London Season Matchmaker Box Set: Regency Romance

by Lucy Adams

  Much to his surprise, the young boy blushed furiously, making a small stab of guilt launch itself into Matthew’s heart. The boy clearly knew that Matthew was being a little sarcastic in his questions and did not quite know how to respond. Thrusting the guilt aside and telling himself that he had no need to worry over the lad’s welfare, given that he was a mere stranger who had simply walked into Matthew’s stall without so much as a “by your leave”—Matthew cleared his throat and pinned the boy with a stern gaze. He would have to learn that, if he wished to be a jockey, then there were ways to go about such things.

  “I am not well known,” the boy replied, his voice hoarse. “I have no particular understanding as to what I am to do nor where I am to go if I wish to be a jockey, my lord.”

  “I believe you mean, ‘Your Grace,’” Matthew corrected, seeing how the boy’s head shot up, his eyes flaring wide, before dropping his head again. “I am a duke after all, and this is my horse.” He frowned, seeing how Beauchamp seemed to have taken to the lad, for he was busy snuffling at the boy’s pockets. “Although Beauchamp does seem to like you, I will admit.”

  The boy nodded but still did not look at Matthew, one hand reaching up to stroke Beauchamp’s velvety nose. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he murmured, his face a little flushed with embarrassment. Matthew felt his anger begin to fade away, realizing that the boy had not meant any harm by coming to see Beauchamp. He was clearly just lost in his own dream of being a jockey and had not come to harm Beauchamp in any way. He studied the boy, seeing how small and light he appeared to be, with a thin frame and a delicate face. The boy clearly had not yet met with adulthood, but that would soon come upon him.

  He would make an excellent jockey if he could ride.

  Matthew flung the idea far from him at once. He already had a jockey, he thought, reminding himself that he had Nathanial Rigby, who had won the previous week’s race…albeit on a different horse.

  “I would ensure this fellow won every single race he entered,” the boy said, surprising Matthew with the confidence that filled every word. “He needs a gentle hand, I think. He should not be tugged this way and that, nor hit with the crop. Instead, he should be allowed to ride with all speed and determination that he has within him.” The boy looked back at Matthew, one eyebrow lifted slightly. “Can your jockey do that?”

  “I am certain that he will,” Matthew responded, surprised that the boy seemed to know so much about this horse after only such a short time and certainly having never seen him raced before. He frowned, thinking of how little time his jockey spent with his horses, for Nathanial Rigby had a good deal of confidence in his own ability and had eschewed any suggestion that he might want to spend some time with the mount he was to ride in whatever race was to follow.

  “Tell me,” Matthew said with a small smile that told the boy he was merely being polite. “How many races have you won?”

  The boy’s green eyes darted away, back to Beauchamp, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. “I have never formally raced,” he began, spreading his hands. “I have so often been refused due to my supposed youth and inexperience, but that is the failing of them, not of my own. If they gave me the opportunity to prove to them that I can ride even more proficiently than their own jockeys, then they would see that I could do precisely what I state.”

  “I see,” Matthew replied with a wry smile. “I must apologize then, that I too must do as others have done before me and refuse to accept you as one of my jockeys.” He stepped to one side and gestured to the door. “If you would, please.”

  The boy sighed audibly, ran one hand down Beauchamp’s side and then rubbed his velvety nose one last time. Then, he made his way towards the door, muttering something under his breath as he passed Matthew.

  “I thank you for your willingness to listen to me at the very least,” the lad said, throwing the words over his shoulder as he began to walk away. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  “You speak very well for a hopeful jockey,” Matthew commented, seeing the boy turn around, surprise etched in his expression along with what Matthew believed to be a flicker of guilt. A suspicion began to rise in his mind as he took a couple of steps closer. “Tell me, what is your name? And where do you hail from? I ask only so that I can seek you out should I decide to give you the opportunity to prove yourself.”

  The boy opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I come from a family that does not approve of my desire to ride,” he said eventually, confirming Matthew’s suspicions all the more. “That is why I speak well, as you have noticed.”

