London Season Matchmaker Box Set: Regency Romance

by Lucy Adams

  Matthew cleared his throat, knowing precisely what Miss Leighton was trying to have him understand and feeling his heart ache with the thought of having to turn his back on all that he loved. “I can see why you have done such a thing, Miss Leighton, but still I cannot allow you to be the jockey of Beauchamp, as I have already agreed.”

  Miss Leighton’s lips trembled, her cheeks paling. “Because I am a lady.”

  “Yes, precisely so.”

  “Even though I have shown you that I can ride with greater skill and confidence than any of the other jockeys.”

  “You have not proven that to me as yet, Miss Leighton,” Matthew retorted, a flash of irritation back in his heart. “You have shown me that you are better than Rigby, yes, and I will not fail to admit that you have great skill, but I cannot allow a woman to ride in the race.”

  Miss Leighton spread her arms wide. “Then allow me to ride as Leighton,” she exclaimed, as though this was the solution to their problems. “I shall continue on as I am, and you shall see that the race can be won.”

  Matthew hesitated, feeling the urge to agree growing within him but yet knowing that he could not do so. A woman did not ride and certainly did not race! If anyone were to discover it, then he would be the laughingstock of London.

  Unless she won. Then what would anyone have to say?

  “Please, Your Grace,” Miss Leighton said, sounding utterly desperate. “I know that I have done you wrong, but I meant no ill will by it. I only seek to fulfill my dreams, and this was the only way I was able to do so.”

  Shaking his head, Matthew shoved one hand through his hair, his confusion mounting. “You shall remain here, Miss Leighton, for the time being,” he said, his mind uncertain about what was best to do. “You shall work as a stable hand, if that suits you.” Looking at her again and wondering if he was asking too much of a lady of respected birth, he was not at all surprised when she nodded fervently. “But you shall not sleep in the same space as the others who work in the stables, for fear that they might discover you.”

  Miss Leighton’s cheeks colored, but she nodded, her hands clasping together in front of her.

  “I shall have a room set aside for you within the house,” Matthew continued, still not at all certain that he was doing the right thing. “I will make some excuse or other, you need have no doubt.” Arching his brow, he looked back at her with a small, wry smile touching his lips. “If you wish to satisfy your dreams, as you state, then you will have to live as the other stable hands do, Miss Leighton.”

  She lifted her chin, seeing how he was questioning her. “I have always had the intention to do precisely that,” she replied stoutly, although a question still lingered in her eyes. “What of the position?”

  “I-I am not certain,” Matthew responded slowly. “I have one or two others that seek the position, and whilst I was inclined to turn them away since I believed you to be Mr. Leighton, I must now reconsider. I believe I shall ask them to ride and, thereafter, consider everything that has been set before me.” This brought his soul a little satisfaction, although he could see the disappointment in her eyes. “I must be honest with you, Miss Leighton. I do not think that there is much hope for you now, not in light of what I now know of you.”

  Miss Leighton blinked rapidly, and it took a few moments for Matthew to realize that she was fighting back tears. His heart swelled with compassion for her, despite his own irritation at being so deceived, and with an effort, he pushed such an emotion back down.

  “You must understand, Miss Leighton, that this is most irregular,” he finished, seeing her nod jerkily. “I should, by rights, throw you out on your ear and have you returned to your family, but for whatever reason, I have chosen not to do so as yet.” He did not want to admit it, but there was a slow understanding growing within his heart as to why Miss Leighton had chosen to do such a thing, seeing just how desperate she was to prove herself and having to admit, inwardly, that she was one of the best jockeys he had ever seen. At the same time, however, Matthew did not want to have a woman as his jockey. The thought was laughable and certainly the beau monde would have no end of gossip and whispers if they discovered that he had a female riding for him! The Gold Cup might well be taken from him, should she win and they discover the truth of her sex as he had done. He shook his head and let out another long breath, seeing as Miss Leighton picked up her wig and began to pin it back to her head. It was the same color as her hair and fell over her tightly pinned curls in the same, scruffy fashion that he had seen the first time they had been introduced. With the cap in place, she looked every inch a young lad, even though he now knew she was nothing of the sort.

