My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  Alistair wasn’t as lucky, though. In an effort to keep Lord Tuttle from realizing his identity, he had neglected to account for the position of the man’s mount, forcing the two horses much too close. Lord Tuttle’s horse reared just after Buttercup had settled down, nearly unseating the man.

  “Damn it, you fool!” Lord Tuttle called out, yanking his mount to the right to get away from Alistair. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Alistair had to suppress a curse of his own, one that should have been directed at Gabriel Wellingham. He quickly glanced back at the phaeton, it’s rear just to his left. Just as quickly as the equipage had passed him, the hub of its wheel scraping the side of his boot, it suddenly came to a halt so that its driver was directly across from Lady Julia. Alistair had to slow his own mount to a halt, upsetting Blossom so that he tossed his head from side to side, obviously displeased with what should have been a pleasant ride in the park. If only I’d been allowed to ride Thunderbolt! The larger mount would have allowed him a higher perch from which to watch the traffic, a larger mount to prevent this kind of potential accident.

  About to ask as to Lady Julia’s health, Alistair stared at the yellow phaeton’s driver. The Earl of Trenton had simply stopped the damned phaeton and was leaning down to greet Lady Julia as if he hadn’t just about caused her demise! “Milady!” Alistair called out again, hoping he could get her attention and move them off the path and out of harm’s way.

  But Julia seemed to ignore his shout, her attention entirely on Lord Trenton. Damn it! Didn’t she know the man was a rake of the worst kind?

  Lady Julia heard the phaeton long before it came up from her left. The sounds of its wheels gave away the fact that it was new, and the hoof beats were those of a lighter horse, much lighter than a Friesian. She smiled to herself, figuring it had to be Gabriel Wellingham. The bounder! Does he not realize that everyone in the ton thinks him a fool after what had happened during the Little Season last year? There was a reason the chits from her age group wouldn’t consider him a suitable husband. Pity the poor debutantes this Season, she thought, with not a lot of pity.

  What color will his phaeton be this year? she wondered happily, remembering some comment the man had said at a ball the year before. A new year, new equipage, as if he could afford to purchase entirely new coaches, barouches, and phaetons every Season. And he probably could. She had heard the man was worth thirty-thousand pounds a year.

  “Lady Julia, you are looking ever more beautiful this fine afternoon,” Gabriel spoke as he reached for her gloved hand and pulled it to his lips. The fact that he could make such a move from his seat without having to lean over too far was a testament to just how close he had driven his bright … yellow? Julia had to do a double take when she realized how hideous the equipage looked. The spokes of the wheel were yellow with red painted along the inside of the hub, and the rest of the body was yellow. She had a passing thought of how it might glow in the dark should the earl be so inclined to drive it after twilight. Hopefully he would know better than to do so. A highwayman would spot the phaeton from at least a mile away and know an easy mark when he saw one.

  Gabriel Trenton didn’t strike her as a man who could defend himself. He wore bright satin evening clothes to balls and sported a head of blond curls that made him appear as if he’d stepped out of a Gainesborough painting. Julia briefly wondered if he’d been a cherub in his younger days. She could imagine his cheeks all pink and puffed out, a bow and quill of arrows hung over one chubby shoulder. The thought brought a smile to her face, but she quickly tried to hide it. She didn’t want the bounder to think she was the least bit interested in him in that way.

  “Ah, Lord Trenton. I do hope this day finds you well,” Julia answered automatically, pulling her hand away when the earl didn’t give it up right away.

  “I saw you from the gates and made my way to your side just as fast as I could,” Gabriel replied, realizing Lady Julia was allowing her mount to follow the speed of traffic, her progress suddenly taking her well in front of his position. Gabriel flicked the reins, and his grey Thoroughbred pulled him back in line with Lady Julia’s mount. Undeterred by Julia’s apparent ambivalence, he leaned out of his phaeton again. “I wanted to ask,” he started to say and then shook his head. “Nay, I wanted to beg you to save me a dance at Lord Torrington’s ball,” he said as he struggled to keep an eye on the traffic in front of his horse as well as in front of her.

