by Matilda Hart
“I can’t wait to see what the horses will do this year. Stanford’s stallion was brilliant last year, wasn’t he?” the duke asked as they were helped into the chaise.
Lottie wasn’t sure the question was addressed to her, and though she certainly had an opinion on the subject, she held her peace. Robert Stanford’s stables had been producing winners every year for the last five, and this year was likely to be no different. Lottie knew for a fact, though, that he would face stiff competition from her own father, who had entered into an agreement with the duke to train and race one of the stallions that he had bought the previous year. Lottie had seen the horse run, and she could tell he would be a contender worth respecting.
“Do you enjoy the races then, Lady Snowley?”
This time, she could not ignore the question, nor the man who asked it. Keeping her eyes focused on the path ahead, she said,
“Yes. I have since I was a very little girl.”
Determined to keep their interaction to a minimum, she refrained from speaking further, and the marquess turned his attention back to his cousin. She sighed inwardly with relief. She had to get her unaccountable feelings under control, and until she could return to that more acceptable dislike of Ryde, she took refuge in silence. The ride to the track took half an hour, and once Lottie was helped down, she waited to be escorted to the place reserved for the duke, as the sponsor of the event. She looked around her, trying to see if she recognized anyone from where she was seated. The air was brisk, and she adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, and opened her parasol.
The excitement in the air was intoxicating to Lottie, and she relaxed completely, letting herself hear the noise of the crowd -- the screaming of children at play, the thunder of hooves as the horses went by, the cheers of the crowd when the winners were announced. The final race, for the big purse included both the Stanford entry, a beautiful black stallion named Rabian, and the duke’s own horse, improbably called Patch for the black patch over his left eye.
“I have entered into a wager with your father, my dear,” Snowley said to Lottie. “And I know that you have taken a keen interest in our horse’s training. So, which stallion do you think will win this year?”
Lottie smiled. “It is very hard to say, my Lord. Both Rabian and Patch are so evenly matched, that I myself would not wager between them. If I were forced to choose, though, I suppose I would give the edge to Rabian, because he has more experience.”
Without looking at her husband, who might take offense at her opinion, even though he asked for it, she hurried on,
“However, as we both know, the underdog has also been known to win in the past.”
Snowley smiled widely at her, and nodded. “I am of your opinion, my dear. It is your father who thinks my horse stands a chance against Rabian. We shall see, shan’t we?”
He turned back, as the race began, to watch as the horses bunched into the turn, and Lottie kept her eyes glued to the sorrel stallion wearing her husband’s stable colors. By the halfway point, Rabian and Patch were neck and neck, and the crowd was wild. Lottie hated that she had to restrain her natural desire to jump and cheer, but she sat forward in her seat as the horses made the last turn, her hands gripping the handle of her parasol in suppressed excitement. Rabian and Patch outdistanced all the other horses in the field by two lengths, but could not shake each other. As they approached the finish line, Rabian’s jockey rose even higher in his saddle and whipped the sides of his mount, pushing the stallion just a nose ahead of Patch to win the race.
All around the track, the crowd cheered and clapped, and Lottie noted the smile of pleasure on her husband’s face. His horse had come in second, but it did not seem to disturb him at all. She watched as he walked to the podium to drape the winner’s ribbon over the jockey’s neck, and to present the purse to Robert Stanford. Then he went to inspect the horses, and Lottie sat back, having thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle.
“Would you care for a glass of wine, Your Grace?”
Ryde’s voice pulled Lottie’s eyes back to her immediate surroundings, and she looked up to find he was waiting for her to take one of the glasses being offered to her by one of the footmen.
“Oh, thank you, Collins.” She took one of the glasses from the tray, ignoring Ryde, and sipped gratefully.
“It’s no use pretending I am invisible, you know. We shall have to get along.”
Ryde’s tone was dry and amused, and Lottie looked at him at last, determined to get over the inexplicable attraction she was feeling for him. The smile that curved his mouth only made his full lips that much more desirable to her.
“I am sure we will manage,” she replied stiffly, and turned her eyes back to the track, which was now busy with people milling about wanting to meet the jockeys and their horses.
She could see her father and husband in earnest conversation with the jockey who had ridden their horse to second place, and she wondered idly what they were saying to him. She knew her husband was not unhappy with the man’s performance, but she was almost certain her father was not pleased. He liked to win, and he thought he was a better horse trainer than anyone else in the district, and that all he needed was a good horse. So this loss would no doubt be galling to him.
“You are a very beautiful woman,” Ryde said at her side again. “My cousin must often be gratified to have snatched you up before any other man came to seek your favors.”
Lottie wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly, and turned astonished eyes to his face.
“I beg your pardon, Your Lordship, but I do not think I care for your approval any more than I do your dislike.” She drew herself up, and glared at him. “And I am sure my husband would not approve of your familiarity.”
