Papa waved the crop at her. “Young lady, you will control your words lest I—”
“I’m not a young lady, Papa. At my age, Mama had a ten-year-old daughter and had less than ten years to live. Philippe will listen to what I have to say if I have to kick, buck, snort, strike, bite, paw, clear the arena, and—who on earth is that?”
The bridle path curved around the Talbot pastures and paddocks, and for much of the year, the way was shrouded in greenery. As autumn advanced and the leaves fell, riders traversing the path became visible, mostly for the simple fact that they were moving objects against a backdrop of fixed trees and fences.
Somebody was coming around the curve at a dead gallop.
“He’s going to take the stile,” Papa said. “Going to aim that beast straight for our lane.”
The rider’s form was excellent. He stood in the stirrups, balanced over the horse’s withers to free its back from his weight, hands moving to follow the rhythm of the horse’s head. He wore neither coat nor hat, which made his horsemanship only more evident.
“They make a handsome pair,” Harriet said, then an odd shiver traveled over her arms. “That’s Philippe, Papa. That’s Philippe, and that gate is nearly four feet—”
For a silent eternity, Harriet’s heart went airborne, three-quarters of a ton of fear, hope, and admiration soaring with Philippe’s horse.
“Well done!” Papa exclaimed when the horse landed as nimbly as a cat and cantered on around the far end of the arena. “Foot perfect and right in rhythm.”
“But, Papa, that’s Lavelle. His Grace promised me he’d never sit a horse again, and he just cleared a four-foot gate at a gallop and made it look easy.”
Papa sat back down, using his cane and the table to brace himself. “Well, then, the duke must want to talk to somebody rather badly. Do you suppose it could be you?”
“I certainly want to talk to him,” Harriet said, taking off at run for the stable yard.
When she got there, and Philippe had leaped from his heaving horse, Harriet didn’t say a word. She simply hugged him, and hugged him and hugged him, until he put his arms around her and hugged her back.
* * *
“What were you thinking,” Harriet shouted, once the stable lad had led Ramsdale’s horse down the drive. “Jumping an obstacle like that on a horse you’re not familiar with? You fell not two weeks ago, before my very eyes and over a smaller jump in good footing. You could have been hurt. You could have been killed! Philippe, you c-could have been k-killed.”
She went from shaking him—or trying to—to squeezing Philippe so tightly he could barely breathe.
“That gelding is nothing if not athletic,” he said, speaking as calmly as he could when his lungs were ready to burst. “We hopped a few stiles in the last mile, and I knew he was up to the challenge, but, Harriet, it’s Ramsdale who’s taken a fall. He said he was merely winded, but I know he took a knock on the head, and I fear a worse injury.”
“Hang Ramsdale,” Harriet retorted, pulling back but keeping a good grip on his arms. “You rode like a demon, Philippe. Like a winning steeplechase jockey when you swore to me…” Her eyes, which had been filled with concern, narrowed. “You swore to me you were done with horses forever. You had tried and failed, and nothing I could say, threaten, or promise would change your mind. You gave up.”
Jackson Talbot thumped down the porch steps. “What’s all this about? Good form, Your Grace. Harriet, let the man go.”
“Send the lads to assist Lord Ramsdale, Papa. He’s taken a fall, and I will not turn loose of His Grace until I’ve had an explanation.”
Talbot’s eyebrows climbed nearly to his hat brim. “Ramsdale’s taken a tumble?”
“I left him sitting beneath an oak where the bridle path, the woods, and the stream all meet east of here,” Philippe said. “He seemed right enough, if a bit dazed, but the clouds are gathering, and he’s miles from shelter.”
“And you left him your coat,” Harriet said. “What if it had started to rain, and you on a strange horse, in bad footing, no coat… I taught you better than this, Philippe.”
She was scolding him, also stroking the lace of his cravat and calling him Philippe.
“You are concerned for me,” Philippe said.
