Lady Linden settled her ponderous bulk into a chair. When it creaked in protest but didn’t collapse, Bridget breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there she hadn’t been sure.
“Well now,” said Lady Linden, fixing her gaze on Bridget’s face, “aren’t you the lucky one?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Lady Linden glanced around, taking in the room’s rich furnishings. “Marrying all this. Tell me, my dear, how
did
you manage it?”
Why, the old battle ax was even worse than Andrew had painted her! But remembering his warning, Bridget smiled sweetly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Lady Linden. Our marriage was arranged in the traditional fashion by my pa—by my father.”
Lady Linden’s eyes glittered with curiosity. “Indeed, and did he tell you why?”
Bridget felt her hackles rising. This woman was impossibly rude. But Andrew had been very stern about this—she must not lose her temper, he said, no matter what the provocation. She forced her lips into another false smile. “I suppose my father wanted me to marry a man he liked. He and Andrew are great friends.”
That much was true, at least. She made herself sit still, kept herself from looking toward the door. Why didn’t Andrew come home?
For some moments Lady Linden seemed lost in thought. Then she chuckled, the folds of flesh under her chin shivering in a fascinating rhythm. “What a novel way of looking at things, my dear.” She patted her curls. “Of course it was his Lordship’s money—and the title, you know—that made your father feel so friendly toward him.”
Feeling her hands curl into fists, Bridget buried them in her skirts, The old busybody had no right to talk about Papa like that! She’d tell her a thing or two. Maybe rearrange those false curls and put a few holes in that enormous—
But wait! She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t embarrass Andrew by behaving like a shrewish fishwife, brawling with guests in their home.
“My father and my husband,” she said, keeping her voice even, “are both great lovers of horses. That was what first brought them together.”
“And you,” Lady Linden said pointedly. “I understand
you
train horses.”
“I have,” Bridget said. Let the old witch make something of that! “Horses are—”
“Such nasty creatures,” Miss Linden interjected with great venom. “Always stepping on one’s feet.” Her thin nose quivered in indignation. “I suppose they’re all right for pulling carriages and such.” She elevated her nose another inch. “But that one should want to
work
with them! Be around them constantly. Ugh! A lady couldn’t possibly do that!”
For a moment Bridget’s heart fell, but then she forced herself to smile again. Andrew wouldn’t keep her from the horses—he’d promised. “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” she said. “A lady
can
work with horses. And I intend to do just that.”
Lady Linden’s chuckle took her by surprise. What did the old shrew find so amusing now?
“Oh my dear, how droll. I see now why they’ve given you that adorable nickname.”
“What nickname?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” Lady Linden’s little eyes gleamed with evident enjoyment, and her pudgy fingers teased a false curl that dangled from under the cabbage hat. “Why, they’re saying
you’re
his Lordship’s newest filly. And they’re recording bets at White’s.”
“Bets?” Bridget mumbled, fighting to keep her hands off the fat neck of this infuriating creature.
“Of course,” Lady Linden went on. “You know how these men are—” She paused to wave a pudgy hand dramatically. “Well, perhaps you don’t know. But men bet constantly on anything. That’s why White’s keeps the betting book—to record their bets. So there’ll be no mistakes.”
“And what,” Bridget asked through lips gone wooden, “are they betting about us?”
Lady Linden’s laughter shivered the hair on the back of Bridget’s neck and set her teeth on edge.
“Why, my dear,” the lady said with great gusto, “they say the odds are in his Lordship’s favor. And they’re betting he will tame
you.”
Chapter Eleven
The surge of outraged anger that swept through Bridget almost lifted her right off her chair, but with Lady Linden’s sharp eyes on her she kept herself under control. “How droll!” she repeated gaily, hoping that only she could hear the emptiness of her laughter. “How extremely droll.”
She didn’t quite know how she did it, but she managed to be civil to the old battle ax, and even to her prowling daughter, though it grew harder and harder. To listen—or pretend to listen—to Lady’s Linden newest store of
on-dits.
Even to now and then make some reply to her. And finally, mercifully, the two made their exaggerated goodbyes and departed in a flurry of Lady Linden’s brilliant orange skirts.
Bridget waited only till the front door closed solidly behind them. Then she grabbed her shawl and, muttering curses that would have shocked even Papa, hurried out to the stable.
When she opened the door and stepped in, the warm sweet fragrance of horseflesh and hay enveloped her. As always, it was like coming home. She pulled in a deep breath and just stood there, letting the familiar sounds and smells soothe her senses and calm her anger.
A welcoming whicker from the interior of the stable told her Waterloo had scented her presence. “I’m coming,” she called. She’d have to talk to Ned about some place to go riding in the afternoons. If she had to endure many visitors like the Lindens, she’d be needing the release of a good gallop more than once a day.
That Lady Linden! Imagine her repeating a thing like that. So they were betting on Andrew taming his new wife. She’d see about that!
When Andrew’s carriage turned the corner approaching home, he saw another pulling away—the Lindens’ carriage.
He called softly up to his driver. “Slow down, James.”
As the carriages passed, he got a glimpse of bright orange. But he turned almost instantly, shielding his face from the view of those passing. Thank goodness he hadn’t arrived home any sooner. At the moment another visit with the Lindens was more than he could stand.
It was bad enough that all London was talking about him—about him and Bridget, and their unusual liaison. But to have the Lindens running about spreading their invidious half-lies—that was the outside of enough. He only hoped that Bridget had managed to endure their visit without too much distress. The Lindens could be offensive, as he knew only too well—and Bridget had an Irish temper.
Suddenly concerned, he hurried into the house. “Her Ladyship?” he asked the butler. “Where is she?”
