‘I have been very busy. Sir John has had a great deal of work for me.’

There was just the slightest pause, before Miss Daventry said, ‘Of course.’ There was no hint of reproach or hurt in her tone, but Julian shot her a glance. Her mouth was more than ordinarily firm, controlled. As though she held something in check.

‘Then this is a pleasant surprise for you, Daventry,’ said Julian. He fought to keep anger from his voice. If Daventry chose not to open his sister’s letter, it was no business of
his
.

‘As you say, my lord,’ said Daventry, his lips stiff. ‘I should like to speak to my sister privately, if you—’ He broke off as his horse danced and flung its head up at the approach of the rest of the party.

‘Is this not a lovely surprise, Mr Daventry?’ called Lissy. ‘I told the others not to breathe a word when we saw you! Miss Daventry is to be Mama’s companion and my governess. Oh, Miss Daventry, this is Mr Postleton.’

Davy scowled. ‘She’s my governess too! She’s teaching me French.’

Lissy ignored that. ‘And Mama says that when she is unable to chaperon me, Miss Daventry may do it, so I dare say you will see a great deal of her, sir.’ She smiled at Harry.

Neither Mr Postleton nor Mr Daventry looked in the least gratified by the intelligence that in future Miss Trentham’s chaperon would have the use of her legs.

‘Didn’t know you had a sister, Daventry.’ Postleton’s eyes slid over Christy. Julian bristled as Postleton raised his hat, his eyes weighing up and assessing charms. ‘Afternoon, ma’am.’

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Miss Daventry acknowledged the greeting with cool good manners.

Julian edged his mount closer, for some unspecified reason wishing to shield Miss Daventry from Postleton’s attention. The younger man’s gaze swung his way and became a knowing smirk.

He turned back to Miss Daventry. ‘Braybrook’s mounted you well, I see.’ His voice was all innocence, but Julian froze. Better not to react. It was possible that Postleton had made the remark innocently.

‘As you see,’ said Miss Daventry in an expressionless voice. ‘This is Lady Braybrook’s old hack. I have not ridden before.’

‘Ah. Dare say you’re not up to a gallop, then.’

Harry frowned slightly, staring at Postleton, but nothing in Miss Daventry’s expression suggested that she saw anything suggestive in Postleton’s remarks.

Postleton turned to Lissy. ‘Miss Trentham, would you care for a gallop? Slow going when Braybrook’s got your governess to consider.’

‘Oh, well…’ She glanced at Miss Daventry and then at Julian for permission. He nodded. ‘Yes, you and Emma and Matt if he wishes it.’ Postleton might indulge in crude innuendo over the governess, but he was not fool enough to pass the line with Miss Trentham of Amberley.

Postleton looked less than enthused at this addition to the party, saying merely, ‘After you, Miss Trentham, Miss Emma.’

‘Can I go?’ pleaded Davy.

‘No,’ said Julian, and before his little brother could object, said, ‘You are going to have a jumping lesson over that log while Miss Daventry speaks to her brother. Off you go. I’ll follow, but no jumping until I say so. Not even by accident. If you can’t stop Star, I’ll put you on this leading rein and mount you on a complete slug for a month.’

Davy brightened and trotted towards the log.

Julian glanced at Miss Daventry, who said, ‘I think you covered everything, my lord.’ The dimple flickered.

He snorted. ‘You have to with that one. Be warned, ma’am!’

C
hristy watched for a moment as he followed his brother and then turned to her brother, who was staring at her, his mouth hard.

‘He seems mighty familiar with you. Dammit, Christy! How am I supposed to support the character of a gentleman, if my sister is seen to be—’

‘Seen to be what, Harry?’ she snapped. ‘Supporting herself and saving for her old age? What was I supposed to do when you sold the house? Starve politely?’ She dragged in a breath, reaching for self-control at the same time. ‘No. Don’t let us quarrel. Shall we try again?’ She managed a smile. ‘It’s lovely to see you. Are you well? Is that your horse?’