“Of course she’s concerned,” Talbot said. “Else she’d not be so ill-mannered as to use your Christian—”
Harriet left off petting Philippe’s chest and faced her father, hands on hips. “Hush, Papa. I can speak for myself. Your business partner is sitting beneath a tree nearly three miles away, possibly addled and injured and storm on the way. Hadn’t you best concern yourself with him?”
Philippe slipped an arm around Harriet’s waist. “I’d be obliged if you’d send Ramsdale some aid, Talbot. I can continue on to the Hall, but your property was closest to his mishap, and I’d hoped to count on my friends for assistance.”
Harriet stiffened beneath his arm.
“Of course,” Talbot said. “Cooper! Hitch up the dog cart. Tell Jeremy to put up the coach and get word to the solicitor that I’ll have to reschedule my appointment. Lerner, you go down the bridle path on horseback. Earls can’t be left out in the wet or they grow contrary.”
A raindrop landed on Philippe’s cheek in the midst of Talbot’s stream of orders.
“You come with me,” Harriet said, wrapping an arm around Philippe’s waist and urging him in the direction of the barn. “I have a few things to say to you, and I want to say them in private.”
Philippe had things to say to Harriet as well—a question to ask, rather. They left Talbot barking more instructions to the grooms as the raindrops organized into a cold drizzle. Some considerate soul had lit the stove in the saddle room, though, so it was warm, which—now that Philippe was no longer riding at a gallop—felt good.
Harriet’s hug, when he’d dismounted had felt wonderful.
“What did you want to say to me?” Philippe asked when Harriet had closed and locked the door. The look of her—hems wrinkled, the toes of her boots dusty, braid coming a bit undone—warmed his heart.
“I’ve missed you.” They spoke the same words at the same time.
“Ladies first,” Philippe said, gesturing to the worn sofa.
Harriet took a seat, very much on her dignity. “Can you, or can you not, acquit yourself adequately on horseback?”
“That’s what you wanted to ask me?”
She nodded, gaze solemn.
Philippe took the wing chair—he did not dare sit beside her—and now, when his arse was planted on a flowered cushion, he felt as if he faced an obstacle too high and wide to negotiate confidently. He could continue to dissemble, to stand aside for true love, or he could trust Harriet with the truth.
“I can acquit myself adequately on well-trained mounts,” he said. “I have had the benefit of good, patient instruction, and my skills rest on a solid foundation.”
Harriet bent to unlace her boots. “You rode like Lord Dunderhead’s incompetent twin at your last lesson. What was that about?”
The sight of her removing her footwear—her old dusty boots—was distracting. “I saw you with Ramsdale, Harriet, at the ball. He’s clearly smitten, and I’m happy for you. I hope he offers for you and spares me the burden of calling him out.”
She set her boots aside. The soles and the uppers were coming apart near the toes, a common injury to riding boots.
“Ramsdale is smitten, and you are happy. What about me, Philippe?”
She was not happy, but beyond that, Philippe dared not venture. “You are Harriet, my dearest Harriet, and if the earl is your choice, then I owe you both my best wishes.”
But what if Ramsdale was not her choice? A chat on a secluded terrace wasn’t the same as an afternoon spent without clothing on a wide and comfortable bed.
“Did it not occur to you, Your Grace, that I might have required some practice at the waltz? London ways are slow to catch on in the country, and I’ve been too busy waltzin
g with equines. Ramsdale was instructing me, or humoring me. I wanted to do you credit when I stood up with you, and then you couldn’t be bothered to ask for my supper waltz.”
This was… this was very bad, and possibly wonderful.
“You never granted me your supper waltz. I assumed Ramsdale—”
Harriet smacked his arm. “Why must you assume anything when I’m right here, where I’ve always been? If I’m your dearest Harriet, you can ask me. You can simply put a question to me—not to Ramsdale, or Papa, or Gawain, for pity’s sake.” She jabbed her thumb at her chest. “Ask me.”
Do you and Ramsdale have an understanding? But that wasn’t what Philippe wanted to know. Understandings were private and not exactly binding.