  “And why you have not had, as yet, any particular experience,” Matthew added, seeing the boy’s jerky nod. So, the boy was from a refined family, most likely, which meant that he did not have the support of his father in seeking to be a jockey for the races. It also explained his excellent speech and manner. “So, what is your name, if you please?”

  The boy turned his face away, his cheeks a little flushed. “Christopher,” he replied with a lift of one shoulder. “Christopher Leighton.”

  “Leighton,” Matthew murmured, again thinking that this was an excellent name and probably came from an excellent family. “Then I wish you the very best, Leighton, in seeking to pursue what you love.” He shrugged. “If there was a way to permit you to prove yourself to me as regards riding, then I should be glad to offer it to you, but as I have said, I already have a jockey who has won races for me before.”

  The boy nodded, appearing quite miserable, for his gaze remained downcast. “I quite understand, Your Grace,” he responded, inclining his head. “If you will excuse me.”

  With that, he turned around and left Matthew and Beauchamp, his shoulders slumped and his steps heavy. Matthew could not help but chuckle, wondering just how long it would be before the boy was hauled into line by his father or his mother and told in no uncertain terms that he was to do as he was told without question. If his father was titled, then the boy would have to learn that a good many things came from having a place in high society. Most likely, he would forget about this desire to be a jockey and would fall into line, just as so many gentlemen had been required to do before.

  Turning around, Matthew made his way back to the stall and discovered that his jockey was, finally, waiting for him inside. He showed no interest in Beauchamp, however, for he did not even go over to the horse but rather merely glanced at the stallion with apparent disinterest.

  “Ah, Rigby,” Matthew said at once, gesturing towards Beauchamp. “This is my latest purchase. I believe I am the envy of a good many gentlemen.” He chuckled at this, recalling how there had been many disgruntled fellows at Tattersall when he had been the one to secure Beauchamp. “He is an excellent horse by all accounts, and when his racing comes to an end, I intend to put him out to stud.”

  Rigby sighed and nodded, his eyes a little weary as he threw another glance up towards the horse.

  “Do you think you will be able to win this race?” Matthew asked, trying not to be irritated by the jockey’s manner. “The Gold Cup is in a month’s time, and you know very well the prestige that comes with winning such a race.”

  “Yes, I do,” Rigby replied with an air of dissatisfaction. “But if you want me to race for you, then I want a bit more coin.” He continued on as Matthew’s brows lowered. “I’ve won a good few races for you so far this year, and I don’t make as much as some of the other jockeys. And you being a duke and all…” He trailed off, arching one brow as though Matthew ought to understand precisely what was being said and what Rigby was asking for. Irritated, Matthew realized just how rude the fellow was being, particularly when he spoke to Matthew without correct deference nor any outward sign of respect.

  “If you win this race, then we can consider your request,” Matthew replied tightly, feeling a faint trace of anger climb up into his heart. “As I have said, Beauchamp is an excellent stallion and should, as far as I am concerned, be able to win the race this afternoon.”

&nb
sp; Rigby shrugged, sighed, and leaned back against the wall of the stall. “If you say so, Your Grace.”

  A trifle irritated and wondering if Rigby was becoming much too arrogant, Matthew gritted his teeth and tried hard to consider what he should say next that might make Nathanial Rigby realize just how much was at stake. Just because the man had won a few races did not mean that he was indispensable. After all, he had not won every race and certainly did not show a good deal of consideration for the fact that this was precisely what Matthew wanted the most. There was a good deal of prestige that came with winning the Gold Cup race that would be run in a few weeks’ time, and despite the fact he was a duke and therefore garnered respect from others simply by having such a title, Matthew wanted a little more. He wanted his horseflesh to be known throughout England as the very best of stock. He wanted the ton to know that he had won the Gold Cup and that, in doing so, had proven himself to be an excellent judge of both creature and jockey. There was a pride about it that Matthew wanted for himself. At times, he had wondered if it was solely because he wished for the ton to see him as a gentleman in his own right, not merely as a duke who had no discernable characteristics of his own. It was, Matthew considered, not something he could easily explain, but it was there, within him, nonetheless.