He shrugged, still looking annoyed. ‘I’m well enough. And this is one of Sir John’s youngsters. His Grace mentioned in his letter of recommendation that I was good with young horses. What the devil are you doing here, Christy? Why, of all positions, did you apply for this one?’

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘His lordship visited me. I explained it all in my letter.’

‘What?’
His jaw hardened. ‘Why the hell would he do that? Dammit, Christy! His reputation—’ He broke off. ‘How did he find you? I suppose he’s been nosing around—spying!’

She shrugged. ‘I have not the least notion. But he called while
your friend Goodall was there. We talked, and he offered me the position. After he had sent Goodall on his way.’

‘He
what
?’

She held his gaze. ‘Some of the contents of the house were
mine
, Harry. Goodall seemed not to understand that.’

‘Dash it, Christy!’ he said furiously. ‘What need did you have for them if the house is to be sold?’

‘None,’ she told him. ‘But I do need the money. I have arranged for their separate sale.’ She saw no need to inform him that she had kept some of the smaller items their mother had left her, as well as most of the books. Better that he thought them sold and gone.

His eyes shifted a little. ‘Well, of course I would have given you your share of the money. And that does not explain why you accepted this position!’

‘Why should I not?’

‘Because he’s using you to get at me! Surely you can see that?
Leave my sister alone, sir, and yours is safe
—it’s obvious!’

Christy thanked a benevolent deity that Harry had not realised the full deviousness of Lord Braybrook’s plan.

‘And I suppose he wants you to spy on myself and Al—Miss Trentham!’ snarled Harry.

Christy bit her lip. She’d known he wouldn’t be overjoyed to see her, but this bitterness…

‘No more than any other governess or chaperon,’ she told him, denying the small dagger of hurt. ‘And what is there to spy on? You are always at pains to assure me that you are a gentleman. Therefore I can expect you to behave as one, can I not?’

‘Dammit, Christy! That is not what I meant!’ He changed the subject. ‘How do you know Braybrook means honestly by you?’

‘He has given me no reason to distrust him,’ she said quietly. ‘My bedchamber is two down from Lady Braybrook’s own. I am to spend my days with either Lady Braybrook or with the younger children or Miss Trentham. Beyond my function within the household, he has no interest in me whatsoever. He is hardly the sort to threaten
me
because he disapproves of
you
!’

Harry snorted. ‘And just how many governesses do you imagine Braybrook has favoured with a riding lesson?’ he snapped. ‘Not to mention a new riding habit! I know
you
would not have purchased such a thing.’

Christy flushed. ‘Since her maid would have little use for it, Lady Braybrook gave it to me so that I could ride with her daughters. His lordship was kind enough to give me a lesson for the same reason. Apparently Miss Trentham is in the habit of giving the grooms the slip and riding alone.’ She watched him, wondering…

Harry said nothing, but his shifting gaze and sulky mouth were answer enough. Easy enough for Alicia to know Harry’s day off and ride out, or walk out if necessary. Especially with her mother chair-bound. More anger at Harry bubbled up. She held it down. No need to say anything. It would be harder for Alicia to play that trick now.

‘Now don’t jag his mouth this time! That’s it! Well done!’

Glancing over, Christy saw Davy bring his pony around, and canter back to face the jump again, blazing triumph on his face. She knew exactly how he felt. A glance at Lord Braybrook discovered an equal triumph and pride on his face, as he watched his younger brother. A rush of warm delight stole over her. Such a simple foolish thing—

‘Christy! Are you listening?’

She dragged her attention back from his lordship. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

‘That it would be better if you resigned. Returned to Bristol.’

She stared. ‘On what pretext?’

He scowled. ‘Anything. Say you’ve received a better offer. Or that you don’t like the country. Lord knows you never have!’

‘I’ve never had the opportunity!’ she said. ‘And I find that I like the country very well.’ She did too. She had not realised how hemmed in, confined she had felt by town.

‘Well, a better offer then.’

With the wage he was paying her, his lordship would know that for a lie instantly. ‘As governess
and
companion I am being paid better than I could hope to achieve elsewhere. His lordship is not an idiot. Besides, where should I go?’