She watched amusement bloom in his eyes, though this time he managed to keep it from showing on his lips. His expression remained serious enough as he said,
“I have merely paid my new cousin a compliment. There is nothing offensive or forward in that.”
“How can you know what is offensive to me, sir? You presume too much!”
Lottie wished he would stop talking to her. She wished he would leave her alone, instead of engaging her in conversation and stirring up the unwanted feelings of attraction that even now had her noticing that a half smile had finally lifted one corner of his luscious mouth, giving him a seductive air. She wanted to smile back at him, but she resisted the urge. This man had no use for her, and she could not imagine that he had any but ill intentions towards her.
“I apologize if I have offended you, Your Grace. It was only my intention to attempt to correct the poor impression you must have of me after our other brief encounters.”
He kept his voice even, and Lottie reacted as she had earlier to the silken tones. Her hand trembled around the glass she held, and she lowered it to her lap, holding it with both hands to steady it, and if she were honest, herself. In all her twenty-five years, she had never felt the stirring of feelings that this man had managed to raise in her. She must be a shallow woman indeed to be so affected by a man’s good looks and voice. To her chagrin, even the thought that she was as superficial and empty-headed as her sisters did nothing to lessen the warmth she felt creeping into her cheekbones at the marquess’s attentions.
“Your father and mother will be with us for dinner this evening, my dear.”
The duke’s voice broke the spell she had been under, and Lottie smiled brightly up at him, more relieved than she could say at the interruption. Her equanimity restored, she took the hand he offered and retreated from the emotions she didn’t know how to deal with. She need not be in company until dinner time, and she decided she would make the most of her time away from Ryde to gather her self-control about her, to build the walls she would need to keep him from further encroaching on her thoughts. She was a married woman now, and she needed to remember that.
Chapter 2 -- Barrington
She is a bewitching creature, Ryde thought as the new Duchess of Snowley schooled
her features into one of cool indifference. He had fully intended to continue to show his displeasure at her marriage to his cousin, but after that first meeting, when he had been insufferably rude to her, he had found himself curiously drawn to her. He had not failed to note the beauty of her hazel eyes, the natural blush in her cheeks, the sweet curve of her lips, despite his anger at the situation. Their second meeting, at her wedding, had been less brief, and for him a much more powerful event. Even now, as he watched her walk away with Snowley, he recalled the absolute shock to his system that she had given him when she appeared at the door of the chapel where they all waited for her arrival.
She had been resplendent in a gown of white satin, overlaid with lace, the long satin train trimmed with beautiful flowers. The bodice, made of pure satin, was low cut, and the lace-accented skirt began immediately under her full breasts, flowing down to the floor The sleeves began in soft ruffles that flowed down her arms in sheer splendor to her delicate wrists. Her hair was also dressed with flowers, and a tiara sparkled atop it. She was radiant, her face carefully made up, but not overdone, her cheeks pink with the glow of health and inner beauty.
Ryde couldn’t take his eyes off her, and though she studiously ignored him, except for the moment when he stood before her as she greeted her guests as the new Duchess of Snowley, and again when she danced with him, he found himself riveted to her every mood and move. Her voice was not irritatingly high and girlish as were her sisters’, but lush and sensuous, teasing his senses, stirring his body in a way no woman had done in recent memory. And despite his efforts to control his thoughts, they would return to her as soon as he heard her musical laugh, or saw her bewitching smile.
Now he noted the gentle sway of her hips as she strolled beside her husband back to the carriage. He wondered what her life had been like before she had been pawned off on his cousin. That she had been a virgin was clear to him, and he reminded himself yet again that he had no business thinking about his cousin-in-law in such an intimate way. He got into the open carriage and averted his gaze from the couple sitting across from him, taking in the scenery they rode through back to the stately home that the duke’s grandfather had built.
“I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s dance, after the fair,” the duke said. “Will we have a large party for the evening, my dear?”
“I tried to keep it an intimate group, as I know you would wish,” Lottie replied. “Just the families, and the Earl and Countess of Arness.”
Ryde wondered how his cousin tolerated his wife’s officious parents and her annoying sisters. He supposed the duke must have a wellspring of patience, as well as some tepid affection for his wife to allow him to do so. It was obvious that theirs was no wild passion. In fact, truth be told, she looked as dew fresh and innocent as she had before their nuptials. What would she be like between the sheets in the hands of a skilled lover such as himself? Although he had been careful to keep his public reputation as far from his cousin’s ears as he could, he was known as something of a rake in certain circles, and he could only be thankful that his cousin was not more interested in life beyond his lands.
Back at the house, Ryde alighted first, and helped Lottie out of the carriage. Her hand shook faintly in his, and he caught her eye for a moment before she shielded her gaze from his and followed her husband inside. If he did not miss his guess, the duchess was harboring some extreme emotion which she wished mightily to hide from him. Perhaps she was not as unmoved by his presence as she appeared to be. Something for him to investigate. He smiled and followed the couple, repairing to his rooms where he dealt with some correspondence and then got ready for the evening’s entertainment.
