“See you tomorrow.”
The man ambled out, leaving a suddenly very breathless Letitia standing in the stable with Lord Weybourne.
Alone.
Chapter Four
It was on the tip of her tongue to chastise him for standing so close to her, to rebuke him for putting her—a lady—in such a tenuous, reputation-shattering situation, but she remembered just in time that she was supposed to be a young lad, not a lady, and as long as Lord Weybourne still behaved as if she were a male and not a female, she would assume he knew no better.
“I like your manner around horses,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Most of the young lads that have been hired to work here are terrified of Amir. He’s the most valuable horse in this stable, the one on whom I’m pinning my hopes, and I can’t have those to whom I’m entrusting his care and future running scared of him. It only makes him worse.”
She turned away, unwilling to look for too long into his eyes for fear he’d guess her secret. “I only came here to see your famous horses, m’ lord,” she said quietly, hoping her nervousness, her racing heart, didn’t show in her voice. “I’m loyal to my mistress. She treats me well, and I should get going before she misses me.”
“I wish you would stay,” he said. “Ledyard.”
Something in the way he said her supposed name sent a prickle of fear up her spine. Did he know? Did he? Oh, she had to find a way out of here, and quickly!
He leaned against the stall door. “Do consider,” he said. “If you stay, I’ll give you charge of this colt. You would answer to me, not Mick or anyone else. He likes you. You like him. What do you say?”
“I cannot, m’ lord.”
Something in his face fell. He turned and slid back the bolt on Amir’s stall and looked pointedly at the lead rope she still held in her hand. “Before you go, then, at least take a few moments to step into the stall with him. If nothing else, satisfy my own curiosity, Ledyard. I am keen to see how this young savage responds to someone who is truly not afraid of him.”
She hesitated, at war within herself. The knowledge that she had to get out of this stable and this situation with pressing immediacy weighed on her, but oh, here was the chance to share space with the son of the famous Shareb-er-rehh, to experience royalty first-hand and, if her pride would admit it, to impress the handsome Lord Weybourne with her own confidence and abilities. Doing so served no purpose, of course, except to stroke her own pride and to add to memories that later, she could take out and treasure. This day of clandestine daring, of magic, of a few moments spent with both a Norfolk Thoroughbred and the unimaginably handsome Lord Weybourne….
She opened the door wide, stepped into the stall—and clamped her eyes shut as the colt struck out, teeth bared, as quick as a cobra and just as intentional.
The bite hit her hard, in the shoulder, though the fabric of her coat remained intact. The colt’s head jerked up and back as he waited for her to take her hand to him in punishment.
She didn’t move.
“Amir,” she said softly, still not moving. “I will not harm ye.”
Lord Weybourne stood quietly watching, not saying a word.
“Someone’s been abusing ’im,” she said. “He’s testin’ me. He bit me, then flung his head up, expectin’ to be hit.”
“He is about to bite you again.”
She turned just as his bared teeth snaked toward her once again.
“Amir!” she said firmly.
The horse stopped, his eyes no longer flat and hard, but dangerous, angry and intentional. He was testing her. Trying to find her breaking point, the point where she would flee the stall, never to try again, and he would be left alone and unchallenged and chafing with unspent energy. This was a horse with plenty of spirit and plenty of fight—with those attributes properly channeled, she had no doubt that he might indeed prove himself to be the “fastest horse in the world.”
“Ye don’t frighten me, Amir.”
She stood her ground as the colt, confused by her reluctance to show fear, to run for her life from his stall, lowered his head, his nostrils flared, squared, and quivering as he tried to discern what she was about.
Quietly, she extended her arm, palm up, and allowed him to slowly and purposely sniff her.
He raised his head. He was a striking colt, a dark seal bay with a thick, shaggy black mane and a forelock that tumbled down over his eyes. Powerful hindquarters. Long, strong legs, good layback of shoulder, a proud neck set on high. Intelligence and canniness in the eyes, small ears set atop a wide skull, big, flat cheekbones set wide apart to allow plenty of air to get to the great lungs that would power him.
“Ye’re a glorious horse,” she said, and smiled as the colt, one ear twitching back and forth, raised his head another inch … closer to her hand … and closer.
There.
Finally.
Velvet against the skin of her palm, the soft whiskers of his muzzle, the warmth of his breath.
The colt sniffed her hand, the wariness going out of his eyes, his head dropping an inch … two.
“Ye can bite me over and over again, Amir,” she said softly, as he took a hesitant step forward, pressing his muzzle against her hand, “but I’ll never strike ye back.”
She extended her fingers and gently scratched under the colt’s jaw, smiling as he dropped his head another inch and moved a step closer. She looked up then and saw Lord Weybourne a few feet away, watching her with the intensity of a gun dog on a pheasant. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there watching her, until heat began to bloom deep in the pit of her belly.
“I think,” he said softly, “I have witnessed a miracle here tonight.”
“No miracle,” she said, looking away. “Just a horse who’s desperate to find someone to stand up to ’im without hurtin’ him, to not be afraid of him. He’s smart.”
“As are you, Ledyard.”