  “I must make myself clear, Rigby,” he said, with a firmness that seemed to catch the jockey’s attention in a way he had not done before. “This horse cost me a very great deal. I did not rush into this purchase hastily but rather did a good deal of research as to the history of the creature as well as the parentage. By all accounts, Beauchamp should win most races. Therefore, if he does not, I must question whether it is the horse or the jockey that has failed me.”

  Much to his surprise, instead of looking concerned or nodding in acknowledgement, Rigby’s brows drew down low over his eyes and his arms folded across his chest. Anger flared in the man’s eyes, his jaw set and his chest working furiously.

  “Are you suggesting that I am not a good jockey, Your Grace?” the man asked, sharply. “Or is it that you think this horse is too much for me to manage?”

  “Neither,” Matthew replied, finding the man’s attitude to be a little less than pleasant. “Merely that I find you a little arrogant of late. You believe you will win this race having not shown any interest in Beauchamp. You have not asked to saddle him up so that you might take a turn about the grounds to familiarize yourself with him, nor have you asked me about his temperament.” Recalling what the young lad had said, Matthew gestured towards the horse. “Have you considered that your usual method of crop and a tight hold on the reins might not work well for this particular horse?”

  Rigby snorted, as though Matthew were being ridiculous. “All horses react to such handling,” he said, rolling his eyes and showing such disrespect that Matthew felt his anger begin to boil within him. “I shall do just as I have always done and the horse will come in first place. There’s no need for you to doubt me.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Matthew retorted angrily. “As I have said, Rigby, if you do not achieve within the first three places, then I must consider your position here. Your arrogance has begun to cloud your judgement, your self-assurance bringing you ever closer to a fall. Be careful, Rigby. All may not be well.”

  Swinging about, Matthew strode from the stall and tried to keep a hold on his anger. His jockey had done him very well in these last few races, but the man’s attitude was becoming greatly displeasing. The way he spoke to Matthew was, in itself, an impertinence, but it was as though Rigby knew that Matthew did not have another jockey on hand who could take his place. Lifting his chin and letting the cool air brush away his hot cheeks, Matthew walked aimlessly, trying to keep a hold of his temper. He had meant every word he had said to Rigby, for if Beauchamp did not do well, then he had no doubt that it would be Rigby at fault.

  All he had to do was wait for the race to come to an end, and Rigby’s fate would be sealed. For some reason, Matthew was already beginning to think that Beauchamp would not respond well to Rigby and that, therefore, the race would not be successful. Mayhap he was wrong, but for whatever reason, he suspected that the young boy Christopher had a better insight into the type of horse Beauchamp was that Nathanial Rigby.

  Muttering darkly to himself, Matthew made his way to the end of the racecourse, allowing the time and the effort it took to walk along the path to cool his anger at Rigby’s demeanor. Mayhap everything would be quite all right. Mayhap the horse would run well and Rigby would manage to win, just as he had done before.

  That hope faded the moment Matthew saw the horses begin to charge towards the finishing line. Beauchamp was not running well, his head held back a little too tightly, his stride shortened by the obvious discomfort that the horse was in. Rigby was not giving Beauchamp his head, trying to fight for control instead of riding with the horse. Matthew shook his head, seeing not one but three horses cross the finishing line before Beauchamp did, coming in fourth with another horse. Matthew could tell from the look on Rigby’s face that he was both angry with the horse and fearful that Matthew was about to bring their partnership to an end.

  Matthew was so filled with frustration that he did not know what to do. Instead of going to Beauchamp, instead of speaking directly to Rigby and calling him out for his lack of consideration and his overwhelming arrogance, Matthew turned around and walked away. He had a good deal to think on and certainly did not want to speak rashly, but doubts were beginning to form in his mind as to whether or not Rigby would listen to any advice, acknowledge that he had been wrong, and become a meeker sort of fellow. And underneath that came the feeling that the young lad who had suddenly appeared in his stall was the right sort of person to ride Beauchamp. He had managed to get a better sense of the horse than Rigby, the experienced jockey, had done, which spoke of a true consideration of the animal.