  “I shall await your judgement, Your Grace,” Miss Leighton replied, her voice wavering just a little. “I must also thank you for not throwing me from your house, as so many others might have done and as you would have been justified to do. If you will excuse me, I will return to the stables and begin my duties there.”

  Matthew could find nothing to say, seeing her walk away with slumped shoulders and an air of sorrow about her. The truth was still swimming around his mind, rendering him quite speechless for a few moments. There was so much to think on, so much to decide upon, and yet Matthew found himself struggling to have any sort of coherent thought.

  “Brandy,” he muttered to himself, thinking that a good stiff drink might do him good. Walking back to the house, he could not help but glance over his shoulder at Miss Leighton, thinking to himself that she was one of the most extraordinary creatures he had ever had the chance to meet. One of the most incredibly determined young ladies also, he had to admit, a rueful smile spreading across his face.

  Now all he had to do was decide what he was going to do with her and that, Matthew knew, would be no easy task.

  Chapter Six

  Working in the stables was a good deal more difficult than Catherine had expected. Whilst she had always enjoyed saddling, riding, and then rubbing down her mare, she had never once had to muck out the stalls nor cart wheelbarrows full of disgusting smelling manure out of the stables. The coarse language and ribald laughter from the other stable hands had quite astonished her, bringing a flush to her cheeks more often than not. She had thought it best to remain as quiet as possible, whilst ensuring that she did her tasks with no complaints but with every ounce of her strength. Unfortunately, this had not prevented the other stable hands from mocking her, teasing the fellow they believed to be “Mr. Leighton” for being both quiet and much too hard working. Thankfully, there was one fellow who looked out for her, Mr. Griggs, who was in charge of the duties and made certain that the stable hands did as they were told. He stepped in before things got to be too much, which left Catherine with the suspicion that the duke had asked him to do just that.

  Catherine, however, bore up as best she could. It had been a little over a week now since the duke had discovered the truth of her identity, and since then, she had barely seen a glimpse of him. When she had crept into her bed each night, bone weary, she had wondered if this was some sort of test that the duke had decided to thrust upon her shoulders. It was as though he was trying to have her prove that this truly was what she wanted, what she longed for, simply by having to endure the life of a stable hand. Neither had she seen any sign of the other two jockeys that the duke had been waiting for. A part of her hoped that they would not appear and that the duke would decide, even though she was a woman, to allow her to ride instead.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

  Catherine wiped the sweat out of her eyes and turned at once, seeing the duke stepping into the stables. Catching herself before she bobbed a curtsy, she bowed quickly, aware of just how awkward she felt. The duke was the only one who knew the truth of who she was, and the look in his eyes made her shift uncomfortably. Her scalp itched uncomfortably where her wig was pinned but, of course, she could not scratch it, making her wince as she dropped her gaze.

  “You there, Leighton,” the duke said, a small smile on his f
ace as he spoke to her. “Have Beauchamp saddled and brought around to the practice grounds. The jockey I spoke of has arrived.”

  A stone immediately settled in Catherine’s stomach. “Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, not looking up at him and feeling the weight of her disappointment pushing her into the ground. “At once.”

  “I was to have two,” the duke continued, turning around and waving a hand airily. “But the second has employment elsewhere, it seems. Therefore, I have only once decision to make.” He looked back over his shoulder just as Catherine lifted her head, their eyes meeting with a sharp intensity that stole Catherine’s breath. She did, of course, find the duke handsome, for his dark eyes and thick brown hair, firm jaw and long Roman nose were appealing in every which way, but it was the look in his eyes that sent her heart fluttering. There was still a chance then that she might be chosen as the next jockey. Perhaps she had done well enough this last week to show him that this was the only thing she sought for in life. Or mayhap he was not yet convinced that this new jockey, whomever he might be, was the best sort to ride Beauchamp.