Harry was still trying to come up with reasons for Christy’s swift departure ten minutes later when Alicia and the others came trotting back.

Alicia smiled at them benevolently. ‘You must ride over on Wednesday, Mr Daventry,’ she said. ‘I am sure Mama will be able to spare Miss Daventry for an hour or so.’

‘Wednesday?’ queried Christy.

Harry scowled. ‘My day off,’ he said, not sounding pleased with Alicia’s suggestion. At her startled glance, he forced a smile and added, ‘Perhaps you could ask for Wednesdays off, Christy. Then we could meet for part of it. Sometimes.’

Summoning all her powers of diplomacy, Christy said, ‘I shall mention it to Lady Braybrook.’ Along with the information that it was Harry’s day off. She could just imagine how many times he would fail to arrive at an arranged meeting with his sister and later plead an unavoidable engagement!

Lord Braybrook trotted up with Davy. ‘We should be going home now, you four. You may ride ahead if you like.’

The four younger members of the party rode off, waving farewells.

Braybrook turned to Harry and Postleton. ‘Good day, gentlemen. Daventry, I’m sure Lady Braybrook will be amenable to you visiting your sister.’

Christy forced a smile. ‘Thank you, my lord. I’ll see you soon then, Harry.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he muttered.

She nodded to Mr Postleton. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

‘Say rather,
au revoir
, ma’am,’ said Postleton, in an appalling accent, as he bowed extravagantly. ‘French, y’know. I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ he said, as though he thought it a high treat for her.

Christy’s temper jerked on its leash. ‘I am a governess, Mr Postleton,’ she informed him in tones of sweetest condescension. ‘I
do
recognise the French language when I hear it spoken.’

Julian choked. Definitely time to go.

‘Good afternoon, Postleton,’ he said, in as urbane a tone as he
could manage for the laughter welling up. ‘Come, Miss Daventry. We had best follow those four.’

They set off back along the meadow at a trot. Once out of earshot, he said, ‘I would advise you to be wary of Postleton, Miss Daventry. He does not always keep the line with…women.’ With women he considered his inferiors would be closer to the mark, but he could not say that.

Miss Daventry snorted. No doubt she understood exactly what he had left unsaid.

He felt his mouth twitch. ‘Could this be another reason why you consider yourself a failure as a companion.’

She pulled Merlin up. He turned, startled, to find her glaring at him, her cheeks absolutely scarlet.

‘Do you think that, my lord?’ Her contempt stung. ‘Then I dare say that you will not be in the least surprised when I inform you that Mr Postleton, no matter how distinguished his lineage, or ample his fortune, is no gentleman to indulge in such innuendo with women present! Have you no regard for your sisters?’

That caught him on the raw. So she had understood Postleton after all.

‘But they did not understand, Miss Daventry. You did. What does that say about you?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Exactly what it says of you—that I am not ignorant. And that I cannot afford the luxury of being as sheltered as your sisters!’

She nudged Merlin with her heel and rode on. At a trot. Precisely as he had taught her. For some reason that irritated him.

‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’ he snapped, bringing his horse alongside.

‘Going home!’ She bit her lip. ‘That is—back to Amberley.’

She said nothing further, but her colour remained high.

What was it about her that got under his skin? Ready to strangle Postleton himself, he’d ripped up at her for saying very much what he was thinking. She was right; innocence would leave her easy prey for men like Postleton. Or himself. What would it be like never to trust anyone fully? Never to let anyone
close, because you did not really belong anywhere or with anyone. Damn it! He was becoming maudlin. He forced his mind back to practical matters.

She sat as straight as ever in the saddle, but something about the set of her lips reminded him that they had been out quite a while. She was going to be sore.

‘Feel his mouth, Miss Daventry. We’ll slow to a walk.’

They did so without mishap.

‘Is he tired?’ asked Miss Daventry, patting Merlin’s neck. ‘He’s old, isn’t he? I’m not too heavy for him?’

