Anthony nearly fell from his horse. “Terribly sorry, Blake. Cousin Gertrude. You’ve given us a fright,” he shouted.
Miss Finch sat up in the saddle. “Why?” she asked.
“You could have broken your neck. Why didn’t you pull up?” Anthony said.
She grinned. “Would have been my neck. And anyway, I wanted to beat you.”
“You were racing?” William whispered.
Gertrude Finch pushed the groom’s hand away and slid down the horse. “You must be William.” She slapped the dust from her hands, righted her bonnet and held out her hand. William touched it tentatively.
“Don’t kiss it. You’ll end up with a bloodied nose,” Blake said.
Miss Finch tilted her head back and laughed. “And you must be Donald,” she said to the boy now jumping up and down.
“Donald, your manners,” Blake said sharply.
“Oh pooh.” Miss Finch sat down on the marble step, eyelevel with the boy. “It’s too exciting to watch a horse race and stand still, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. It is,” Donald replied.
“Do you like to fish?” she asked the boy.
His mouth dropped. “Yes. How did you know? I have a little sailboat too.”
“Will you show me?” she asked.
Blake interrupted. “We are going to have sherry in the library.”
Miss Finch stared at him and said hello to Melinda near the door. “I never cared for sherry. Thanks anyway.” She picked up Donald’s hand and proceeded through the gardens.
Blake could hear their trailing voices. Donald telling her everything at once and Miss Finch laughing.
They disappeared from sight. Blake turned to the rest of the party.
“So sorry, Blake,” Anthony said.
Elizabeth came up the steps. “Something so wrong in paying attention to a little boy?”
Everyone filed past Blake into his home. He stood as still as the marble columns beside him. Then marched to the lake. Miss Finch, Donald and Mrs. Wickham’s grandson lay flat out in the grass at the edge of the water.
“What are you doing?” Blake thundered.
Miss Finch rolled on to her side. “Looking at Donald and Malcolm’s sailboats.”
Blake wanted to pull every last hair from his head. “I know that. Where did you learn to ride like that?”
“Like what?” Miss Finch asked.
She was being purposefully obtuse. “Like a man,” he shouted.
“On my Uncle Fred’s farm.” Gertrude Finch said as she stood and looked down at the boys. “Where’s this tree house?” she asked.
Blake followed as the trio walked to an enormous oak tree. The threesome stood pointing and talking while Blake dropped his head and rubbed his eyes and wondered what it was about this woman that made him behave so completely out of character. When he looked up he saw the American climbing the rope ladder to Donald’s tree house. He made swift work of the space between him and the ladder swinging under Miss Finch’s weight. He grabbed her around the waist. “You can’t climb trees, Miss Finch.”
“Why not?” Miss Finch asked over her shoulder.
“It’s not done, it’s not,” Blake stuttered.
“But having your nose in my behind is?”
Blake wrenched his neck back and stared. Dear God in heaven, he thought and stumbled away to the grass. Leaving the ladder to swing.
Miss Finch’s hand slipped from its hold and she fell to the ground atop Blake. His hands flew furiously trying to rid his face of yards of petticoat. The bruiser atop him squirmed and pitched forward. He sat up and straightened his cravat.
“Well done,” he shouted as he stood.
Miss Finch flew to her feet. “I was fine till you stuck your face in my bustle.”
Blake and the American were inches apart, both shouting and pointing fingers. Blake grabbed the woman’s arms to keep her from sticking the offending appendage in his face.
* * * *
The men shook their head. From the vaulted window of Wexford House they watched the scene in wonder as Blake grabbed Miss Finch’s arms. But all four sets of eyes widened and all four mouths stilled as they watched the Duke of Wexford lean forward and kiss Gertrude Finch.
* * * *
They broke apart and stared at each other, both breathing hard, his hands still holding her arms. Sanders swept his eyes from the top of hair, to her lips, to her mouth standing agape. To her heaving chest, her grass stained skirts and muddy shoes. And back to her chest. “Big bosoms.”
Gert’s mouth dropped. The ignoramus. She did the only thing she could think of doing. What Uncle Fred and the hands had taught her to do if and when a man took liberties or insulted her. Gert punched the Duke soundly in the nose.
