“Fairfax is a filly,” he said in low undertones. “I think she’s taking exception to you calling her a boy.”
Was he serious? She opened her mouth to ask him, but he spoke first. “Trust me.”
Will had said those exact same words. Jemma cringed. “I’m far too intelligent to do that,” she snapped.
He flinched, which made her feel terrible about saying such harsh words. It wasn’t his fault she didn’t trust men. Though, just because it wasn’t his fault that didn’t mean she trusted him. She pressed her fingertips to her aching temples. “Er, thank you, for the tip on Fairfax.”
“Certainly,” he said, but his voice was much cooler than it had been.
She turned from him, unsure what else to say, and carefully placed her hand on Fairfax’s side. “You’re a good girl,” she cooed, feeling silly, but she’d be as silly as need be if it accomplished her goal. Fairfax snorted her approval, and Jemma grinned. “It’s working,” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” Lord Harthorne replied, in a deep satisfied tone. “I did tell you it would.”
She rubbed Fairfax gently as she forced an apology to the surface. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. Apologizing to any man truly went against the grain.
He sketched a mock bow. “Quite all right. I can see how my trying to help you would make you doubt my character.”
Of course, he couldn’t see, and he’d effectively told her so with his words, so full of silent retribution. She scowled inwardly. She didn’t have to explain herself to him. “I’ve already apologized.”
“Yes. Quite so. And such a heartfelt apology, at that.”
Of course, it wasn’t, and they both knew it. For one brief second, she longed to be that girl who could trust men again. But that girl was gone. She bit her lip and faced the horse. “Time to race, I suppose.” She could feel him behind her, unmoving, his heat almost invading.
“Do you need help mounting?”
Normally, she would have said no, but she’d rather have him steadying the skittish Fairfax until she was securely in the saddle. She nodded and was about to direct him to hold the horse when his hands suddenly came to her waist and he lifted her effortlessly up before she could protest. She scrambled to gain her hold and her footing, and with a huff of breath, she was in the saddle, her sides burning oddly from the heat of his touch. She glanced at his gloveless hands, which were now curled into tight fists.
She pulled her gaze to his eyes, and for one silent moment, they stared at each other. A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. That would probably be the last man’s touch she ever felt. Never mind it, she snapped at herself. She didn’t care.
“Shall we race?” he asked, whipping out his gloves and tugging them on.
She nodded her agreement but behind them, His Grace spoke up. “My wife has informed me she will lock the bedchamber door to me if I dare to race another lady when I refused to allow her to race today, so I’m afraid I’ll have to bow out.”
Jemma nodded. Sophia had not told her she was going to do that, but it didn’t matter. As long as she had someone to race.
Lord Harthorne glanced up at her. “It appears it’s just the two of us. Is that acceptable to you?”
“For the race, it is.” Heaven above. Why was she being so prickly with him?
He frowned. “Naturally, I was referring to the race. I didn’t mean to raise your hackles, Katherina.”
She snorted. “I suppose that would make you Petruchio.”
“Certainly not. We are not involved in a courtship, and I’d never dream of trying to tame you.”
She scowled at him, knowing good and well he’d been referring to the woman in The Taming of the Shrew. “Then you’re simply calling me a shrew.”
“You said it,” he replied with a chuckle, “not I.”
“Well, this shrew will easily defeat you.” With that, she tapped on Fairfax’s flanks and moved past Lord Harthorne to the start line.
Within seconds, he was beside her on his own gleaming stallion with a nice crowd of the ton looking on to witness her unspeakable lack of decorum. It was perfect. Sophia quickly laid out the race path—over the knoll, around the far tree and back—and with a large grin on her face, she raised her white handkerchief in the air and then dropped it, signaling the beginning of the race.
