Then he’d kept discreet company with a young widow who ran a boarding house in Oxford. After university, he’d graduated to the wonders—and horrors—of London. Jonas had lectured Philippe at length about the French gout, fire ships, and other dangers, and a tour of Covent Garden after the theaters let out had underscored the need for caution.
Caution was expensive and tiresome, in the form of mistresses who expected regular visits and even more regular bank drafts. When Philippe realized that he’d not paid a call on his mistress for the duration of three bank drafts, he’d bid her a fond farewell—she pronounced him hopeless at debauchery—and resigned himself to the occasional frolic at a house party.
Two years later, he’d stopped accepting invitations to house parties. As Ada had pointed out, if he wanted to while away a few weeks in rural splendor, the peaceful, debutante-free luxury of his own Hall would suffice.
And all along, from university, to London, to the shires, and back, Philippe had wondered if something wasn’t amiss with him. Intimate congress was pleasurable, but so was a ramble along the bridle path—and a good deal less complicated. Kissing had inspired sonnets and panegyrics in many languages, and yet, Philippe had regarded it as so much folderol to be got through while the lady made up her mind.
With Harriet, he never wanted the intimacies to end. Her kiss was everything—soft night sounds, breezes teasing the leaves that would soon fall to the lush grass, homecoming, joy, warmth of the heart and warmth—blazing warmth—where desire dwelled.
She wrapped her arms around him and shifted, so her breasts rubbed against his chest. He suspected she had no intention other than to be closer, which was a fine, fine idea. He explored the contours of her back with one hand, not stopping until he cupped her derriere and pressed her closer.
She was luscious, eager, artless, and—some vestigial artifact of his gentlemanly scruples shouted—she was Harriet. Harriet, the pest who’d spied on him and Jonas; Harriet, who’d beat Jonas racing on her pony because she’d jump anything without checking her mount’s speed; Harriet, who’d forget Philippe for another year because he hadn’t a mane, tail, or hooves.
Philippe was a duke, a creature of discipline and duty.
His almighty discipline was barely sufficient to inspire a pause in the kissing.
“The full moon always makes the horses restless,” Harriet panted.
What had horses—? Philippe eased his embrace and rested his cheek against Harriet’s hair. The scent of roses was partly her, partly the night breeze.
“A mere kiss is not lunacy, Harriet. Not when we’re on the bridle path. Kissing on the bridle path is what one does in this corner of Berkshire.”
He felt the change in her, felt his attempt at levity fall flat and knock the wonder from the moment. Harriet doubtless had some equestrian analogy handy to better describe the unwelcome return of sanity.
“I thought bridle paths were for riding along,” she said, pressing her cheek to his chest. “I can feel your heart.”
Philippe’s attention was on another part of his anatomy, and yet, his heart was involved as well. He’d kissed Harriet Talbot, his friend, under a full moon on the bridle path. The kiss had been spectacular, but then, he was out of practice, and Harriet brought focus and energy to all she did.
He should turn loose of her.
He really should.
He stroked her hair, which was marvelously soft. “Are we still friends, Harriet?”
She stepped back and handed him his hat. “Of course, Your Grace. We will always be friends, and now when you are asked about our local legend, you can take your place among the village boys and stable lads who’ve at least kissed somebody on the duke’s bridle path.”
Her gaze wasn’t on him, but rather, on the horses at grass under the full moon.
“You came out with me to check on a horse.”
“A mare who has the audacity to be presenting us with an autumn foal. Such a thing shouldn’t be possible, and if winter is early, it’s surely not wise. She got loose, though, and was found the next morning disporting with Mr. Angelsey’s stud. Heaven help the foal if it breeds true to the sire line, for that stud is cow-hocked and… I’m babbling.”
Harriet wanted to see to her mare. Philippe wanted the last five minutes to never have happened, and he wanted to resume kissing her.
“Away with you,” Philippe said, bowing over her hand. “I’ll wait here until you’re at the mares’ barn. Thank you for a lovely meal and a lovely kiss.”