Unwilling approval stabbed through him. And wry amusement. Miss Daventry hardly weighed enough for Merlin to notice. He had noticed, though. Noticed how sweet she felt as he lifted her to the saddle. Noticed the faint fresh scent of lavender that hung about her. Lavender and something else that he didn’t want to think about. Something that was Miss Daventry herself.

‘No, Miss Daventry,’ he said tightly. ‘My concern is for you. You are going to ache quite enough.’

She nodded and they rode on in uncomfortable silence.

To Julian’s relief, Davy awaited them on the other side of the woods.

‘Star is tired,’ he informed them. ‘The others
would
go too fast.’

‘Very wise,’ said Miss Daventry, smiling. ‘Do you call her Star for that pretty mark on her forehead?’

Davy looked affronted. ‘Star is a
gelding
, Miss Daventry. Don’t you know the difference?’

Now, how would prim and proper Miss Daventry get out of that? wondered Julian.

‘I’m afraid not, Davy,’ she said calmly. ‘I am dreadfully ignorant about horses. You tell me.’

Davy’s explanation of the differences between mares, geldings
and
stallions, not to mention their significance, was startlingly comprehensive. Julian concluded that Davy was picking up a good deal of information of a decidedly agricultural nature on his visits to the stables.

And all the blasted female did was nod and murmur encour
agement from time to time. Quite as if none of this surprised her. Which he admitted, it probably didn’t. If she’d understood Postleton’s less than delicate insinuations, this should hardly stretch her understanding. And at least she wasn’t enlarging Davy’s French vocabulary on the subject.

By the time they reached the stableyard, Christy knew that she had been out far too long. She looked at the cobbles. Down, it always looked further, but how to dismount? Slide? Even as she wondered, his lordship dismounted, tossed his reins to a groom and moved towards Merlin.

Her body tensed, remembering his hands on her waist, her ankle. No. She kicked her left foot from the stirrup, unhooked her right leg from the pommel, and slid.

It was much further than she had realised and the cobbles a great deal harder. Her legs gave way, collapsing under her.

He caught her, hauling her against his chest before she actually hit the cobbles. Shocked, she clung to him, conscious of the mingled odours of horse, leather and warm, slightly sweaty male.

‘What the devil did you do that for?’ came the clipped, furious voice. ‘I warned you that you would be sore!’

Annoyed, she pushed to be free, but her legs wobbled despicably and his lordship ignored her feeble attempt and kept an arm around her.

‘You didn’t warn me my legs wouldn’t work!’ she said crossly.

He snorted. ‘Given that they must feel like chewed string, I didn’t think it necessary!’

‘Is Miss Daventry all right, Julian?’ came a younger voice.

Matthew stood there, his jacket slung over one shoulder. ‘Shall I help her up to the house?’

‘Yes,’ said his lordship. ‘If you have seen to your horse.’

‘Oh, yes. We walked the last bit to cool them down,’ said Matthew. ‘Take my arm, Miss Daventry.’

He held it out and Christy took it gratefully, trying an experimental step. Chewed string, indeed! She was furiously aware of
Lord Braybrook hovering. Not exactly protectively, more like a hawk waiting to swoop. Her legs held and she tried another step.

‘That’s it, Miss Daventry, said Matthew encouragingly. ‘You shouldn’t have jumped down like that, though. Lucky Julian was there. I thought you would land on the cobbles.’

‘Damned lucky,’ came a mutter from behind her.

Determinedly Christy looked back and met the blue eyes.

His lordship’s face was set hard. She repressed a shiver, trying to ignore the memory of his body, hard and powerful, pressed against her own. As though…as though he owned it.

‘Thank you, sir. For the lesson, and your patience.’

The line of his mouth flattened even further.

‘You’re welcome, ma’am. Good day.’

He caught up Merlin’s bridle and led him away.

Christy turned back to Matthew. She could recognise a dismissal when it slapped her.

Julian watched her go from the refuge of Merlin’s stall. God help him, he could still feel the imprint of that slender body. Small breasts crushed against him, the faint, rising scent of lavender. And a wisp of escaping hair, curling around her brow. Tawny brown glinting gold. Startled, mismatched eyes behind the misleading spectacles, and soft, slightly parted lips.