  Her heart twisted as the duke turned away. There was also a chance that the duke would care nothing for her dreams and hopes and had decided instead just to find someone new. This would be his opportunity to tell her so, for if she brought the horse out to him, then there would be a few minutes for them to speak alone. Mayhap this was to be the last time she saw Beauchamp.

  Her heart ached as she prepared Beauchamp, aware of just how settled he was whenever she was near him. The animal was quite magnificent in every way, and yet she felt something of a kindred spirit between them both. Something they shared. A desperation to be free, to be unrestrained. A desire not to be held back but to run with all hope and all joy. At least Beauchamp, in his own way, could have that freedom, provided the jockey was willing, whereas she was still held back. If the duke decided against her, then she would have no other choice but to return to London.

  For a moment, a wave of sadness crashed over Catherine as she thought about London and her family. She had no idea as to what her mother would be thinking of her sudden and unexplained departure for even though Catherine had written a short note, stating that she had to leave suddenly to seek out an opportunity that could not be allowed to pass from her, Catherine had said nothing more. She had not told her mother nor Dinah where she was going nor where such an opportunity was. No doubt Lady Whitehaven must be making as many excuses to her friends as to Catherine’s whereabouts, for she would not dare to state the truth for fear of what it would do to not only Catherine’s reputation but to the family name. Dinah, most likely would be praying fervently for Catherine, although Catherine expected that prayer to be that Catherine would not disgrace herself and would be kept from sin.

  Her smile was wry as she leaned against Beauchamp’s flank. They would not easily be able to understand the desire that held her heart so tightly. The duke seemed to show more understanding than Lady Whitehaven ever had, although that might well be because he had his own passions and could not even begin to think of what it might be like to be held back from them. When she had explained herself, she had seen how the anger in his expression had begun to fade, how he had begun to understand her. For that, at least, she was grateful.

  “Get on there, Leighton!” Mr. Griggs exclaimed, making Catherine start violently. “The duke won’t be happy waiting! You’ve not even got the saddle on yet!”

  Flushing with embarrassment, Catherine did as she was bade and quickly had Beauchamp ready. Leading him out of the stall and praying that the duke would make his thoughts on the matter known quickly, Catherine set her shoulders and prepared herself for what was to come.

  Some half an hour later, the duke was busy watching the jockey as he rode Beauchamp and Catherine was standing a short distance away, watching both the jockey and then the duke. The duke had taken the horse from her without a word and then gestured for the jockey to mount. Catherine had made to turn away, only for the duke to command her to remain, explaining that he wanted Leighton to take the horse back to the stables when the trial was at an end.

  The jockey had not so much as looked at Beauchamp before he had mounted. To him, it was just another stallion, just another horse. He had not looked into Beauchamp’s eyes, nor greeted him in a low voice or done anything to try and cement a knowledge of the creature. He had simply climbed on, tugged at the reins, and expected Beauchamp to obey.

  Catherine winced as Beauchamp tossed his head, fighting the bit. The jockey had pulled it much too tight, and instead of obeying meekly, Beauchamp was fighting against it. It was something Catherine hated watching, for she knew all too well that Beauchamp did not respond to such a thing. He had to be directed with all gentleness, not with force.

  “You wince, Miss Leighton.”

  Catherine swallowed hard as the duke turned, wandering over to her.

  “You do not approve of the jockey’s ways?” His eyes were inquisitive, his voice questioning, and Catherine did not feel any urge to hold back.

  “I believe he is being much too rough with Beauchamp,” she told the duke, looking up into his face and seeing how his gaze flicked to the jockey and back again. “Beauchamp needs the bit, yes, but he cannot be controlled through pain. A gentleness and respect is what he needs.”

  “And you believe that force does no good,” the duke replied, a frown appearing between his brows. “Beauchamp is a stallion and a strong creature at that.”