He owed her that. He also probably owed her an apology, except he wasn’t sorry. Confused, yes. Sorry, hell no.
“Good night, Your Grace.” A quick curtsey, then Harriet stooped to remove her slippers, and off she went across the damp grass, her shoes in her hand.
Philippe remained by the oaks even after she’d disappeared into the mares’ barn on the far side of the paddocks.
What had just happened? Harriet had kissed him as if she’d been longing for him to take that very liberty and needed to make up for lost time. Then she’d scampered off into the night—Cinderella taking both of her slippers with her—abandoning him yet again for the company of some smelly equine.
Philippe ducked into the shadows of the bridle path, and made his way back to the Hall, hat in hand.
* * *
“Somebody must have moved my mares’ barn a mile or two down the bridle path,” Jackson Talbot said.
Ramsdale’s mind wasn’t on the game, not on the chess game at any rate. Apparently, Talbot’s wasn’t either.
“Or perhaps,” Ramsdale said, “like any self-respecting equestrienne, Miss Talbot saw a water bucket half empty and tarried to fill it. Or a mare who needed more hay, or a—”
Talbot waved his pipe. “The lads mope if Harriet steals all of their work. They take their responsibilities seriously.”
“His Grace of Lavelle takes everything seriously.” Though, because the duke also took his flirting seriously, and his gentlemanly bonhomie, and his cordial socializing, nobody seemed to notice—including the duke himself.
The front door closed, and a vague worry left Talbot’s eyes. “All’s well in the mares’ barn. We’re expecting a woods colt or filly.”
The game had not yet progressed to the interesting phase. Ramsdale and his host were settling in, exchanging civilities, recalling each other’s strategies.
“A maiden mare?” Ramsdale asked.
“No, but having chosen her swain for herself, I can’t breed the damned horse to another until spring. Every foal counts, and this one, having a disgrace for a father, will be ewe-necked, over at the knee… It’s your move, my lord.”
Ramsdale moved his king’s knight into position to threaten Talbot’s queen. “An occasional outcross can strengthen a bloodline.”
A duke’s horse master had greater responsibilities in some regards than the land steward or house steward. He oversaw the coachmen and carriages, the breeding stock and farm stock, the stables and paddocks, the training and riding, the teams stabled at coaching inns all over the realm, and the money it took to keep that aspect of a dukedom functioning.
Anything associated with a ducal equine fell under the horse master’s purview, and now Talbot was reduced to managing a few brood mares, some youngsters, a handful of riding stock in training…
And one smitten daughter.
“An occasional out-cross makes sense,” Talbot said. “My darling mare chose the worst possible stud though. Damned colt should have been cut before he was weaned.”
Talbot did not see the danger to his queen. “Lavelle is a gentleman.” Which was half the problem. Somewhere along the way, His Grace had confused strawberry leaves for holy orders.
“His Grace is also a man without many close allies,” Talbot said, moving his rook in a completely useless direction. “Harriet is ferociously loyal and unwise to the ways of men.”
“To the ways of scoundrels, you mean.” Ramsdale decided to draw the game out, for he had a delica
te point to make, and he and delicacy were not well acquainted. “Lavelle hasn’t a drop of scoundrel’s blood in his veins.”
“But every drop is male, and Harriet’s future is dull enough to inspire her to rash acts. Her mother resorted to rash acts to gain my attention.”
Ramsdale took a pawn with his bishop, a warning. “Her mother’s strategy worked.”
“I was a baronet’s younger son. She was an earl’s granddaughter. We knew what was expected of us, and times were different.”
Talbot fell silent, and Ramsdale gave up on delicacy. “They would suit.”
Talbot moved his king. Perhaps the horse master had begun a mental decline.
“Lavelle might make Harriet his mistress for a time,” Talbot said, “and I’m sure he’d be generous and kind. Harriet was not raised to be anybody’s fancy piece, not even a duke’s fancy piece, not even a good duke’s fancy piece.”
