London Season Matchmaker Box Set: Regency Romance

by Lucy Adams

  Mr. Griggs said nothing, although he did not display any sort of surprise. Instead, he merely nodded, bowed quickly, and then hurried off to the house, although Matthew felt certain that Mr. Griggs approved of Matthew’s choice. His heart began to fill with a sense of anticipation as he made his way to intercept Miss Leighton, wondering what her reaction would be.

  “Leighton!” he called, seeing her head jerk up, her eyes widening as she saw him coming closer. “Leighton, I must have a word with you.”

  Miss Leighton, her wig and cap carefully in place, stopped at once and kept her head bowed. “Your Grace,” she said, her soft voice displaying a touch of hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, indeed not,” he replied, a smile plastered across his face. “Why should it be?”

  He saw how she glanced at his chest and then looked up into his eyes for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together as a flush of color began to creep up into his face – and realized precisely what she meant. One glance down at his crisp white shirt told him that some of the horse manure that Healy had thrown had splattered across his shirt and, no doubt, carried a good deal of odor with it. His own embarrassment mounted as he cleared his throat, trying to push the knowledge of how he must look from his mind.

  “Mr. Healy has been let go from his position here,” he told her, seeing how her eyes caught his, widening slowly as he spoke. “I have decided, Miss Leighton, that I shall permit you to ride in the Gold Cup race this year.” Spreading his hands wide, he shrugged. “It may be that 1816 will be the year that a woman wins the Gold Cup across Ascot Heath.”

  A smile filled his heart as he saw how Miss Leighton reacted. She had now gone quite pale, the flush gone from her cheeks, and her eyes searching his face as though she might find some sort of untruth hidden there. Her hands were tight in front of her, clasping and unclasping together as if waiting for him to turn around and state that he had not meant a single word.

  “You are to be my jockey for the Gold Cup, Miss Leighton,” Matthew said again, wondering if she was ever going to speak. “If you will accept the position.”

  Miss Leighton’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she looked away, her head bowed low. “I will,” she replied hoarsely. “Yes, of course I will. Thank you, Your Grace.” Her head lifted, and she looked at him again. “Thank you.” The words were spoken with such genuine spirit, with such obvious gratitude, that for a moment, Matthew felt himself a little embarrassed to have garnered such a thing by what was a simple decision.

  “You cannot know just how much this means to me,” she continued, stepping forward and, to his surprise, grasping his hand with hers. “Your Grace, it is more wonderful than I ever believed it would be.”

  Something began to snake up his arm from where her fingers touched his skin, sending a strange lump to his throat. Clearing it away, he smiled briefly and stepped back so that her hands fell to her sides. “But of course, Miss Leighton,” he said firmly, trying to speak through the strange emotion that was swirling through him. “We shall begin this very afternoon. Ensure that Beauchamp is ready at three o’clock precisely.”

  She nodded, a smile beginning to spread across her face. It was, Matthew considered, one of the most joyous smiles he had ever seen. “I shall, of course,” she replied, dropping into a curtsy – which looked quite ridiculous given the fact that she was dressed as a stable hand – and then she tried to correct it by almost falling into a bow. Flushing crimson, she ducked her head and turned away, hurrying towards the stables in evident embarrassment and happiness.

  Matthew chuckled and shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. He hoped to goodness he had not made the wrong decision, for this Gold Cup race meant more to him than anything else in the world. He wanted to win, wanted to prove to himself, to his mother, to his friends, and to all of the beau monde that when it came to horses, he was the one who had the greatest knowledge, the greatest experience, and the sharpest eye.

  Gratified, Matthew turned on his heel and walked back into the house, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he caught another whiff of the stains of horse dung that clung to his shirt. He would need a long bath to rid himself of that particular smell and hoped that the coat was not entirely ruined. But, at the very least, Healy was gone and Miss Leighton now in his place – and that brought Matthew a good deal of satisfaction.

  Chapter Eight

  “Again.”

  Catherine bit her lip but turned Beauchamp around obediently. She had been overwhelmed with delight when the duke had told her that she was to ride Beauchamp at the Gold Cup race across Ascot Heath, but now that she was under his thumb when it came to training and practice, Catherine found that she was beginning to resent his heavy handedness. She was fully aware that under his employ she had very little else to do other than obey, but still it grated on her.

  “Beauchamp is not tired yet,” the duke said with a small smile that did nothing to lift the dark expression from his face. “We shall have at least another hour or so.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes as she looked away from the duke, aware of how the light was beginning to fade. She had been out with Beauchamp this afternoon already, only for the duke to have been called away to greet his mother who had appeared unexpected. Catherine had returned to her duties, not expecting to see the duke again until the following day, but he had surprised her by appearing at the stables late in the day, when she had been considering retiring to bed.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she muttered, keeping her frustrations as hidden as she could. The other stable hands would have gone to their own beds by now and only a few staff would still be in the house, ready to ensure the duke had everything he needed when it came time for him to retire. Her body was sore and aching in places from the hard work that came from being in the position of stable hand, which was not something that she expected the duke to understand.