The party for dinner was small, for which Ryde found himself profoundly grateful, as it allowed him to observe the object of his fascination without too much concern for conversation. Aside from Snowley, his lady, and himself, Ryde counted four other guests, Snowley’s second cousin the Earl of Farley and his wife, down from London for the Michaelmas festivities, and the duchess’s parents, whom he found to be sufficiently stuffy and pompous that he was happy to let them ignore him. If they but knew the intensity of his interest in their daughter, they would be appalled, and probably have him dragged from the house and clapped in irons. He managed to contain the amusing thought, as he became aware that he also was being watched.
At first, he could not ascertain who his observer was, and all through the soup he tried to catch the person, but failed. Glad of a game to keep him occupied and out of trouble, he continued to search, and by the end of the fish course, he caught the duchess’s eyes sliding away from him. When next she looked in his direction, he smiled at her, and said, to allay any suspicions as to his motives,
“Does your father know of your opinion on this afternoon’s wager, Lady Snowley?”
She flushed a delicate pink, and though he knew she had rather not have had to deal with any attention of the kind she was about to receive, he needed her to be aware of him, to know that he had caught her, and to stop the pretence she seemed bent upon.
“My father rarely asks my opinion regarding wagers, Lord Ryde, and today’s was no exception.”
She stared at him for a moment only, but he was beginning to learn her expressions, and this time she was clearly angry. Her lips were just this much too tightly pressed together. He smiled and inclined his head, and she looked away, unable to hold his gaze. As he expected, Nigel Hawthorne took up the thread.
“What might our dear Charlotte have thought about today’s outcome that would have been different from my own thoughts on the matter?” he wondered arrogantly. “I am the one who trained her to have a keen eye for quality in racing stock.”
He seemed to preen as he made the statement, and Ryde watched with interest as his daughter looked at him disbelievingly before returning her eyes to the fish she had just been served. She ate delicately, but cleaned her plate, and he found himself approving of her single-minded independence. Apparently unaware of any undercurrents, the duke chimed in.
“Oh, my dear wife thought Rabian was the surer thing, Hawthorne,” he said, “and she was right!” He spoke the last words with obvious pride in his lady’s astuteness, thereby shutting down any retort that her father might wish to make.
“And what is to become of Patch?”
The Earl of Farley entered into the conversation, and Ryde let the rest of it wash over him, so he could keep his eyes on the woman whose beauty seemed to grow as the evening progressed. He accepted wine, ate his roast, and commented on the beauty of the countryside when the Countess sitting next to him remarked upon it, but he was never unaware of Charlotte. Dinner dragged on, and Ryde found himself wishing it would end. When it did, he watched as the lady of the house retreated to the drawing room with her female guests, leaving him with his cousin and the other two men to their port and cigars.
“Have you heard anything new from Branson and the weavers, Hawthorne?” the duke asked, after they had been served more port.
“There is to be a meeting between our mill and the men later this month, Your Grace,” Charlotte’s father replied obsequiously. “I have it on good authority that they intend to press forward with their demands, despite my best efforts to explain to Branson that the mill is not the evil he makes it out to be. They have grown more organized, and one or two are quite violently opposed to the work of the mill.”
“I suppose it is understandable that they should fear the mill,” the duke said. “After all, what is a mill but a quicker, more efficient way of making cloth with fewer hands? They can be forgiven for seeing the mill as wrecking their sources of income.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully. “I have been giving it some thought,” he continued, “and foresee only more trouble if we don’t find some solution that allows these men to make a living with dignity.”
“I do not see the mill as so great a threat to the weavers,” Hawthorne interjected pompously, puffing away at his cigar. “They can work the mills. We are not heartless men.”
Ryde broke into the debate. “Surely you must see, sir, that where there is machinery to do the weaving, fewer weavers will be needed? How then is that not a threat to their livelihoods?”
A startled silence followed his words as Charlotte’s father turned to look him in the eye. Ryde fought to keep amusement off his face. The man was not only arrogant but ignorant, or willfully cruel. He spared a thought for the woman in the other room who had had to live under his rule for twenty-five years. Her spirit must have suffered immensely under the burden of this man’s overbearing self-importance and disinterest in anyone but himself.
“Surely you do not side with the rabble element, Your Lordship?” He raised his brows, scandalized that anyone, least of all a younger man, dared to question him.
“I side with fairness, sir,” Ryde responded with some asperity. He was not one to back down, and he would not begin now, with a man who sought to advance himself by riding the coattails of the peerage. “We must all live, both those of us in the higher levels of society and those of the ‘rabble element’, as you put it. Had your daughter not been fortunate enough to catch my cousin’s discerning eye, she might have ended up marrying someone from that group. Would you have been quite so cavalier about their futures with your beloved eldest daughter’s welfare at stake?”
