The Deception (41 page)

“It’s perfect,” I said to Adrian. “Come down the center line and see how he holds it away from the fence.”

They made the turn.

“Think soft,” I said. “Use your back, Adrian, not your legs.”

Down the center line they came, full of impulsion, Euclide’s strides seeming to float in the air.

“And halt,” I said.

They did. Beautifully. I was grinning like a fool, and Adrian’s smile was no less wide than mine. We had been working on this
passage
for a month, and today it had been perfect.

Adrian patted Euclide and praised him, then he dismounted and gave him a piece of sugar. “He’s so light!” he said to me. “I never knew a horse could be this light.”

“Papa used to become enraged when he saw riders constantly pushing their horses into the bit with their legs,” I said. “The contact should always be soft and generous. That is the only way to have a light horse.”

We began to walk out of the ring. ‘The show is finished for today, lads,” Adrian said to the grooms who were lined up along the fence, watching him ride and keeping the dogs from getting underfoot. “Time to get back to work.”

Charlie came to take Euclide from Adrian. “That horse fair dances, my lord,” he said as Adrian handed him the stallion’s reins. “You put on a better show than anything we saw at Astley’s in London.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Adrian said with amusement.

Charlie shot him an impudent look. “If you work real hard, my lord, p’raps in a hundred years you’ll ride as good as her ladyship.”

Adrian turned to me. “Do I have to put up with this cheekiness just because he rescued you from a fate worse than death?” he complained.

“Yes,” I said. “You do.”

“Take the horse back to the stable, Charlie,” Adrian said.

Charlie grinned. “Aye, my lord.”

We walked together up the path to the house, Adrian shortening his steps to match mine, the dogs sniffing the ground in front of us. We were talking about our favorite project, which was to go to Portugal after the baby was born to try to persuade the Portuguese to sell us a Lusitano mare to breed to Euclide, when Adrian suddenly stopped dead and turned to me.

I gave him an inquiring look.

“I have just had the most wonderful idea,” he said. And fell silent.

“I can’t raise my eyebrows any higher, Adrian,” I complained. “Speak!”

“I’ve just thought of something for you to do while you’re waiting for the baby to be born,” he said. “You must write a book on equitation.”

I stared at him. “Write a book!”

His face was very serious. “What could be a more fitting tribute to your father? You always quote him to me, and everything you say is so wise, so revealing. What better way to keep his name alive than to pass that wisdom along to future generations of riders?”

“Oh, Adrian,” I said softly. “What a wonderful idea. It will make Papa live again.”

He nodded. “Make the book good enough, and he will live for as long as horses are ridden, Kate. Think of that.”

“There hasn’t been a decent equitation book in English since the Duke of Newcastle’s,” I said.

He nodded, and we talked seriously about what kind of book I could write all the way back to the house.

The nuns’ parlor on the ground floor was filled with baggage waiting to be loaded into the coach. We were leaving for London the following day so that Adrian could participate in the official opening of London’s new Waterloo Bridge. It was to be a state occasion, and the Duke of Wellington was to be present as well as the Regent and his brother, the Duke of York.

Adrian had tried to persuade me to remain in the country while he went in for the bridge opening, promising that he would be home within the week. But I had chosen to accompany him.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him to return quickly; it was that our happiness was so new that I didn’t want to be parted from him for even so short a period as a week. And Caroline was coming to London for the opening, and I wanted to see her very much.

Harry had been visiting Caroline for the last two weeks—he would be coming to London with her and would return to Greystone with us—and Paddy and Louisa had been married just before Harry left, so Adrian and I dined alone. We spent the remainder of the evening in the library, discussing an outline for my projected book. Then we went upstairs to bed.

All day long I waited for this moment, the moment when Adrian put his hands on me, and I felt the flood tide of desire surge through my body.

We would join together in the big bed, impelled by passion and by another need that went even deeper: the need to affirm our unity, our oneness, our marriage. When he was buried deep inside of me, powerful and potent, driving me, lifting me toward the heights of an almost unendurable ecstasy, then we were one. As we were one afterwards, when we lay quietly together, his arm cradling my body, my head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder.

It was then that I knew I had truly come home.

* * * *

Caroline, Harry, and I waited in the first row of spectators on the city side of the magnificent new bridge that had been designed by John Rennie and named after the battle that had ended Napoleon’s rule forever. The bridge was hung with Allied flags, and the guns had been shooting for almost a full minute, firing a 202-shot salute.

Most of the aristocratic spectators were watching the show from wherries on the river, but I had balked at the idea of getting on a boat. I was not a good sailor under the best of circumstances, and the memory of my recent morning sickness was all too vivid. Adrian had tried to convince me that the crowds that were bound to be at the bridge opening would make it no place for a pregnant lady, but I had insisted that I wanted to come. He had given in and arranged for my phaeton to be parked in a place of honor, and Caroline and Harry had come with me.