Talbot wasn’t angry, so much as he was bewildered. He’d never envisioned himself the father of a duke’s fancy piece, or perhaps he worried about how to keep a stable afloat without Harriet to run it?
“I meant no insult to the lady,” Ramsdale said. Then too, to be mistress to a duke was hardly the same as walking the London streets. “I meant that they’re very nearly in love, and whom Lavelle falls in love with, he’ll be inclined to marry.”
Ramsdale wasn’t sure what it meant to be in love, but whenever he accompanied Lavelle to the ancestral pile, the duke called first upon the Talbots, even before visiting the family graveyard. For a man who eschewed anything having to do with a horse, Lavelle was uncommonly fond of his papa’s old horse master.
Also of the horse master’s daughter.
“A duke must marry wisely,” Talbot said. “Harriet is in no regard a suitable duchess. She knows that.”
Ramsdale moved his queen again, though the king’s shift by a single square was inconvenient to his intended strategy.
“Lavelle never wanted to be a duke, and every time somebody refers to him as such, he misses his older brother. In London, His Grace is endlessly popular, beloved by all, but known by virtually nobody. They were all too busy fawning over Lord Chaddleworth as the heir and didn’t notice the younger brother. Now they notice him, and he can’t be bothered.”
His Grace was always polite, always charming, and always—to Ramsdale’s discerning eye—bored with the life meant for his older brother. The boredom had become restlessness, and the restlessness was building toward some bad end.
Excessive drink, perhaps, or dueling, or—the worst fate imaginable—a Society match.
“My lord, your move has put us at a stalemate.”
Ramsdale surveyed the board. “Bloody hell. My apologies. My mind is elsewhere.”
“As is mine. Shall we call it a night, and shall I have a gig brought ’round to get you home?”
“I will enjoy a moonlit stroll and the peace and quiet of the Berkshire countryside. My thanks for a very pleasant evening, and I hope you’ll join us for dinner at the Hall on Friday.”
Talbot pushed to his feet. “His Grace left it to you to do the inviting, did he? Harriet would have conjured some excuse had he asked her directly—the mare, perhaps. No harm in a meal between neighbors, I suppose. Until Friday, my lord.”
Talbot’s grip was firm, though his gaze was troubled.
Best beat a retreat before Talbot also conjured excuses. “I’ll see myself out. I promise you better play when next we meet.”
Anything was better than playing to a stalemate, for God’s sake. Ramsdale reserved the pleasure of reviewing the game move by move for the futile hours involved in falling asleep. As he made his way home down the legendary bridle path, a different challenge occupied him.
Harriet Talbot was from good family. Solidly gentry and entitled to a few upward pretensions. Had she been wealthy, a match with Lavelle would have been unusual, but not scandalous. Ramsdale was prepared to spread rumors of the young lady’s magnificent dowry to still any wagging tongues.
A heart full of love, for those inclined to such nonsense, qualified as a magnificent dowry.
Ramsdale had no doubt that Harriet would make a fine duchess, given some time and a few pointers from Lady Ada. The problem was Lavelle.
How could a peer who detested all things equine possibly become a suitable mate to a woman who—save for her interest in the duke—loved horses, only horses, and always horses?
Chapter Three
* * *
Philippe had, as usual, not slept well.
London hours were backward. A man about Town sauntered forth with the setting sun to amuse himself with the social entertainments of his choice. When he’d waltzed to his heart’s content—across some lady’s sheets in many cases—he joined friends at the club for late-night cards and drinking.
By dawn’s early light, the typical gentleman rode or drove in the park, and then he took himself off to bed, there to rest from his exertions in preparation for more of same.
In sheer defense of his sanity, Philippe had instead taken a serious interest in both his dukedom’s commercial interests and in affairs of state. This was usually the province of men years his senior, and while Philippe liked taking a hand in politics, he didn’t regard Parliament as the ultimate venue for blood sport.
In truth, he was glad to be back at the Hall for many reasons.
He was not, however, glad to regard Ramsdale over the breakfast table. His lordship wore a preoccupied expression that suggested blunt truths were about to issue forth from his unsmiling mouth.