  Lord Torrington? Julia had to think of the stack of invitations her mother had mentioned at yesterday’s tea. “Oh, do you mean Grandby’s ball?” she wondered with a cocked eyebrow. Didn’t the earl realize that no one called Grandby ‘Torrington’? It wasn’t as if the man had forbid the use of his proper aristocratic title – he simply preferred his given name. His wife didn’t even call him ‘Torrington’. Julia remembered the former Lady Worthington calling him ‘Grandby’, and one time, when she was at a garden party at Worthington House, Julia overheard Adele Slater Worthington Grandby refer to her husband as ’Milton’ whilst she fingered a rather gorgeous gold filigree and ruby necklace that graced her long neck. Some women have all the luck, Julia thought, remembering just then that Adele Grandby could almost be considered her godmother; Milton Grandby was her godfather, after all.

  “I will indeed be at the ball, Lord Trenton,” Julia replied, wondering if traffic might open up a bit ahead of her so she could rid herself of the blond earl. “As to a dance, you shall just have to arrive in time to claim one on my card,” she added coyly.

  “Gabriel,” the earl said, juggling the reins when another phaeton came up along his left side.

  Julia glanced around, pretending to keep an eye on the equipage and horses that surrounded her. Was there no way out of this? Usually the crowd thinned out once they were through the gates and parading along Rotten Row. “I beg pardon, my lord?” she answered, only half her attention on the earl.

  “Gabriel,” he responded, again leaning toward her.

  If he isn’t careful, he will tumble out of the phaeton and land on his noggin, Julia thought as she fought the urge to smile. His mass of blond curls would probably cushion the blow, though, she realized. Did the man honestly think she would call him ‘Gabriel’ when they were in public? If so, he probably expected her to allow him to call her ‘Julia’. “I fear I cannot, my lord,” Julia replied with a sweet smile. “Do have a pleasant afternoon.” And with that parting comment, Julia steered Buttercup so she weaved to the right and over to the edge of the lane near where the pedestrians made their way.

  Alistair watched as the Earl of Trenton nearly tumbled out of his phaeton – not once, not twice, but three times! Did Gabriel Wellingham have no sense? Probably not. Or he was counting on his mass of blond curls to protect his head when he fell on it. And what was Lady Julia doing to encourage the rake’s behavior? Alistair tried to overhear their conversation, catching just snippets – enough to make him realize that the earl wanted a dance at Grandby’s ball. That would be the ball to attend this Season, he considered, wondering how he could secure an invitation. He usually escorted his mother, but given his current situation, he doubted he would come out of hiding to do that this year.

  Had Lady Julia agreed to dance with Trenton? Was she already imagining herself as the Countess of Trenton? Imagining her role as mistress of no fewer than three large mansions and a country estate? Of a stable of Thoroughbreds and Friesians and Cleveland Bays the likes of which hadn’t been seen outside of Tattersall’s? Didn’t she realize what a bounder Gabriel Wellingham was? Didn’t she know how he had embarrassed himself in Parliament, his hot-headed and high-handed diatribes against the more powerful members of Parliament making him look like a fool rather than the shrewd politician he obviously thought he was? Or the fact that one of his three mistresses had quit him? Presumedly because he was a horrible kisser and didn’t have the licking down to an art in the bedchamber?

  Well, Lady Julia could be excused from knowing about that, he supposed. Afte
r all, how many ladies of the ton knew anything about what happened in Parliament? Or about what went on behind the closed door of a mistress suite?

  Alistair only knew about the mistresses from a comment he had overheard at Boodle’s. The earl obviously needed tutelage in the art of kissing. And probably intercourse, too. Perhaps some high flyer would take him under her wing and give him some guidance before he found a suitable bride.

  Remembering their conversation at the inn last month, Alistair immediately regretted his less-than-charitable thoughts about the earl.

  The man needed a wife.

  Not Julia, though, Alistair thought suddenly.

  Alistair shook himself from his reverie. Why not Julia? She would probably suit the earl just fine.