Sander’s head snapped back. Blood was dripping onto his white cravat. “You punched me,” he said.
Gert was unnerved. Not angry. Not happy either of course. But completely unstrung. This arrogant English man had kissed her. Her mind swung from wondering if he would do it again to punching him again if he did. Gert blustered and blubbered and turned to hurry to the house. She noticed the shining window of the mansion held Anthony, Elizabeth, Melinda and William.
“Father?” William questioned as she and Sanders entered the foyer.
“Are you alright, Miss Finch?” Melinda asked.
“There seems to be twigs or something sticking in your hair,” Anthony said and reached to Sander’s head.
Sanders slapped Anthony’s hand away.
Gert surveyed the broad range of expressions before her. She could hear Sanders breathing hard. She needed something to keep her hands from shaking. “I could use a whiskey after I clean up.” Gert turned to the stairs and Melinda hurried to her side.
“Mayhap your valet could work on that cravat, Blake. Seems to be sagging and well, blood stained.”
Anthony’s mouth twitched.
“I’m going to change,” Sanders said.
William followed. “I’ll help you,” the young man said.
* * * *
“Really,” Gert said her face flushing. “I hadn’t noticed.” Gert finger-combed her hair and dabbed mud from her dress.
“Would you have boxed his nose if it was that forgettable?” Melinda asked.
Gert’s face flamed. “I have no idea what possessed your father to kiss me. Nor why everyone needed to be staring out the window as he did.”
Melinda giggled. “What will you say to him over dinner?”
Gert checked her appearance once more and walked to the door of the bedroom. Her host would get no dreamy, clinging looks from her. “Pass the potatoes, please.”
Gert came to the top of the staircase at the same instant as the duke.
Sanders swept his hand to the stairs. “After you.”
Gert smiled tightly and descended the steps, determined to not let this man upset her. She walked into the library head high. Anthony was holding a crystal decanter.
“Cousin Gertrude. You expressed a wish for whiskey.”
Anthony handed her the glass, with no more than an ounce in it. Gert tilted her head and drank it down.
The whiskey hit her immediately and she was glad of it. She held her glass out for a refill.
“That’s hundred year old scotch, woman. Sip it,” Sanders commanded.
Gert glared at the duke and sat down. She would absolutely not let his arrogance deter her. These were Anthony and Elizabeth’s friends. She would be congenial and civil.
Elizabeth hurried ahead with conversation. “Donald seemed very proud of his boat.”
“He smiled the whole time he showed it to me,” Gert said. “Every inch a boy.”
“The boys seemed excited as well over the tree house,” Anthony said, tongue visible in his cheek.
Gert knew every mind in the room was picturing her collapse from the ladder. “I didn’t get to see it,” she said.
Sanders harrumphed and crossed his legs.
“How’s your nose, Blake?” Elizabeth asked. “Has it stopped bleeding?”
Melinda stared hard at her father. “The first time a man kisses me I think I will do the same thing,” she said.
“Especially if he mentions the size of your bosom,” Gert said and sipped her drink.
“Pardon?” Anthony said. “Blake commented on your, your....”
“My bosoms,” Gert repeated. “I think big was the word he used.”
The room was silent for a brief moment. Melinda was wide eyed. William stared at Gert’s chest.
Elizabeth’s hand covered her mouth. Anthony wiped tears from his eyes as he laughed aloud. The butler opened the door to announce dinner. Anthony hurried to escort Elizabeth. William held his arm out to his sister. Sanders offered his arm to her.
“May I?” he asked.
“I can walk unassisted. Thank you,” she replied and swept down the hallway trailing Anthony and Elizabeth.
Gert stared awestruck as she entered the formal dining room. The room was beautiful. Large, well lit and filled with flowers. The linen on the table seemed to go on endlessly. Crystal shimmered and silver twinkled in the light of the candles. A footman pulled a chair out for her. The conversation to her relief went on with no more references to the display outside. She glanced at Sanders, from the corner of her eye. He seemed to fit this world as if made for it. No wonder the man’s wife left him. He had a long-standing mistress and kissed his guests till they couldn’t breathe.