Before Jemma even tapped Fairfax’s flanks, Lord Harthorne left her in a haze of dust. She gasped and nudged Fairfax to go. The horse took off, but Lord Harthorne was already ten paces ahead. As the wind whipped Jemma’s hair against her face, she leaned low over Fairfax and urged the horse to go. “Please, girl,” she whispered, as the horse’s hooves thundered against the ground and Jemma’s body vibrated with the contact. “I cannot lose my pin money. I need it, you see.”
Fairfax lifted her head, as if to say, Yes, then dropped it down once again before seeming to double her speed. They raced over the grassy knoll and around the tree they had designated. Though Jemma was closing the distance, her gut told her it was not going to be enough. Lord Harthorne was a superb rider. He glanced back at her before suddenly raising himself, and with the slightest movement only someone racing him would notice, he pulled back on his reins and slowed his horse just enough that she knew she could close the distance.
Why was he doing that? He was letting her win! She urged Fairfax faster, and as she passed Lord Harthorne, he winked at her. It so startled her that nearly lost control of the horse. She crossed the finish line with a halfhearted victory whoop for show before moving past the onlookers to allow Fairfax to cool. Soon, Lord Harthorne was beside her, his stallion panting.
She turned in the saddle toward him. “You let me win.”
He nodded. “I’m too much of a gentleman to take money from a lady.” She felt her brow wrinkle, and he chortled. “I’m sorry if that offends you.”
She pulled Fairfax to a stop while gazing at Lord Harthorne. His kind gesture almost made her question her belief that there was no such thing as a gentleman. Almost. But not quite. “A true gentleman is a thing of fairy tales, myths, and poems.”
“I rather like poems,” he said with a grin. “And I beg to differ.”
“Of course you do,” she said, irritated at herself that she was having so much fun verbally sparring with him. That would not do. One moment it was simple conversation, and the next you forgot to be cautious, and before you knew it, your heart was engaged. “Good day to you, Lord Harthorne. You can send the money you owe me through your sister, Amelia.”
He nodded. “All right. Good afternoon to you, Katherina,” he said with a chuckle.
She snorted and turned Sophia’s horse away without a backward glance. Though, heavens, she truly did have the urge to look back.
“Philip, darling, what are you doing?”
Philip De Vere, Earl of Harthorne stuffed the creditors’ notices littering his desktop into the drawer, forced a jovial smile he hadn’t felt in months, and turned to face his mother as she strolled into his study. He swept a hand toward the foolscap in front of him that he’d been about to jot a note on for Miss Adair, to accompany the money he owed her from their race that morning.
“Just writing a note,” he said. “What brings you to my office on this fine, sunny day? Shouldn’t you be out riding about in the carriage or visiting with one of your friends?”
Philip’s mother sat across from him in a noticeably threadbare gown that made him frown. She ran her finger along the worn, faded edge of what used to be his father’s favorite chair before his father had died and left them in shocking debt. She looked so small and helpless in the enormous rose-colored armchair.
Her brows dipped as she stared at him. “Never mind the lovely weather and my friends. You look worried.” Her hands twisted together as her blue eyes locked on his. “Are you? I mean to say, are the finances still excellent?” Her voice held the quiver of one who had been forced to worry about many things in her life, and it made Philip’s heart ache.
The finances were not excel
lent. He was sure he had never used that word, or maybe he had when he’d been blindly hopeful last year that this year’s crop would be better, that he’d be able to pay his sister Amelia’s husband, Aversley, back for the loan Mother knew nothing about, and that all would be well. But the damned rain was ruining the crops again. Philip couldn’t even commit to saying the finances were decent. They were far from it. He was still deep in debt. They were precariously close to not being able to afford food once again, as they had been immediately after Father had died.
Philip ground his teeth. Wagering with Miss Adair earlier in the park had been foolish, reckless, and wholly unlike him. And he’d purposely let her win on top of the initial idiocy of agreeing to the wager.
“Philip?” His mother’s prompting jerked him back to the moment.