“Have some ham,” Philippe said. “Country air puts an appetite on a fellow.”
“Country air must have addled your wits. I don’t care for pork in any of its presentations, save for when it’s on the hoof and downwind.”
“Unpatriotic, Ramsdale, to turn up your nose at good English ham. Did Talbot trounce you last night?”
“Did Miss Talbot trounce you?”
Ramsdale was what some referred to as a worshipper of Aurora, goddess of the dawn. He began the day early and galloped at it headlong. By evening, he was a calmer, more settled creature.
“Now isn’t that just like you, being adorably direct.” Philippe caught the eye of the footman at the sideboard, who like any good house servant was impersonating a marble statue. “Thomas, you’ll excuse us. Lord Ramsdale is about to deliver a proper dressing-down, and a peer of the realm wants privacy for his humiliations.”
“I don’t intend to humiliate you,” Ramsdale said when the footman had bowed and withdrawn.
“I cannot say the same where you’re concerned. You are a guest in my home, and I’ll thank you to act like it. Your mention of Miss Talbot trouncing me bordered on ungentlemanly.”
While stealing a kiss from Harriet by moonlight leaned in the direction of roguish.
Ramsdale rose, a slice of buttered toast in his hand. “The Talbots are not thriving.” He wandered to the sideboard, added a dollop of scrambled eggs to his toast, and took a bite.
“I noticed as much last year, but told myself the evidence was simply a lack of the late Mrs. Talbot’s guiding hand. She always ensured the roses were pruned, the fences whitewashed, and the carpets beaten. All the beating in the world does not make a worn carpet new, though.”
The Talbots’ manor house had been spotless, which made the creeping shabbiness more apparent.
Another portion of the toast met its fate. “What will you do about it?”
When Philippe hadn’t been reliving his kiss with Harriet, regretting his kiss with Harriet, and longing for another kiss with Harriet, he’d asked himself the same question. His working theory was that Harriet had succumbed in a weak moment to his inappropriate overtures.
Like all theories, it wanted for supporting evidence. Her succumbing had been wonderfully enthusiastic, and a kiss was hardly a declaration of undying love. Nonetheless, Philippe had noticed the neglect on the Talbot property.
Weary, overwhelmed women were more prone
to succumbing. So were weary, overwhelmed dukes.
“I have a few ideas for how to address the Talbots’ situation,” Philippe said. “I gather you do as well?”
Ramsdale’s peregrinations next took him to the window, where mellow autumn sunshine illuminated dust motes and picked out the gold threads in his lordship’s waistcoat.
“Talbot has his pride,” Ramsdale said. “You’ll have to tread lightly, but then, you’ve been treading lightly since your brother died.”
“A man can choke to death on a slice of toast, Ramsdale.” Though the earl was correct: Philippe had taken up his brother’s responsibilities with equal parts resentment and reluctance. “Jonas was reared to become the duke, and he would have made a fine job of it.”
Ramsdale turned, so the sunlight pouring over his shoulder lent him the air of a stern heavenly messenger. “You make a fine job of being a duke, but what about being a neighbor, a man, a brother?”
Or a lover? A husband even?
“I’m meeting with the vicar this morning, and I’ll call on every one of my tenants over the next two weeks. For a duke, that’s neighborly. I will lead my sister out at the blasted harvest ball and host the autumn open house the same as I usually do.” The same as Jonas and Papa had done.
“And about the Talbots?”
“I have several options,” Philippe said. “One is to ask Jackson Talbot to come out of retirement. My current horse master has been offered a post at a racing stable.” In Berkshire, no mere ducal estate could compete with the joy and challenge of training racehorses.
Ramsdale finished his toast and circled back to the table to resume his seat. “Talbot is half blind and half lame. The horse master’s post could well be the death of him.”
“Or it might be the reason he lives another ten relatively happy years. If he took over for a few months and had reliable underlings, I’d be able to compensate him enough to tide him over.”
The Duke's Bridle Path Page 3
