The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (12 page)

“He’s the one on the white pony. Wait until you see him up close,” she gushed. “He looks exactly like that James Bond actor.”

“Daniel Craig?” I asked, suddenly very interested.

“No, no, not that
blond
man,” she sniffed. “The really handsome one before him. Pierce Brosnan.”

At that, she proceeded to jump up and down and wave until the riders couldn’t help but notice. Terrified that her flailing arms would spook the horses, I took a step back and felt my heel squelch and sink into something soft. Manure. Mortified, I surreptitiously wiped my heel on a patch of grass and moved back to Orietta’s side as the man on the white pony trotted over to us. As he got closer I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Polo
pony
my ass, the horse was huge, and it was breathing hard, red nostrils flaring, veins popping all over its body, it looked like it belonged to one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

The rider removed his helmet and I felt a smile spread across my face. He really did look like Pierce Brosnan. My odds of falling in love with a rich man just improved.

“Hello, Orietta, it’s been ages,” he beamed. “How have you been? Anthony well?”

“We’re both divine. Scott Madewell, this is Lady Katharine Shaw,” she said proudly. “But she prefers Lady Kate.”

I smiled up at him. One thing was for sure; he was handsome and very sexy. He managed to be masculine even in a yellow polo shirt and tight white riding pants. I guessed he was in his late fifties, older even; I’d never been attracted to a man his age before and wondered briefly what sex with a man his age would be like. Not that it mattered. Scott was indisputably attractive—I could picture him in a tuxedo ordering a martini, shaken, not stirred all right. My confidence began to rise. To him I was still a pretty young thing.

“Lady Kate, it’s such an honor to have you in our little corner of the world,” he said graciously. Our eyes met and lingered.
Ding, ding, ding
. I felt a definite spark flare up between us. This day wasn’t a dud after all. Screw New York and Ann’s sofa! To heck with Griff and his blond friend! I was in the presence of a true gentleman.

“Lovely to meet you, but please just call me Kate,” I said with a note of flirtatiousness. What sort of compliment do you give a polo player? “Good riding,” I said as poised as I could. Then immediately second-guessed if that was a dumb thing to say. Apparently not. He jumped down from his horse—in my opinion a clear signal that he was interested—so I continued my horsey-set small talk.

“How often do you play?”

“Not nearly enough to beat the Argentineans today,” he said with mock solemnity, then asked me. “Do you play?”

“No,” I answered quickly, then immediately regretted it. I needed to find common ground. Thinking fast, I added with as much authenticity as I could muster; “I mean, my family used to. But we haven’t kept horses on the estate since granddaddy had a bad fall years ago, after the war.”

Orietta beamed at me, overjoyed that she’d brought an aristocrat into her inner circle.

“You sound American. Where’s your estate?” Scott asked, eyes still locked on mine, a playful grin on his worldly face.

“I live in New York,” I answered. “But I inherited the estate from my Scottish side.”

“A Scottish lass? No wonder you’re so beautiful,” he said with a naughty look. We were definitely getting somewhere, and fast. Then
he asked something that tripped me up completely. “What sort of game do you keep there?”

I didn’t know what to say; I was much better at flirting than discussing my fake past. My mind raced for an answer. “Croquet,” I said at last. But from his puzzled expression I knew it was the wrong answer. “We play cricket, too, but only during summer,” I continued hopefully. He seemed to be stifling a laugh.

Orietta cleared her throat. “That’s very nice, Lady Kate, but I think what Scott meant was what shooting birds are on your estate, such as grouse.”

Now it was my eyes that widened, only in horror.

“Oh, you mean animals!” I laughed as if it were Scott who had made the error. “No birds, unless you count peacocks.” But that sounded dumb, too, so I quickly added, “We have cattle. We keep Highland cattle.” Good God, what had gotten into me? I knew nothing about cattle. But Scotland had highlands didn’t it? Wasn’t that a good place for cows? He smiled politely but I couldn’t tell by his expression if he was impressed or more confused.

“So, is this your first polo match?” he asked, wisely changing the subject.

“Yes it is,” I admitted. “I loved it. I would definitely watch another match.”