  Catherine shook her head, refusing to accept the duke’s words. “A strong creature does not need brute force to restrain it,” she replied carefully, aware of how her heart had quickened somewhat. “It needs understanding and, with that, careful direction. You know that Beauchamp responds well to me, Your Grace. That is because I understand what he needs in order to run well.”

  The duke sighed and ran one hand over his eyes, his lips pulled into a thin line. It was as if he were battling with his own thoughts, as though he knew that she was right in all that she was saying but did not want to admit it. As if he wanted to find some fault in her words and prove, in some way, that the jockey he now had was the best rider for Beauchamp. His mouth moved but no words came out. He dropped his hand and frowned, turning his head back towards Beauchamp.

  “Take Beauchamp back,” he muttered eventually, hailing the jockey to return. “No. Instead, take him for a gallop across the meadows and then return him.” He gave her a wry smile. “I can see just how much you long for such a thing. I shall speak to the jockey and give him the suggestions you have made for the next time he takes Beauchamp out. Mayhap there shall be some improvement.”

  Catherine nodded but did not feel a great surge of joy at the suggestion. It was clear in her mind that the duke had decided against her. Even though the jockey, at present, was not the best, he was, according to society, much more suited to the position than she—simply because he was a man. The jockey did nothing more than give her the briefest of glances before throwing her the reins, leaving her to walk away with Beauchamp in order to find a place to mount.

  “My stable hand has some suggestions as to how you might work better with Beauchamp,” she heard the duke say. “If we could first begin to–”

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the jockey replied, a sneer already in his voice. “But I doubt very much that a stable hand has much to say about riding a stallion! He’s nothing more than a boy!”

  Catherine closed her eyes but kept walking steadfastly onwards. No one was going to listen to her save the duke, and even that was not enough for him to consider her a suitable jockey.

  “I believe it would be best if you listened,” she heard the duke say, before she drew too far out of earshot to hear any more. Finding something with which to stand on, she made to climb over Beauchamp’s back, only for the horse to settle down again, lying down as he had before with his legs underneath him, so that she might swing her leg over with ease.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, leaning b
ack as the horse rose to its feet. “You are quite a magnificent creature, Beauchamp. I am only sorry that I cannot have the chance to prove to all of England that you are the very best racehorse ever to be seen.” She patted his neck, and Beauchamp let out a soft whinny. “Now,” she murmured, her feet securely in the stirrups. “What say you to a proper gallop?” She pressed her heels against his sides, and Beauchamp was off in a moment, making Catherine laugh despite her sadness over the duke’s apparent rejection of her. Glad that she had taken to pinning her wig down with a good many more pins than before, Catherine threw herself into the gallop, enjoying every moment and feeling such a sense of freedom that she wanted to laugh aloud. Even if she had to return to London, even if she had to go back to that life that she despised, she would forever be grateful that the duke had given her the opportunity, at least, to be able to ride Beauchamp across his land. Slowing the horse to a trot, Catherine felt her heart swell within her, thinking that the duke was, despite his reluctance, a kind sort, who clearly gave things due consideration even if he did not agree to what she wished for.

  What he would think of her if he knew that she was the daughter of Lady Whitehaven and had escaped from her life in London, she could barely imagine! Most likely, he would be horrified, for whilst he knew she came from a respectable family, he would not think her to be from one of nobility.

  As Beauchamp slowed to a trot, Catherine sighed heavily to herself. She would not have much time left here. Sooner or later, the duke would come to her and state that he had decided she could not be his jockey and would send her on her way. She would have to return home, would have to sneak back into the house and change before her mother saw her. Quite what her mother would say at her return, Catherine could not imagine, for Lady Whitehaven would be somewhere between anger and relief. A stab of guilt pierced her heart as she thought of how worried Lady Whitehaven would be. Perhaps she ought to find a way to write to her mother, to assure her that she was safe and untainted by scandal.