Mayhap the woman does not know of Helena, Blake thought. He had certainly given her ample opportunity to use such information against him. Blake sipped his soup and nodded to Anthony. What had come over him to make a comment about the size of her breasts or worse yet, kiss her, he wondered? Impulsive wasn’t a word ever associated with the Sanders family. And he least of all.
Impetuous? Devil may care? No. None of these words described him. Blake stared at the cousin from under his brow as he sliced his lamb. Nothing particularly attractive about her, he decided. Dark hair and lots of it around a nondescript face. An average nose over, well, yes, he admitted full lips, below green eyes. Green was not quite right. Rather a cross between clover and heather. Or mint. Anthony’s voice intruded on Blake’s musings.
“Certainly,” Blake said and nodded to Anthony.
“Good then, Blake.” Anthony leaned back to drink his wine. “I’ll say pea green.”
“Pea green?” Blake said. “No. I think more earthy tones like mint or heather. With just a touch of blue.”
“Perfect, I’d say.” Anthony smiled. “I’ll have your stable man paint all your horses that color.” Anthony leaned forward and winked. “Easy enough to watch when they race.”
Blake laid down his fork and knife. “Paint my horses pea green, you say. What’s gotten into you, Anthony?” His face colored. Had he really agreed to have his horses painted while he wondered over the color of the American’s eyes? Blake caught Anthony’s sly smile as his friend cocked his eyes to Miss Finch.
“You seemed to be somewhere else while I was trying to have a conversation with you. You would have agreed to wear pink garters and prance around St. James Square in nothing else.” Anthony looked him in the eye. “Where were your thoughts, Blake?”
Blake didn’t answer as he was listening intently to the conversation at the other end of the table.
“That’s when I learned to break horses. It was my favorite time of year. That and going to the yards to sell them,” Miss Finch replied.
“The yards?” William asked.
“The stock yards in Chicago.” Miss Finch put her elbows on the table and sat her chin in her hand, looking away dreamily. “Where everyone comes. The yards would be packed with people and pigs and cattle and horses. Uncle Fred and I stayed at a grand hotel every year. That’s where I first heard speakers on women’s rights. How I became involved.”
“What rights?” Melinda asked.
“Very few, I’m sorry to say,” Miss Finch replied.
“Sufferance,” Elizabeth added.
“Women’s right to vote and own property. All kinds of things,” Miss Finch continued.
“What do you do about those things, Miss Finch?” William asked.
“We speak at schools and churches. Whoever will have us. Lobby politicians in Congress. Trying to convince our fellow citizens that the constitution was written for everyone.”
“I’ve seen pictures in the newspaper of suffragists on the steps of the White House,” Elizabeth added.
“An ugly lot for certain,” Blake said and looked to Anthony.
“Father, what these women look like has nothing to do with anything,” Melinda said sharply.
Blake glanced around the table to the females now skewering him with their gaze. “I saw the pictures as well as Elizabeth. Not a comely woman among them,” Blake said.
“Blake!” Anthony hissed.
“What, Anthony?” Blake blustered to his friend and motioned his exasperation with his spoon. “You’ve seen them as well.” Blake blew his cheeks out. “All fat and feathers with no smiles.”
“Really, Blake,” Elizabeth said.
“Women in every country will benefit from our fight. We have brains, sir. God didn’t create women solely so you have a pretty face to look at. Your daughter, for example, is beautiful but smart and spirited as well,” Miss Finch retorted.
“This has nothing to do with Melinda,” Blake snorted.
“Why not father? What if I decide to move to America and rally for the vote? Or here in England, perhaps?” Melinda asked.
“Good God, Melinda. Forget that nonsense. You have a role to fill. And soon a title,” Blake said.
“You would make a beautiful suffragette, though, dear,” Anthony added.
“The only one, that’s for sure,” Blake said and leaned to Anthony, chuckling.
“Miss Finch is a suffragette, father,” William said.
A flush came over Blake’s face. “Of course, Miss Finch. I didn’t mean to imply….”
“Yes you did. More than implied. You dismiss your daughter out of hand, claim a lack of beauty on the part of women who’ve spent their life helping others. I’m … I’m not pretty,” Miss Finch stumbled, “I’ll agree, but … but to assume my goals are less than your own because of my lack of beauty is abominable.”