  Her scalp itched furiously again as she wheeled Beauchamp around, aware of just how much she longed to let her hair free. How good it would feel if it could blow wildly in the wind as she rode instead of being confined to the tight pins that she had become so used to putting her tresses in. Glancing all about her, she suddenly had a thought.

  “Whatever is keeping you?” the duke said, sounding irritated. “Come now, Miss Leighton. We do not have all evening!”

  Catherine bit back a retort that said that, yes, in fact, they did have all evening for she had nothing else to attend to, and the duke himself appeared to have nothing else to detain him either, attempting to put a small smile on her face.

  “If you would give me a moment please, Your Grace,” she murmured, tugging the cap and then the wig from her head and wincing as some of the pins went with it. Carefully setting the cap in her lap and looping the reins over her wrist, she reached up and began to pull her pins out one at a time, setting them in the cap until finally, her tresses fell down about her shoulders. A long sigh of relief rolled from her lips, making Beauchamp snort with evident understanding that she now felt a good deal better than before. Rolling up the cap, she secured it closed with a final pin and then urged Beauchamp a little closer to the duke.

  “If you would be so kind as to place this on the ground nearby, so that I might pick it up on my return, I should be grateful,” she said, handing her cap to the duke and finding herself a little surprised by the look of astonishment in his eyes. “Forgive me, it can be most uncomfortable to keep one’s hair in such a fashion, and since it is growing late, I did not think that anyone would notice me.”

  The duke licked his lips but said nothing, reaching up to take the cap from her. Their fingers brushed, and Catherine felt a jolt shoot up into her heart, although the duke appeared not to react in any way. A little embarrassed, Catherine raked her fingers through her hair, letting her tresses fall a little more naturally. It was more than a relief to have her hair so freed. Glancing down at the duke, she saw the strange look in his eyes but did not allow herself to think of it for long. Perhaps he was just a lit
tle surprised at her boldness.

  “Your Grace, I am now prepared,” she told him, moving Beauchamp back to the starting line and making ready to crouch over the saddle. Catherine noticed it seemed to take the duke a few moments to gather himself. Glancing at him, she saw how he raised his hand and looked up at her, making sure she was prepared, before dropping it like a stone. Squeezing her heels into Beauchamp’s side, Catherine bent low as Beauchamp took off like an arrow from a bow, just as he had done every single time before. There was no need to urge him to go faster, no requirement for her to beat him with a crop or the like, for he already had the desire to run as fast and as far as he could. It was only when they reached the end that she turned Beauchamp around and, in a gentle trot, rode back towards the duke.

  For whatever reason, the duke now appeared to be a little lost as to what he was going to say to her. He cleared his throat a good three times before he was able to say anything, with his eyes darting from one place to the next instead of up into her face. It was all a little odd.

  And then, her stomach dropped to the ground. Was she not doing as well as he had hoped? Was this the reason for his uncertainty? “I-I can do it again,” she found herself saying, her words tumbling over each other. “If that was not good enough, then I would beg of you to allow me another opportunity, Your Grace.”

  “You did very well, Miss Leighton,” the duke said quickly, passing a hand over his eyes for a moment and confusing her all the more. “My apologies. I have been putting you through your paces rather hard, I think.” Another small smile, which was vague and not at all in her direction, came across his face. “It is only because the race is less than a fortnight away and it is only now that I have found the jockey Beauchamp needs.”

  Catherine frowned, resisting the urge to state that the only reason the duke had taken so long to find the correct jockey was because he had refused to give her the opportunity until earlier that day. She could not quite understand why he had a large dung stain on his shirt nor why he was not wearing a coat, but the joy of what he had told her had overcome all such questions. However, looking at him now, Catherine realized that he was still uncertain about whether or not he had done the right thing.

  “I will not fail you, Your Grace,” she told him, wanting to give him some sort of reassurance. “You must see how well Beauchamp and I work together.”

  The duke sighed and nodded, running one hand through his hair. “Indeed,” he admitted, a trifle more heavily than she had hoped. “I will not pretend that it does not feel rather wrong to have a woman riding in the Gold Cup, but at the very least, no one need know that such a thing will be.” He shrugged, and Catherine felt a sting stab at her heart. “To everyone watching, you shall simply be Mr. Leighton.”

  “Mr. Leighton,” Catherine repeated, trying to tell herself that it did not matter whether or not the ton knew that a woman had won the Gold Cup, if such a thing was to happen. The only thing that she needed to consider was that she was being given the opportunity to fulfill her dream, regardless of whether she was known to others as her true self or not.

  “We shall have to practice each day, as we have done today,” the duke continued, clearly unaware of her internal struggles. “The evening suits you best, I think?” He tipped his face up to hers, and despite herself, Catherine felt a sudden tugging of her heart.

  “I shall be ready to practice whenever it suits Your Grace,” she murmured, angry with herself for feeling anything other than respect for the duke. She had no reason to notice the alluring darkness of his eyes, made all the more so by the fading of the light all around them. Nor did she need to notice his stature, nor his strong jaw nor thick mane of hair. That would only complicate matters.