He pulled his gaze from the window and glanced at her. What to say so she would not worry, yet ensure he was not lying? The words had to be just right. He could not tell his mother about the crops, and he could never let her know that they were so near running out of money that even buying necessities such as food was going to be difficult. The last time their situation had been so dire, she’d turned to laudanum to cope. He had to protect her now as he’d failed to do previously.
Philip raked his hand through his hair, trying to ward off the familiar feeling that he was drowning. If you’d asked him when he was a young lad if he would grow up to be a man who worried about finances he would have laughed. Money had never meant much to him. They’d had enough for a happy life, and he’d never desired more. As long as he had food to eat, poetry books, and the supplies he needed to write, he had everything he required.
“Philip?” His mother’s voice hitched, and lines of worry etched additional creases into her face.
“There is no need for you to be worried,” he assured her, which was perfectly true. He’d do all the worrying for both of them.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried as a genuine smile lit her face. “For a moment, my stomach became all knotted. You had such a look on your face, as if we were on the verge of starving again.”
Philip tugged on his cravat, which felt rather like a noose that was tightening. How close to the truth his mother was. He had precisely two months of funds left to feed them—possibly three if he was very careful.
She patted her hair, and he noted the dismal state of her gown once again. God, he felt like a failure even asking her if she could forego new gowns again this Season, but he hated to create more debt he couldn’t pay. He was already supposed to pay Aversley back tomorrow for the previous loan, and he could not even do that. Humiliation branded him. “Mother, about this Season—”
“Yes! I’ve been meaning to talk to you!” She picked up the magazine she had been holding and opened it. “I offered to sponsor your cousin Eustice, so she might finally have a Season.”
Philip nearly groaned. “Have Eustice’s looks improved through the years?”
His mother scowled at him, then sighed. “Not much.”
This time he did groan.
“We must be kind, darling,” his mother chided.
He could not afford kindness, but he forced another nod, which won a smile of approval from his mother. “I said we could purchase her a few new gowns and I would accompany her to the balls, which means I likely need at least two new gowns myself.”
Philip began to sweat in his coat. He yanked it off and flung it on the desk, all while his mother watched him with a raised eyebrow. So much for not creating debt he could not pay back. Thank God he still had good credit with all the shops. Mother and Eustice would have to get the gowns thusly. And he’d have to—
“Philip, are you sure you are all right? You look feverish. Your cheeks are red.”
“Too much sun in the park today.” A complete truth. He’d stayed an hour after the race, staring at the Serpentine and trying to figure out what it was about Miss Adair that had made him agree to the wager when he knew he should not have.
“You should go to the park when the sun is not so strong,” his mother said.
He nodded absently.
Mother shifted in her seat and let out a long sigh. “I thank God every day I have you. You didn’t let me suffer the disgrace your aunt Lydia had to suffer when your uncle Richard died and poor Lydia could not pay all the debt. Once you knew our troubles, you took charge!” Mother pressed her hands to her cheeks and shook her head. “Lydia is too prideful. She took work as a seamstress and refused to let us help her. And look at her now. Shunned by the ton and she still cannot afford a Season for poor Eustice, who is already two and twenty. ”
The ton and how they would shun Mother if he, as an earl, took an honest job was precisely why finding employment was not a solution to his financial woes. She’d never survive being ostracized from Society. If he’d only had himself to consider, he’d find work in a second.
“You would never let me down that way.” She shook her head. “The shame of everyone knowing you cannot pay your obligations is bad enough, but to have all your belongings taken from you?” She paused and took a deep breath. “Philip, I don’t mind telling you that after your father died, I lay awake fearing that would happen to us. I thought I could face it if it did, but then seeing how the ton has treated poor Lydia and your cousin, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to bear it.”
He felt a grimace pull at his lips, and he steepled his hands in front of his face to hide his expression.
His mother frowned. “Your brow has creased, dear. Are you composing another poem in your head, or are you upset with me for agreeing to sponsor Eustice without asking you? If it’s too much expense, I’ll forego gowns for myself again. I don’t mind, truly.”