“But there is still half a game left to see.” The voice came from over my shoulder with an accent that packed a sultry European punch. I watched as a young woman looked straight through me and beamed her assets at Scott. She had long blond hair, which, as she got closer, I could see were extensions. She had large breasts that were corseted inside a push-up bra, and bee-stung lips painted a dewy pink. Her dress was pale lavender and she wore silver gladiator sandals. She couldn’t be older than twenty-one, if that. She glided up to Scott and curled herself around him. I felt invisible.

“This is Tatiana,” Scott announced. “She’s visiting from Slovenia. Aren’t you, my dear?”

“I am,” she purred and kissed his cheek.

Well, that’s that, I thought. So typical that all the interesting men were taken and by girls young enough to be their daughters. What an
idiot I was assuming that at forty, I would be young enough! I sized up Tatiana. She would be tough to beat. I felt my confidence sinking once more. She could write the damn article better than me!

“This is Orietta del Bianco, she’s Palm Beach’s most elegant hostess,” he said making pitch-perfect introductions. “And this is her friend Kate.”

Tatiana gave me a critical up-and-down gaze, but laid on the charm when she spoke.

“Nice to meet you, I hope you enjoy your visit here.” Then she sniffed dismissively and turned her eyes back to Scott. I instantly despised her. Just then Orietta’s cell phone blared.

“Hi, Anthony,” she squeaked. “Oh, all right, I’m on my way.” She snapped her phone shut. “I have to race back to the clubhouse; one of my husband’s business partners just showed up with his new girlfriend and his ex-wife is livid and has thrown vodka in the poor girl’s face.”

“How awful!” I said.

“I can take you in my golf cart,” Scott offered generously.

But Orietta wouldn’t hear of it. And she flatly refused my offer to walk back with her. “You stay here and learn about polo,” she said with an obvious wink and darted away, leaving me alone with the happy couple.

“Do you play polo?” I asked Tatiana.

“I can ride,” she said, tearing her eyes off Scott just long enough to answer. “But I do dressage. It’s much harder than polo.”

“That’s not true,” I corrected her, even though I hadn’t a fucking clue what dressage was, but I did have a clue how men liked to be defended.

“Oh, do you ride, too?” she asked me with a raised eyebrow.

“Whenever I can,” I lied. Then I turned my attention to the animal in front of us. “Very beautiful horse. What’s his name?”

“Jackson,” Scott said proudly. “You can give him a pat, if you like.”

I froze, not expecting such an invitation.

“I don’t want to get dirty,” I said with a smile, using the white dress as an excuse for the third time that day, but Tatiana wasn’t buying it. It was as though she could smell my fear and wanted to go in for the kill.

“Oh, come on,” she said, taunting me. “Don’t worry about your dress. Scott keeps his horses very clean.”

Damn her. I had no choice but to step forward and touch the horse. I could feel their eyes on me as I inched toward Jackson. I was just within reach, my heart pounding, trying to steady my hand to stroke him, when he suddenly shook his head like a wet dog, sending sweat flying everywhere, followed by a huge roaring sneeze that sounded like an elephant. I felt the spray hit my face, my chest, and arms. If you think horse sweat is bad, you haven’t seen the amount of snot that comes out of a horse’s nostrils. I couldn’t help it, I screamed and leapt backward, but instead of hitting solid ground my heel slipped in and I fell toward the moist, soft earth that wasn’t earth, but manure. I landed with a squishy thud and felt the dampness soak through my dress. If sitting in fresh manure wasn’t bad enough, try doing it with a gorgeous billionaire and his catty girlfriend watching. I tried not to squirm but couldn’t get my heels to grip in the soft ground. As any gallant gent would, Scott rushed to my side and helped me up. But it was too late for the white cotton eyelet; the skirt was stained greenish brown, the bodice strewn with green and white goo.

“I’m so sorry,” he fussed. “Your dress.”

“It will be fine,” I said swiftly, desperate to appear unflustered. He handed me a towel and I wiped off my chest and arms, but there was no denying the dress was ruined.

“You should go home,” Tatiana chirped. She was holding Jackson and trying not to laugh, but not trying too hard. “Get some cold water and baking soda.”

“Yes, I have to get changed,” I agreed. “But I’ll be back.”