  “You appear to be a little more at ease this evening, I will say,” the duke murmured, coming over to her and holding up his arms, evidently expecting her to dismount. “Mayhap it is because you are free to be as you really are.”

  Catherine swallowed suddenly, feeling a twist of nervousness rise up in her as she swung one leg over and leaned down to brace herself against the duke’s upper arms. He helped her down with ease, his hands about her waist as he set her down on the ground again.

  “I do not know what it is about you, Miss Leighton, but you appear to be a good deal freer with your hair as it ought to be,” he said softly, his hands lingering for just a moment too long. “Mayhap we should practice each evening so that you can be as you are now.”

  Trying to break the strange tension that had caught her in its snare, Catherine let out a small, breathy laugh. “Just so long as you do not expect me to return to my fine gowns and slippers, Your Grace,” she replied, a little surprised when the duke laughed heartily. “I do not think I could become used to riding side saddle again.”

  Again, the duke grinned, but his eyes were filled with interest as he grasped Beauchamp’s reins and began to make his way slowly towards the stables, evidently expecting Catherine to fall into step beside him.

  “Your parents do not approve of you wishing to ride astride, I should imagine,” he said, making Catherine snort in a most unladylike fashion. “No?” He chuckled whilst Catherine’s face flooded with color at her embarrassing reaction.

  “No, indeed, my mother is greatly disapproving,” Catherine admitted, not quite able to look up at the duke. “But, then again, none in my family can understand my love of horses, nor of my insistence that I be permitted to ride as a gentleman does.” Sighing, Catherine tried not to let the pang of guilt over leaving her mother’s townhouse in such a clandestine manner take hold of her. “They do not understand me at all, I fear.”

  “That is sorrowful indeed,” the duke agreed softly. “But it is to be expected. Do you not recall my reaction when I first realized the truth of you?”

  Catherine laughed, seeing how the duke smiled back at her. “I do,” she admitted, her lips lingering in their upward curve. “But you have, henceforth, behaved in a very different manner from they. You have given me opportunities they would never permit.”

  The duke’s smile faded, and he appeared concerned. “I am aware that you come from a respected family,” he said, sending a jolt of worry through her. “Tell me, do they know of your presence here? Or did you leave them without warning?”

  Hesitating, Catherine dared a glance up into his face and saw no judgement there, only curiosity.

  “I did what I had to in order to ensure that I might find resolution to my hopes that have tormented me for so long,” she said candidly. “I intend to return to them soon, of course, but now that I have the chance to do as I have always dreamed, I cannot let them know of my presence here as yet.”

  “Will they be worried for you?”

  Catherine did not immediately answer, hearing the answer in her heart but not wishing to speak it aloud. To do so would almost be to confirm to herself that a large part of her decision had been based on selfishness, refusing to consider what her mother would think of what she had chosen to do.

  “I can tell that this is distressing for you,” the duke said, after a moment or two. “Forgive me, Miss Leighton. I did not mean to pry.”

  Catherine swallowed her pain and tried to smile. “You are not prying, Your Grace. The truth is, I have very little doubt that my family is deeply concerned over my whereabouts and most likely fears that I have ruined myself most completely and that, thereafter, I will bring shame to the family name…but despite the knowledge that this is, most likely, the case, I shall not permit it to influence my decision here.” The more she spoke, the more she felt as though the words were rubbing callouses on her lips, such was the hardness of her words. “I presume that must make me appear particularly selfish, Your Grace.”

  The duke continued to amble slowly towards the stables, his expression thoughtful. Catherine felt herself grow tense at the quiet, fearing that he was about to say something that would confirm to her that, yes, she had been nothing but selfish, only for him to sigh and shake his head.

  �
�If someone told me that I could not follow after my true passion, then I do not know what it is I would do,” he said slowly, looking down at her and holding her gaze. “You and I share that same passion, I believe, and yet only I am able to pursue it with all that I have and all that I am. Despite the fact that society states that this must be the way of things and despite the fact that I myself admit to having something of a quandary in permitting you to ride Beauchamp over the Ascot Heath, I confess that I have begun to understand the depths of your struggle, Miss Leighton.”

  “I am glad of that,” Catherine admitted, awash with relief. “I am quite certain my mother shall never forgive me and shall keep me in solitary confinement until next Season, where I shall be pushed and prodded to go about London in the same fashion as every other young lady of the ton, which I can barely abide even the thought of! Thereafter, I shall be expected to make an excellent match with a titled gentleman, just as my sisters have done.”

  The duke stopped dead, turning on his heel to look at her – and it was not until Catherine glanced up into his face that she realized what she had said. She had spoken so openly that she had not thought about what she was revealing. Heat crawled into her cheeks and rested there, sending a flood of color over her face as she twisted her hands together in front of her, trying to find something to say.

  “You are gentry then.”

  The duke’s words were quick, firing at her with unmistakable sharpness.

  “I-I am,” she admitted, a little quietly. “I have not lied to you, however, Your Grace. My family is respected amongst society.”