  Lost in his thoughts, Alistair missed Julia’s quick maneuver as she was suddenly no longer in front of him but riding alongside the path on which those not in carriages or riding on horses walked during the fashionable hour. Alistair used the clear path in front of him to pull up alongside the Trenton phaeton. “What do you think you’re doing?” Alistair asked with a hint of annoyance.

  Gabriel Wellingham regarded the footman who had suddenly appeared at his side, surprised to hear such words from someone other than a peer. The deep blue and green silks identified his usurper as a servant of the Mayfield earldom. “I am practicing the art of being polite …” Gabriel nearly halted his horse when he realized the identity of the footman. “Alistair?” his whispered hoarsely. “What the …?”

  “Yes, it’s me, and I would appreciate you not flirting with Lady Julia,” Alistair said under his breath, but loud enough that he could be heard over the noise of the horses and the phaeton’s wheels.

  Gabriel straightened his horse’s direction when he realized they were headed in a slight angle compared to the other equipage. “I am not flirting with Lady Julia,” Gabriel countered, giving Alistair a more complete look-over. “Christ, what are you wearing?” he asked then.

  Alistair glared at Gabriel. “I am Lady Julia’s escort for her ride today,” he replied, wondering if he looked as ridiculous as he felt wearing the brightly-colored silks.

  The earl quirked his lips. “I highly recommend you avoid wearing that particular shade of green in the future,” he teased. “The blue, not so bad,” he added as he used the tip of his riding crop to further straighten his horse.

  “Not funny, Gabe,” Alistair replied, “This was your idea, as I recall, and what the hell are you still doing in London, besides harassing Lady Julia?” he managed to get out before straightening himself in the saddle. His own mount seemed bothered that he leaned too far to the left in the saddle.

  “Congratulations on acquiring the position. Lord Mayfield spoke rather highly of you at White’s last night,” Gabriel replied, ignoring Alistair’s question. “I didn’t realize he was talking about you. Seems you’re the only groom who his horse will abide.”

  Alistair regarded Gabriel with a look of surprise. “Indeed,” he said, shocked that Lord Mayfield had even noticed his work in the stables. Perhaps the head groom had said something.

  “And, as for Lady Julia,” Gabriel added as he positioned the crop back in the holder, “She is my second cousin and knows not to give my flirting any regard.”

  Cousin?

  Alistair stared at the earl for perhaps a moment too long, for he had to pull back on the reins when Blossom nearly walked into the back of a coach directly in front of them.

  Gabriel and Lady Julia were cousins? How could that be? he wondered, deciding he would ask the young lady should circumstances permit it. “You dog!” Alistair called out as Gabriel’s phaeton passed him completely.

  Gabriel leaned out the side of the phaeton and called back, “Likewise, I’m sure.” With one last wave, the phaeton surged ahead and disappeared in the mass of equipage.

  Glancing around, Alistair steered Blossom off to the right, passing behind Lord Tuttle on his way to the edge of the path.

  And where was Lady Julia? He quickly glanced around, alarmed when he realized she was no longer directly in his line of sight.

  There was empty space where she’d been directly to the right of Trenton’s phaeton. What a ridiculous looking piece of equipage! And when had yellow become a color of choice for aristocrats? They should be black. Or maybe red like Lord Morganfield’s. His phaeton was a sporty model, and most unexpected given Morganfield’s station as a marquess.

  But Alistair realized he was woolgathering again, and he still hadn’t found Lady Julia. Figuring she had moved off to the right to get away from her second cousin, Alistair aimed his mount to cross in front of Lady Pettigrew’s barouche – she was engaged in conversation with Lady Fletcher and probably wouldn’t recognize him now that she had her niece married off – and quickly moved to get out of the traffic.

  Once he was off to the side, Blossom stopped tossing his head and seemed to enjoy the free rein to canter. Alistair spotted Lady Julia directly ahead and hurried to come alongside. “Milady,” he called out, wanting her to know he was once again nearby. He was about to scold her for disappearing, but saw how she seemed to straighten in her saddle, affording him a glance over her right shoulder.

