by Mary Blayney
~ ~ ~
By the time Christiana was deep enough into Hyde Park to smell the grass and forget the city the sun was filly risen and burning through the morning fog. By the time she cantered the length of the first path the hint of a headache that she had awakened with was gone. She was certain the headache was from her restless night’s sleep. Richard’s letter under her pillow had done nothing to make him feel closer or to ease her.
The headache was most definitely not from the brandy they had sampled. They had only taken one sip. It was like liquid fire and neither one of them wanted to prolong the experience.
No wonder her father was irritable the morning after those lengthy dinner parties her mother so favored. If port was anything like brandy she could not imagine how anyone could enjoy it, or the resulting effect.
However, this experience, riding in the morning, she would enjoy for as long as she possibly could. It was the one good thing about a night early to bed. She could rise at first light and spend an hour in the park. It was as close to real riding as one could find in Town.
She could almost believe that she was in the country. The park was almost empty. She could make out a few others on horseback but this was not a fashionable hour to be seen abroad. Christiana imagined that each of the other riders was here for the same reason that she was and it had nothing to do with the latest gossip or showing off a new habit.
Dare she try a gallop? There was a rider, a man, judging by the size of his horse and his seat, and he was galloping at the far edge of the trees, nearer to Rotten Row than she. She had heard it was considered risqué, but there was no one to see her except other less daring souls who surely would welcome a gallop as much as she would.
She turned her borrowed mare toward the farthest reach of the track and started off in a firm canter and as they passed from the sight of the entry gate and her groom she urged her mount into a gallop. Florrie’s version of a gallop would have disappointed even the most nervous rider, but Christiana made the most of the dash and drew up at the end, a little breathless herself, more from the forbidden act than the exercise itself.
She looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed the breach in etiquette, just as Lord Morgan, astride a lovely brown gelding, emerged from the wood. Startled at first, she thought about leaving without a word but then realized she really did wish to speak with him. She nodded formally to him and he rode closer.
“I will not tell a soul, Miss Christiana, if you keep my gallop a secret as well.”
She smiled and Morgan drew his horse up next to hers. They turned and began a slow walk back to the gate. “I had no idea that you rode here in the morning.”
Morgan smiled. “And I had no idea that you did. Do you think anyone will believe that?”
“No, I expect not.” She turned to hide her grin, pretending interest in the other riders. Most were still enjoying the solitude, but over on the edge of the park still bathed in early fog she saw two riders move into the wood. “But surely no one will take exception to a few moments of conversation. After all we are not riding into the most secluded part of the park like that couple over there.”
She nodded toward the spot where the duo had disappeared.
Morgan did not even glance at them. “Lady Edgmont and Mr. Hurman have been meeting here for so long that it would be shocking if they were not seen.”
Christiana craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the pair but the mist already hid them.
“My dear, I think this will only add the tiniest spice to the gossipmongers while it will sweeten my entire day. But is it worth the risk of words with your mother?”
Christiana brushed that concern away with an airy sweep of her hand. “I can easily prove that I did not have any plan to meet you. I am wearing my least flattering habit. She understands my vanity completely since it is one of the traits I inherited from her.”
Why had she worn this horrid old thing? Her new bottle green habit with the military look suited her perfectly, even Mama agreed. This was her oldest habit and while it had once been a beautiful brown, it was now faded and a wee bit too tight. She hunched her shoulders and hoped that the buttons did not pull too much.
Morgan raised the quizzing glass he so rarely used and tapped her hands very gently with his whip. “Sit straight, Sprite. The buttons will hold.”
She pushed his whip aside, but straightened as commanded. “They may hold, but do not, under any circumstances, make me laugh.”
Since that was precisely what threatened them both, she pressed her mouth into a tight line and turned her attention to his horse. “He is lovely.”
“And yours is...” Morgan paused, clearly at a rare loss for words.
“My horse is borrowed.”
“Ah.” He nodded in understanding. “Next time let me loan you one from our stables.”
“Oh, really?” At first thrilled, she quickly had second thoughts. “That would certainly raise eyebrows, would it not?”
“It would merely add fuel to the rumors of my courtship. If I gave you a mare, it would be a different story altogether.”
Christiana sighed. “I understand the rules, but sometimes I think they were created to eliminate the fun from every possible adventure.” She gathered her thoughts and began her list. “Why are clubs only for men? I should think it would be most diverting to meet daily with friends as you do. Why are men permitted to go to Tattersall’s and not women?” She stopped abruptly when she saw that Lord Morgan was smiling.
“Is that your entire list?” he asked.
It was a patronizing smile that stirred her irritation rather than pleasure.
“No,” she answered with an imperious lift of her chin. “But I can see you will not take these injustices seriously.”
“Sprite, you make me feel ancient.” He bit his lip, but the laugh escaped anyway.
Was he laughing at her? He was treating her as though she were a sister. And come to think on it, no gentleman would have mentioned her habit unless they were on familial terms.
What was the good of flirting with someone if they persisted in telling you to sit up straight and then laughed when you voiced your feelings?
“I ask you, my lord, who made up these rules?” Men, that’s who, she thought and let him find a way around that.
“Is it the rules you are angry with or men?”
“Men,” she spoke with a firm nod. “Most everything is their fault as far as I can see.” She looked at him steadily and hoped he knew that she was not joking now. “Why do men think it is so entertaining to go off and fight in a war and leave those they love behind?” She barely breathed the last word as a knot formed in her throat and tears gathered in her eyes. She turned from him and looked beyond the park. Through the sheen of tears she could see that Park Lane was alive with people. Were any of them worried about their men at war?