It was a glorious June day. The colors of the flags on the bridge shone brilliantly, and the barge carrying a full contingent of Waterloo heroes bobbed up and down on the sparkling water that, from where I sat, looked almost clean. A fair was being held all along the riverside, and the bright colors of the tents and the people’s clothing added to the air of festivity that surrounded the day.

The last shot boomed out across the water.

Harry stood in his stirrups to get a better view. “They’re starting to move,” he said.

A moment later, Caroline and I saw the beginning marchers in the short but eminent parade that was taking the first walk across Waterloo Bridge.

First in the procession were the Prince Regent and his brother, the Duke of York, who had been the titular commander-in-chief of the army. After the royal contingent came the Duke of Wellington, the real commander-in-chief, and the Marquis of Anglesey, who had commanded all the cavalry at Waterloo. Anglesey had left a leg behind in Belgium, and he walked with a noticeable limp. Behind Wellington and Anglesey came Adrian.

He was not alone, of course; men—all heroes of the battle—walked on either side of him. But it was at Adrian that I looked.

He had refused to wear his uniform. He had not even wanted to come, had only agreed to it on the personal request of Lord Anglesey. In the midst of a sea of smiling faces, his was sober. His head was uncovered and his hair, bared to the sun, shone like a Viking’s in the brilliant afternoon light.

It wasn’t just his beauty that drew the eye like a magnet, I thought. There was something else about him, a quality of ... I will say
nobleness
for lack of a better word. Perhaps in medieval times there had been knights like Adrian; in today’s age he had no peers.

Caroline’s voice said in my ear, “Isn’t Adrian magnificent?”

I nodded.

The crowd behind us, Londoners who had flocked to see the show, set up a roar. No one shouted for the Regent. A few called hurrahs for the Duke of York, who was more popular than his brother. Wellington, of course, was loudly applauded, and sympathy was expressed for Anglesey. But it was Adrian who got the longest and most enthusiastic round of cheers.

I thought of his tears on the field of Waterloo and knew he must be hating this. The man walking next to him said something into his ear, and I saw him shake his head.

Harry leaned down from his horse. “What’s it like to be married to such a great hero, Kate?” he asked.

I looked at him. He was laughing.

“It’s a bloody nuisance,” I said distinctly. “No one ever lets the poor man alone.”

Harry drew in his breath in a loud parody of shock. “Lady Greystone! Such language!”

“Really, Kate,” Caroline said. “Suppose someone else should hear you?”

“They will think the great hero is married to a shrew,” I said.

“He is,” Harry informed me.

I stood up and lifted my reticule as if I was going to whack him with it. He pretended to cringe away from me, lifting his arm to protect his face. He made me laugh, he looked so funny.

By now the procession had reached our end of the bridge, and I resumed my seat. The Regent and the Duke of York stepped off the bridge. The band struck up. The Duke of Wellington and Lord Anglesey disappeared behind a protective circle of Household Cavalry. Adrian veered off from the procession and began to make his way toward us through the crowd.

“You should have ridden Euclide,” I told him when he finally arrived. “Think of him
passaging
all the way across the bridge. No one would have paid any attention to you; they would all have been looking at him.”

The tense look left his face and he grinned.

“What is a
passage?”
Caroline asked.

“You will be able to read all about it in Kate’s book,” Adrian informed her.

“Kate’s
book!
What book?” Both Harry and Caroline were staring at me with looks of identical astonishment.

“The book she is going to write about equitation,” Adrian replied.

“Oh I say, Kate, that is a splendid idea!” Harry said.

“Yes,” I returned placidly. “It will be utterly brilliant, and then when Adrian and I go out together, people will look at me, not him.”

“Well, the Regent wants to look at you,” Adrian retorted.

“Now?”

“Now.” He held up his arms. “Come along, Lady Greystone, royalty awaits.”

I wrinkled my nose. I did not approve of the Regent.

“And I would like to introduce you to Anglesey,” Adrian said. “Perhaps we can get him to order copies of your book for the entire cavalry.”

“Well, they can certainly use it!” I retorted.

I placed my hands on his shoulders and felt his hands encircle my slightly swollen waist. His thumbs moved up and down in a brief, private caress, and then he was lifting me to the ground.

“You can drive Caro home,” Adrian said to his brother. “Leave your horse with me, and I’ll have someone bring him back to Grosvenor Square.”

“All right,” Harry said, beginning to dismount.

Adrian had kept one protective arm around me and I leaned against him for a minute, relishing the feel of his big, solid body against mine.

Caroline and Harry began to brangle over something trivial as he took up the reins of the phaeton. I rested against Adrian and listened to their voices, and knew that I was happy.

Harry began to back the horses.

“I hope he doesn’t run someone over,” Adrian muttered.

The sun shone warmly on my head. The sky was deeply blue. Adrian’s arm was still around my shoulder. We stood and watched until Harry was safely clear of the crowd, and then we turned and went together to meet the Regent.

For Pam, a book of her very own

Copyright © 1996 by Joan Wolf

Originally published by Warner [ISBN 0446602752]

Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.