A twitch started on the right side of his temple. Providing money for gowns for two women was too expensive, to be sure. Damnation! Even providing new gowns for one of them required money he didn’t have, but he’d barter his soul to the devil before giving his mother a reason that might drive her back to laudanum.
Philip’s pulse ticked up a beat.
“Philip, honestly,” his mother chided gently, “you’re not acting yourself at all.”
“I’m not feeling myself.” He was feeling rather trapped by life, his station, his obligations. Writing poetry had always provided an outlet to escape these feelings, but the poetry was not coming to mind anymore. His worry had ripped the creativity from his mind.
“It’s the heat,” she declared and fanned herself.
He cleared his throat and forced out the words that would heap yet more debt on his head. “Of course we’ll help Eustice.”
“Wonderful! But there’s one more thing...”
Mother shot him an apologetic look that made his gut spasm. Of course, there was one more thing.
“She’ll be living with us until she secures an offer of marriage.” Mother stood and smoothed out the folds of her gown. “But of course, I’m sure you assumed that since she does not live in London and we are sponsoring her.”
He’d assumed nothing because he was too busy worrying about their finances. Enough of that. Wallowing in misery would not help matters. He had to come up with the money somehow. He’d not let his mother down as his father had done.
She came around the desk and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad we had this talk. I’m off to the dress shop.”
“Have fun,” he managed to choke out as he watched her disappear. He stared at his desk for a moment, his thoughts turning. He picked up his quill pen, dipped it, and sat there. What options did he have to set his debts to rights and get the lands back into shape so they would once again earn money?
He wrote the number one and then sat, listening to the incessant tick of the longcase clock while grinding his teeth. He could think of nothing except one thing. With a loud groan, he wrote, Find a lady with a large dowry to marry.
The notion made him shudder. He threw the pen down and stared at his only option. He’d always hoped he’d marry for love as his mother and father h
ad done. He’d grown up seeing how happy they were compared to his friends’ parents who had married for convenience, and he knew he wanted love above all else. Even when Mary had broken their engagement because she’d found a lord with more money and a loftier title, he’d not become jaded against love. Well, he had, but he’d pulled himself out of it. After getting completely foxed, of course.
He’d not thought all women insipid creatures who cared for nothing beyond a rich husband with a grand title, and he’d presumed one day he would meet the woman he was meant to be with, a woman who would appreciate who he was, poetry and all. Hellfire.
He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against his desk, making the inkpot rattle. The only way he could save himself, Mother, and Cousin Eustice from financial ruin without making them suffer social leprosy was to sacrifice himself on the altar of matrimony. There was no choice. Borrowing more money was out of the question if he wanted to keep a sliver of pride and be able to live with himself.
He stood, feeling as though he was going to go mad, and started pacing the room. Perhaps he’d find a lady he actually loved who also had a title. It was improbable but not impossible. He gathered his coat and put it on. He needed to speak to Aversley and admit he could not yet pay his brother-in-law back. The man might even have some notion of who the wealthy debutantes were this Season. Just the thought made Philip’s stomach turn. He started out the door and paused, remembering he still needed to write to Miss Adair.
He quickly penned the note and fished ten pounds out of his desk drawer, money that he had no business giving to the lovely, yet sharp-tongued Miss Adair, and made haste to Aversley and Amelia’s home. He could give the money and letter to his sister to hand over to Miss Adair while he was there, and afterward he’d break the news to Aversley.
Jemma breezed through the elaborately carved wooden door that led from the street of Mayfair into her grandfather’s London townhome. She’d purposely gone to Sophia’s after the race, hoping that perhaps gossip would spread like lightening and reach her grandfather before she returned home. If she was very lucky, he’d have already heard the story, come to the conclusion that she was in no way fit to debut, and be waiting to tell her as much. She got five steps into the main foyer when Mr. Sims, her grandfather’s butler, entered the room from the direction of Grandfather’s study.
My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) Page 4