  “Do try to keep up,” she said, a hint of annoyance coloring her voice.

  His hackles suddenly raised, Alistair was about to respond when he remembered he couldn’t. It wasn’t his place to scold the chit. But he found he couldn’t keep quiet about Lord Trenton. He moved his mount closer to hers and leaned over. “I do hope milady did not arrange a liaison with Lord Trenton,” he said as quietly as he could. Then he realized how his choice of words would be interpreted and immediately regretted having made the comment.

  Julia’s eyes widened, and she turned to glare at the groom. “How dare you?” she said, a bit louder than she intended.

  Buttercup was obviously disturbed at her rider’s sudden anger – something caused her to rear up a bit and then turn about so that Lady Julia was suddenly facing Alistair.

  Julia’s eyes seemed to shoot daggers at him. She struggled to keep her mount under control as Alistair reined in Blossom, who probably would have stopped anyway since Buttercup was now directly in front of him.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, milady,” Alistair said in his most apologetic tone, chastising himself for his choice of words. Liaison? What was he thinking? Well, he was thinking Trenton wanted to arrange a clandestine meeting in the gardens at the Mayfield ball. And who knows what else afterwards?

  “I … I should hope not,” Julia spat out. She was directly to his left, her head turned so that no one in the prevailing traffic could see her displeasure with her groom. Alistair had to admire her for not making her anger apparent to everyone on Rotten Row. “Whatever possessed you to think that I would ever give Gabriel Wellingham the opportunity for a ‘liaison’?” she spat out.

  Buttercup sensed her rider’s distress and, instead of standing still, was suddenly rearing up, rearing up enough that Lady Julia was no longer in her saddle, her right leg giving up its purchase on the pommel.

  Alistair didn’t know if he had seen it coming or if his reflexes were just that good, but he had Blossom repositioned so that he could wrap an arm around Julia’s waist before she could be thrown to the ground, pulling her around so her back landed hard against the front of his body. Her riding habit skirts arced up and around, landing precisely along the side of Blossom, the fabric perfectly splayed out as it had been on Buttercup. But Julia, in her panic, struggled against his hold.

  Sure Blossom would rebel any moment at his unbalanced riders and Lady Julia’s flailing legs, Alistair doubled his hold on her waist. “Be still, damn it!” he said between clenched teeth.

  Julia’s movements stopped suddenly, but he could feel her efforts to breathe beneath his forearm, could feel the curve of one breast around which one of his hands had apparently taken purchase, could feel her stiff spine and one shoulder as it pressed against the small of his shoulder. He would have cont
inued to take stock of how pleasant it was to have a woman trapped in his arm, but Buttercup reared again, ladies were suddenly screaming, and he was forced to pull Blossom off to the right and out of the way so they wouldn’t be hit by a kicking hoof.

  A quick thinking tiger had jumped from the back of Lady Pettigrew’s barouche. He grabbed Buttercup’s reins and pulled her off to the side just as Alistair got Blossom under control in the turf to the side of the track.

  “Are you well, milady?” Alistair managed to get out, his heart racing beneath her shoulder blade. Good God, she might have been trampled, was all he could think. And under my watch! What kind of groom allowed his charge to be tossed from her saddle to nearly end up on her bum, or worse, on her head during the fashionable hour? Riding a horse named ‘Buttercup’, no less?

  A rather vocal gasp, courtesy of Lady Fletcher, had his attention turned in her direction. Lady Pettigrew had apparently fainted, and now Lord Bostwick’s aunt was fanning the older woman with an ostrich feather she had probably plucked from her bonnet.

  Alistair would have left his attention on the older ladies in their barouche except for the next two words he heard.

  “Let. Go.”

  The clipped words came from the rather tense woman he still held firmly against his front. Aware she was not the least bit impressed with his daring-do in rescuing her from falling on her bum, or worse, her head, Alistair relaxed his hold but made sure she didn’t slide off the side of the saddle. He repositioned his arm so it was lower on her waist, glancing about to ensure no one had seen where that one hand had rather happily been just the moment before.