Do you love me? She’d say yes. That question was almost cowardly, because he knew she’d say yes.
So Philippe aimed his courage and his heart at the most important challenge he’d ever faced. “Will you marry me?”
Harriet sat very tall, and very still, like a skilled whip at the start of a carriage race. “I beg your pardon?”
“I love you. I have always loved you, and when I finally set aside the notion that I must martyr myself to my brother’s sainted memory, or to the title, or to polite society’s inanities, I see that you have always been in my heart. You have never treated me as anything less than your honored friend. You have had faith in me and been patient and kind, and then I kissed you, and… God, Harriet. I do know what it’s like to take a bad fall.”
She put a cool hand to his temple. “Does your head pain you?”
“Not in the least. Twenty years ago, your dear papa made sure I knew how to take a mere tumble into the sand. My heart pains me. I saw you with Ramsdale, overheard your conversation with him, and realized you would be better off with a man who could ease your burden here, not take you away from who and what you love.”
She was frowning at the worn carpet, and frowning was bad.
“You appeared to return his affections,” Philippe went on, “and it’s as if the breath left my body and hasn’t returned. I can’t think, I can’t sleep. I am nobody’s Philippe. Nobody’s friend. Nobody’s dearest anything. I ceased in some vital way to function, as if I left the best of me in the sand of your riding arena.”
Harriet drew her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees.
So much for the efficacy of an impassioned proposal, and yet, affection for her—bottomless, admiring, desiring affection—welled in Philippe’s heart. He would always love her, and that would always give him joy and cause him an awful ache.
“Say something, Harriet. You told me to put my question to you, and that means you owe me an answer.”
She turned her face, resting a cheek on her knee, her expression cross. “I’m making up my mind, choosing my words, trying to train myself out of a bad habit. If I’m to answer with anything other than ‘Yes, Papa,’ or ‘Of course, Philippe,’ this will require some effort on my part.”
Philippe wanted desperately to kiss her, but she’d probably whack him, and then he’d want to kiss her even more.
“Tell me if you’ll be my duchess,” Philippe said. “We can sort the rest out from there.”
Her glower became ferocious. “No, I will not be your duchess.”
* * *
Harriet was angry, and not with herself. Papa’s decision to take a partner—meaning to bring a titled lord with money into the business, because what mattered hard work and loyalty—and the notion that Philippe had fallen on purpose at his last lesson left her upset in ways too numerous to list.
She and Philippe had much to sort out, but as with any spirited mount, she would begin as she intended to go on.
“A duchess is not a prime filly,” Harriet said, “to be owned by this or that lordling, raced by this or that stable. She’s a person married to a man who has a title. If I marry you, we will be husband and wife, but I hope I don’t consider you my duke.”
Philippe stared across the room, at the rack of saddles and bridles neatly arranged on the wall. “Is that a yes, Harriet, or a no?”
She dropped her knees and smoothed her skirts. She’d told Philippe to ask her, but the habit of answering for herself would take some time to develop.
“I love you,” she said, taking him by the hand, and drawing him to sit beside her. “You have been in my heart forever too, and when you took me to bed… I will never be the same, Philippe. I like that. I like that I chose to share that with you, despite propriety, despite common sense. I want to marry that man, the one who can inspire me to reach for my heart’s desire, to step off the bridle path and gallop the fields and forests.”
Philippe slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I want to be with the woman who gave me the confidence to get back in the saddle, and to pitch myself from it. The woman who made me think about whether I’m living my life, or trying to live my brother’s. I’ll never be an avid horseman, Harriet.”
“I’ll never be an avid duchess.”
He took her hand. “Fair enough. I’m not an avid duke, and with you, I’ll never need to pretend otherwise.”
The rain began to beat against the windows in earnest, and Harriet tucked closer to Philippe’s warmth. “You needn’t be an avid horseman either, Philippe. I’ll be an avid wife, though.”
“I will be a passionately avid husband.”