“Let me drive you,” Scott offered firmly. “I can take you to your car in the golf cart.”

I contemplated his offer. It would mean time alone with him. But under such embarrassing circumstances I couldn’t do it.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” I smiled through gritted teeth. “Please go back to your polo game.”

I had no choice but to turn my stained backside to them and march away as though everything were perfectly normal and I did not have manure smeared across my bum.

As I slunk toward the clubhouse someone with an accent called out to me. And no, it wasn’t Bernardo.

“What the bloody hell happened to you?”

It was Griff again. Why I didn’t just keep moving I have no idea; instead, I stopped in my tracks, huffing and puffing, as he emerged from a horse trailer.

“It’s not blood. It’s horseshit,” I retorted sarcastically, feeling no need to be polite after how he’d treated me. “I fell into a pile of manure.”

I could see Griff trying to contain his laughter. My temperature rose.

“Look, we started off on the wrong foot,” he said with sudden kindness. “Let me take you back to your hotel; you can get changed and we’ll see if we can’t cheer you up over drinks.”

As if I would spend time with him—after how he’d treated me. If Austen’s books taught me anything, it was how to spot the wrong sort of man! I looked him up and down. He didn’t even know how to dress for a polo tournament. Definitely not a gentleman. His charm was all in the accent anyway. He could fool younger girls, like that blonde, but he couldn’t fool me. I swept my hair from my face and said coolly, “No thank you. I have other plans.”

“Very well,” he said, clearly amused.

I stomped away determined to prove that I could land in shit and come out smelling like a rose.

I
t wasn’t only the dress that was ruined. My hair had managed of its own volition to do what no hair product could make it be—limp and straight, yet soap opera big, due to the humidity and the various tangled clumps jutting out in all directions, all with added shine gleaned from being dampened by sweat. Then there was my face. My skin was greasy, as though I had emerged from a pot of boiling water, and what makeup remained was either smeared across my cheeks or caked in the tiny creases around my eyes and mouth. One thing was certain; there was no way I could set foot inside
that
clubhouse looking like this. I cowered behind a limousine and tried desperately to recall Orietta’s cell phone number when a woman’s voice called out to me.

“Hello there!”

I raised my head reluctantly, embarrassed at being caught crouching behind a limo, to see the lady in gray, Fawn Chamberlain, in the next parking space gazing down from the sunroof of a gray Rolls-Royce. The car was the same gray as her dress and fascinator, she held a glass of champagne in one hand, and eyeglasses in the other, which she put on to examine me in more detail. I expected an admonishment, but her tone was sympathetic and right then I needed any help I could get.

“Have you had an accident?” she asked, clearly searching for a plausible explanation for my state of dress.

“You might say that,” I admitted and slunk toward her, my hands clasping my skirt behind me to hide the manure stains. “I ran into some trouble on the polo field.”

“Sat in trouble, is more like it.” She grinned. “Need a lift back home?”

“That would be awesome,” I said and chided myself for sounding like a schoolgirl. “But don’t you want to watch the rest of the game?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, as if astounded by my suggestion. “I always leave after the fifth chukka, otherwise it’s hell getting out of the parking lot.”

“I’m staying at The Breakers,” I added in the hopes she wouldn’t think me a total loser. She nodded and disappeared into the car as if she’d fallen through a trap door, then the passenger door opened and she waved me toward her.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” I hesitated, seeing the polished leather seats.

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

I gestured to her pristine automobile. “That’s an expensive car and my dress has seen better days.”

“Oh, I see,” she responded with a burst of laughter. She had a robust laugh, not at all ladylike but like a woman who spent her days in pool halls with hard-drinking men. “I have something you can sit on.”

Fawn spread a beach towel out on the passenger seat and I sat down gingerly, fastening my seat belt tightly, determined not to move an inch. The car was enormous, more like a yacht than an automobile, but that seemed the norm in Palm Beach. I was certainly getting around—first a Bentley, now a Rolls, and in between a pile of horseshit.

“Breakers, you said?” she asked and hit the accelerator. I braced myself, anticipating a mighty lurch, but the Rolls glided forward as though it were a warm knife slicing through butter.