There was something in his voice that made her head jerk up. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“What is your real name … Ledyard?”
A hot, prickly sensation of alarm darted up her spine to flood her face, causing her to blush, and it was all she could do not to bolt. He can never discover who I am, or my name will be ruined and my family will never survive the scandal!
“Ledyard,” she said with false affront.
But Tristan knew that she wasn’t telling him the truth. He stood looking at her, a slow smile spreading across his face as he noted her increasing discomfort, her panic. The game was up.
“I think not,” he murmured and reaching up, grasped her cap and pulled it off.
Thick, lustrous piles of golden-brown hair spilled down, fanning over her shoulders, tumbling down her back, and confirming what he knew to be true all along.
That she was a woman.
“Aha,” he said thoughtfully, watching her sea-blue eyes go as wide as the perimeter of a tea cup. “And you thought you had me fooled … Ledyard.”
She swallowed hard, and he saw the panic growing in her eyes. She took a step back, out of the stall.
“I must go,” she said, flustered.
His hand seized her wrist, staying her when she would have fled. “You are no lad, Ledyard. Why are you here, dressed as one?”
“I told you, I only wanted to see a real Norfolk Thoroughbred. Please unhand me.”
“And you could not do that, dressed as a female?” He shut the stall door and stepped closer. “What are you running from, Ledyard?”
The girl looked him straight in the eye. “My mother,” she said honestly. “And marriage to a man with a hair growing out of a nose-mole, a man to whom I’m to be thrown like a ball to a child if I don’t find a way out of it. I needed to think. I think best on the back of a horse and when I’m around horses.”
“And you could not do that, dressed as the lady I suspect you are?”
“I needed to sneak away from the household for an hour. That would be impossible dressed as my true self.” Her chin came up a
fraction of an inch as his smile spread. “Besides,” she said mulishly, “I did want to see a real Norfolk Thoroughbred.”
“And now you have.”
“Now I have, and now I must go.” She pulled free of his grip and moved out of the stall. He followed, intrigued. She was an enigma, this “Ledyard.” Trying to pass herself off as a lowly, horse-crazy lad when she was, judging by her speech and her sudden poise now that the charade was over, most certainly of the upper classes. Or at least, associated with them. He wondered who her “mistress” was.
“You must go,” he repeated. “You, the only person who has ever come into this stable and shown fearlessness and promise where Amir is concerned. The only person he has ever softened toward. And what do you wish to do, now that you’ve befriended my horse that hates everyone, now that you’ve charmed and intrigued me with your fearlessness and your ability?”
She kept walking, trying to put distance between herself and him. “Run away, I guess, before you discern who I really am.”
“And I thought you were fearless.” He caught up to her, quickly moved in front of her and stopped, so that she was also forced to halt or slam up against his chest. “I’d pay you well to stay, you know.”
“That is absolutely out of the question.”
“Surely this is a better deal than being married to a man you detest.”
“It is. I’d sooner marry Amir. At least he doesn’t have a mole growing out of his nose.”
Tristan laughed. He couldn’t help it. She said it with such earnestness, such a serious look on her face that he couldn’t help himself, and with some surprise, he realized that it had been a long time, a very long time, since he had actually laughed so hard and with such pure and utter delight. He liked this sassy little miss. Of course she couldn’t stay, not if she had a mama who was arranging a marriage for her, but nevertheless she intrigued him. And he was having a bit of fun teasing her and watching the play of emotion dance across her lovely face.
“So you reject my offer to stay,” he said. And then, with sheer daring: “But before you leave, how about a kiss for me to remember you by?”
He hadn’t thought that her eyes could go any wider.
“What?”
“A kiss.” He smiled, enjoying her shock. “I did, after all, let you see the horses.”
“I cannot kiss you!”
“Why not?”
“Because… well….”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
“I can’t answer that question. I am becoming distressed, the ruse is up, and I need … I need to leave.”
Tristan walked a little distance away, folded his arms and leaned against the smooth, varnished wood of an empty stall. “And here I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”
“I’m not, except discovery and scandal.”
“And me.”
“I am not afraid of you!”
“Then prove it.”
He saw the indecision in her eyes, the desire warring with panic, with desperation, and again, wondered who she was. Her skin had too many freckles from being out in the sunshine for her to be as well-bred as her speech would otherwise have marked her. Probably some vicar’s daughter, or a governess fleeing a house where a hairy-moled gentleman lay in wait to ambush her.
He stepped forward, and when she didn’t move, he reached out and drew her into his arms.
She made a faint sound of protest, but there was otherwise no fight in her. His hands cupped her jaw, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks and forcing her to look up at him. He saw her throat move, the desire darkening her eyes as he pushed a hand into her lustrous fall of silken, glossy hair, relishing its thickness, its weight, its good health. He dragged his fingers through the thick, shining locks, down over her shoulders and into the curve of her back, there to press gently, to urge her closer to him. She moved shyly into his embrace, wide-eyed and unsure, but Tristan felt none of her uncertainty. She fit him like a well-tailored coat—just the right size, just the right shape, the top of her head coming up to just below his chin.
“Kiss me, Miss….”