He kissed her, and what happened next had to qualify as the fastest disrobing of a woman in a riding habit in the history of equitation. Philippe made a bed of wool coolers before the parlor stove, and amid the good smells of leather, horse, and hay, Harriet made the decision to anticipate her vows.
Two hours later, a sopping, irascible Earl of Ramsdale had been retrieved by the grooms, and Philippe was passing out toddies in the Talbot family parlor.
“A toast,” Ramsdale said, “to new ventures succeeding beyond our wildest dreams.”
“To new ventures,” Philippe said, lifting his glass and smiling at Harriet over the rim.
She’d requested that they not announce their engagement until Philippe had told his sister. Philippe had inquired whether Harriet wanted him to observe the protocol of asking her papa for permission to court her.
“You can ask Papa for permission to court me,” Harriet murmured as Papa and the earl began bickering about repurchasing Utopia from Lord Dudley, which they’d both agreed was a fine idea.
“And if he says no?” Philippe asked.
“He won’t. He wants to be asked, though, included in the discussion. I know this, because I’d stopped including him in matters relating to the stable. I didn’t want to bother him, he probably didn’t want to bother me. I see that now.”
“I’ll bother you frequently, Harriet,” Philippe said, “and I’d rather not have a long engagement.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Ramsdale groused.
“Breeding stock,” Harriet replied, which retort had the earl and her papa looking perplexed, and Philippe grinning.
As it happened, the firstborn child of the Duke and Duchess of Lavelle arrived a scant eight months after the wedding and, true to Harriet’s promise, was named after the Earl of Ramsdale.
Lady Seton Avery Ellis rode like a demon and waltzed like a dream, but that’s a tale for another time.
As for the Earl of Ramsdale… his happily ever after lay in the direction of a long-lost Italian manuscript that scholars claimed held arcane secrets for capturing the affections of another. Ramsdale certainly didn’t believe in Cupid’s arrows or Aphrodite’s potions… and yet, he fell in love anyway.
And fell very hard, indeed, which is also a tale for another time…
THE END
To my dear Readers,
I love a horsey tale, so thanks for indulging me in this one! For those of you who wondered, Andrew, Lord Greymoor, owns the farm in Surrey where that colt with the big nose stands at stud. Lest you think I’d make you wait forever for Lord Ramsdale’s happily ever after (he says it feels like fo
rever), The Will to Love is included in the October 2017 anthology, How to Find a Duke in Ten Days. (Excerpt below, because Ramsdale insists, politely of course.)
My most recent full length Regency novel was Too Scot to Handle, the second book in the Windham Brides series. No Other Duke Will Do (November 2017) is the third story in that series, and my first romance set in Wales—but not my last!
Because the Duke of Haverford is also a very persuasive gentleman, I’ve included a sneak peek from his courtship of Miss Elizabeth Windham.
If you’d like to stay up to date with all of my new releases, sales, and special deals, but you aren’t keen on receiving yet another newsletter, please considering following me on Bookbub. If you’re more the newsletter type, I only publish those when I have illustrious doin’s to pass along, and I will never convey your information to third parties, ever.
Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
From The Will to Love by Grace Burrowes in
How To Find a Duke in Ten Days
* * *
The Earl of Ramsdale has run an advertisement seeking assistance with the translation of his uncle’s will. Ramsdale hopes that document can point him in the direction of a long-lost manuscript, the Duke’s Book of Knowledge. Alas for the earl, his quest is off to an inauspicious start…
The scholars who responded to the advertisement proved a shabby lot. Two reeked of mildew, two could not fumble through a single sentence of Uncle’s codicil, and the fifth wanted a sponsor for yet another expedition to plunder the Nile.
Time was running out, and defeat was unacceptable.
“Have any more responses come?” Ramsdale asked his valet when the Nile explorer had been sent on his way.
“Not a response per se,” Pinckney said, tidying tea cups and saucers onto a tray. “There is a gentleman below stairs who said he’d wait rather than make an appointment. Tidy young chap, relatively speaking.”
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