  Shaking his head, Matthew continued to walk away from the race, his mind filled with discontent. This day had not gone as well as he had hoped it would. And that, he considered as he looked up at the sky, would fill his mind with dark clouds for some time yet.

  Chapter Two

  “Must we go?”

  Catherine hid a smile as Dinah spoke the very words that had been on her own mind for the entire morning, seeing how her mother sighed heavily at the question.

  “Yes, Dinah, we must,” Lady Whitehaven replied. “It is the height of the Season! Why would we refuse to attend an event such as this? It is quite the opportunity, and most young ladies would be delighted to attend it.”

  The event this evening was to be a ball, thrown by the Duke of Blackwell, who was one of England’s most eligible bachelors according to the gossip. He had a grand townhouse in London, but the ball was being thrown at his large estate near Ascot, some miles out of London. Thankfully, there was more than enough space for people to reside overnight, and Lady Whitehaven had been thrilled to receive an invitation. Unfortunately, neither Catherine nor Dinah were at all pleased.

  “But it is so very far,” Dinah complained, shaking her head. “And we are not to waste our time on things that lack worth.”

  Most likely, that is a repeating of something that was said during the service last Sunday, Catherine thought to herself, a slight nudge of guilt in her own heart that she had not been paying a good deal of attention that day and that she could not recall anything specific of what had been said.

  “It is not lacking worth!” Lady Whitehaven stated firmly. “It is to be a wonderful evening, where both yourself and Catherine can have the opportunity to present yourselves to old acquaintances and make new acquaintances thereafter. I have hope for you both that you might yet discover a happiness with a sensible gentleman.”

  Catherine just managed to prevent herself from rolling her eyes at this remark, seeing how Dinah went a slow shade of red at Lady Whitehaven’s remark. Dinah appeared to be entirely disinterested in the Season, in the same way as Catherine was, but for very different reasons. Since losing her p
arents some years ago, Dinah had become very devout and considered most things to be worldly and frivolous. This included expensive gowns, balls, dancing, and all other forms of entertainment, for Dinah much preferred to read quietly and to spend time praying. It was not something that Catherine had any desire to mock nor disdain, for she could not imagine what it must be like to have lost both loving parents in one horrible moment. However, this Season, since returning to London, Catherine had noticed that Dinah appeared to be a little less studious and a trifle more interested in all that went on about her. Of course, she still protested about attending balls and the like, but it was a little less vehement than before.

  “We leave within the hour, so there is no need to consider complaining as though it will change my mind,” Lady Whitehaven said dramatically, as she rose from her chair in a flurry of skirts. “Although you should be pleased, Catherine. His Grace has, from what I understand, excellent stables.”

  A sudden shiver ran down Catherine’s spine. “Indeed?” she replied, trying not to show the great rush of interest that had climbed into her mind. “I have never heard of it, I confess.”

  “Which is to be expected, given that you show such little interest in the gentlemen of the beau monde,” Lady Whitehaven replied, clearly exasperated. “Yes, the Duke of Blackwell has excellent stables and has a keen interest in horseflesh. I believe he intends to enter the Gold Cup race this year in Ascot.”

  This had Catherine’s interest flaring all the more, looking towards her mother in surprise. “Indeed?”

  “I have been speaking to my friend, Lady Wimple, whose husband is, as you know, more than interested in such things,” Lady Whitehaven replied, waving a hand as though this was not of any particular interest. “Apparently, the Duke of Blackwell has a newly purchased stallion, who did not do as well as was expected in the most recent race. Not that I care for such things, but I am certain that you should be allowed the chance to see the stallion, should you ask for it.” She let out an exasperated sigh and shook her head. “But that is only to be done on the onus that you attend the ball and behave accordingly. In the morning, before we depart, I shall arrange for you to see this ‘Beauchamp’ or whatever the creature is called.” Her eyes fixed upon Catherine’s, who suddenly found herself struggling to breathe. “What say you, my dear?”