“Lettie,” she murmured a bit breathlessly, and he dropped his face into her hair. It smelled of lemons and summer long-gone, reminded him of primroses and sunshine and a happy, playful feeling that had long since abandoned his work-too-hard life that left no time for play, for joy, for simply kissing a very, very pretty young woman.
Their lips met. She was shy and inquisitive, hesitant but eager. She tasted like honey, her breath sweet and clean. He drew her closer, his hand splaying up her back, pressing her to him and desperately seeking more and more contact with her body. His mouth ground against hers, and she met his kiss with first hesitation and then abandon, her own hands now coming shyly up into his hair, her touch light, butterfly-like, maddeningly sensual.
He slipped his tongue out to tease apart her lips, and in that moment, she froze.
Oh, devil take it, he thought. He had frightened her.
She pulled back, her lips reddened from the kiss, her eyes wide. She was breathing hard, and as she took a step back, and then another, he saw that he had found the one thing that she was afraid of.
The response of her own body to a simple kiss.
She snatched up her hat, turned—and bolted.
Tristan watched her go, his spirits falling with every step she ran. He watched her splash through the puddles of sticky mud just outside the stables, watched her beautiful hair flying out behind her, and watched his hopes of getting to know the bold little miss disappear with every step she ran.
For a moment, he had forgotten his relentless pursuit of work. For a moment, his soul had felt light, free to float amongst the clouds with joyful abandon. And as he stood there, surprised by his reaction to this girl he knew only as “Lettie,” Tristan St. Aubyn realized how very, very depressed he had actually become with his single-minded pursuit of a loveless goal, and how much his nose-to-the-grindstone work habits had cost him.
Were continuing to cost him.
He walked back down the aisle and saw Amir looking at him with that flat, dead look of abandonment, of a challenge issued and denied.
He reached out and stroked the colt’s neck.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find her,” Tristan vowed. “For both of us.”
Chapter Five
“And just where have you been, Letitia?” Mama asked, looking up from her embroidery and pinning her daughter from over the top of the spectacles she wore these days for close-work. “I was looking everywhere for you.”
Letitia had returned to their host’s home an hour before, darting in through the servant’s entrance and dashing quickly back up to their rooms. Mama had not been there, and she’d taken advantage of that particular blessing to quickly employ a visibly nervous Beryl to put her back to rights. She’d found her mother downstairs in a parlor with her needlework. Mama did not notice that her hands were shaking, her lips puffy, her demeanor out of sorts. Thank the good Lord that her mother was so unobservant and wrapped up in her own affairs, Letitia thought. Still rattled by the dangers of her clandestine escapade, her nearness to getting caught and mostly, her meeting with the extraordinarily handsome Lord Weybourne, she did not feel as though she had enough wits left about her to do battle with her mother.
“I was with the horses,” she said. “I needed some air.” She sat in a nearby chair, shoving her hands between her knees and pressing her legs together to still their shaking. Her afternoon had brought excitement of a sort she hadn’t bargained for, but she was no nearer to finding a way out of the Homer Trout Situation than she’d been when she’d impulsively ridden off. Perhaps it was time for her to just say what was on her mind. “Do we really have to go to this Christmastide house party, Mama?”
Her mother looked up. “I thought you were looking forward to it. To seeing your friends.”
Letitia shrugged and looked out the window into the encroaching darkness. “It … it is a long journey. I think I would
just like to go back home to Lincolnshire.”
“It is tradition, to visit our friends at Christmastime. We will attend.”
Because you have plans for me. Plans that involve the odious Mr. Homer Trout.
“The roads will be bad, Mama. The coach, cold—”
“We will attend,” her mother said again, looking up from her embroidery once more. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Is there a real reason you do not wish to go, Letitia?”
She could not tell her that the real reason involved Mr. Homer Trout, because then Mama would know she’d been eavesdropping.
And she certainly could not tell her that the other real reason involved Lord Weybourne and the fact that his kiss had only enforced her conviction that she could never marry a man to whom she wasn’t attracted, because then she would be in more trouble than a chicken plucked, parted, and plunged into boiling water.
Oh, what had she done?
“No,” she said meekly, hanging her head so her mother might not see the truth in her eyes.
“I am glad to hear it. Now cheer up, Letitia. It is Christmastime, and I will not have such moroseness. Besides, one of your brothers might be there.”
“Simon?”
“Yes. Lady Weston has numbers to make, so I have written to him. As his ship is currently in London, I expect he will be in attendance. Pity that Sheldon is out at sea … I would like to see him there, as well.”
“And Papa? Will he be there, too?”
“Perhaps, but probably not until Christmas Eve. He has not concluded his business in London.”
Letitia turned away, not liking the perceptive way her mother was studying her face. “The fact that Simon may be there does not make the prospect of traveling all the way down to Kent in the dead of winter any more appealing,” she said grumpily. Though truth be told, she was less enamored of the idea of seeing Homer Trout than she was of winter travel. And besides … what man might she ever meet who could possibly compare to Lord Weybourne, and the strange, wonderful sensations he had aroused in her?
She had not been able to stop thinking of him.
A Very Matchmaker Christmas Page 12