“I believe her Ladyship has gone out to the stable,” Purvey said soberly.
Andrew nodded. “To see her horse, no doubt.”
Purvey looked even stiffer than usual. “Yes, milord. I believe so. She had some visitors earlier—Lady Linden and her daughter.”
Andrew frowned. “A bothersome pair. I saw them leaving.”
“Yes, milord.” Purvey hesitated. “I offered to say her Ladyship was not at home, but she said she would see the visitors. If I might add, milord, she seemed to think that being ‘not at home’ was somehow—wrong.”
Andrew smiled. “Thank you, Purvey. I’m afraid she’s a little raw yet. I’ll have to inform her of the niceties of receiving visitors.”
Purvey nodded solemnly. “That’s true, milord, but still she does have a way about her.”
Andrew headed immediately for the stable. He had to tell Bridget about Lady Conyngham’s upcoming soiree. He sighed. He wasn’t at all sure Bridget was ready to go out in society, but since he hadn’t been quick enough with his excuses, they were committed to attend the function. Besides, they might as well get it over with. They had to appear at something before long. Otherwise people would talk. He sighed again. There would be talk no matter what.
He found Bridget where he had expected, at Waterloo’s stall, murmuring sweet nothings to the stallion. For a moment he felt a twinge of something very like envy. Ridiculous, he told himself with an inner smile—how could he be envious of a horse!
“Hello, my dear.” He joined her in the box stall, sliding an arm around her slender waist. “I have good news for you. We’ve been invited to a soiree Wednesday next.”
She turned, her expression full of hesitation. “Hello, Andrew. What kind of soiree?”
He shrugged. “Just the usual thing. Many people, much food. And no doubt a great deal of empty talk.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Talk! I don’t want to go. I’ve had enough
talk
to last me a long time.”
He sighed. From the sound of it, Bridget wasn’t in a good mood. “I’m sure, my dear. But I’m afraid I’ve already accepted Lady Conyngham’s invitation.” He smiled. “You can wear one of your new gowns.”
She gave him a bitter look. “Andrew! I don’t want to go.”
He squeezed her waist. “Bridget, we’ve got to go about in society. After all, I want to show off my beautiful wife.”
He bent to kiss her soft neck. “You’re just a little upset today, that’s all. I saw the Lindens’ carriage leaving. How was your visit?”
She turned toward him, her lovely face flushed with anger.
“Oh Andrew, I don’t know how you can even bear to speak to them. The Lindens are the meanest, most despicable creatures alive.”
An unnerving suspicion hit him. “Bridget, they didn’t—You didn’t—You didn’t let them—”
She frowned. “I didn’t let them provoke me, no. Oh, I was the perfect lady, whatever
that
is. But that woman, that awful, awful creature! Something should be done about her.”
He tried a little humor. “The other day I suggested to Peter that she be shrunk and put on display with Lady Elizabeth’s shrunken heads.” He chuckled. “An admirable idea, but unfortunately not feasible.”
Bridget didn’t laugh. “She told me the most horrible things,” she said, her voice taut with anger. “The most horrible things about people I’ve never even heard of.”
She gave him an even angrier look. “And before that she told me something else—something really disgusting.”
He wracked his brain. Disgusting? What could the fat old tattletale have known that would make Bridget so angry? “You mustn’t pay any attention to her.” He drew Bridget into the circle of his arm again. “Lady Linden will do anything, say anything, to get another
on-dit
to carry about town.”
Bridget felt so tense in his arms, angry and withdrawn. She didn’t lean against him or turn her face to his for a kiss. She just stood there—stiff and wooden. He felt a spreading sense of discomfort, of loss. It was true that he’d married her because of the wager, but he cared about her. He really cared about her.
Giving in to the inevitable, he asked, “What did Lady Linden say to you?”
Bridget eased out of his grasp, moving away and leaning against the horse instead. He felt that twinge of envy again. “She said—she said they were calling me your filly. Betting on us. And then she said that the odds were in your favor. That people bet you would
tame
me.”
He heard the anger, the sheer outrage, in her taut voice. He didn’t like her being talked about. He didn’t like it for himself either. But he couldn’t prevent it. He moved toward her, put a placating hand on her shoulder. “Little do they know,” he whispered, pitching his voice low and leaning toward her ear. “Little do they know that it’s
you
who have tamed
me.”
He felt the tension slowly leaving her body, her flesh literally unstiffening beneath his fingers.
“Bridget, love,” he whispered, his voice gone hoarse with very real desire. “You know you have me in your pocket. What do we care what people say?”
She turned to him, raising her face to his. “You’re right, Andrew,” she said. “We don’t care. We don’t care at all.” And she put her arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Kissed him quite thoroughly—and without any regard for the stableboys.
* * * *
The next morning Bridget slipped out for her ride with a lighter heart. Hadn’t Andrew said he didn’t care what people said? That meant he wouldn’t mind about her early morning rides. Still, she saw no real reason to tell him.
This morning her gallop was even more invigorating than usual. She felt so good—so alive. The greens of the park and the bright blue of the sky seemed so vibrant and her body even more in tune with the stallion’s than usual.
Life, she thought as they headed the horses back through the crowded streets toward the great house, life was very good. Papa was safe. She had Waterloo. And being married to Andrew was better, much better, than she could ever have imagined.
“Flowers?” a thin voice piped. “Buy me wild flowers? Picked fresh this morning.”
Bridget looked down. A waif stood there—a little girl in dirty gray rags, her greasy blond hair straggling down around her pale pinched face. Just a slip of a thing. And so young.
Waterloo reached out, nipping a mouthful of flowers from the proffered nosegay. “ ‘Ere now!” the waif cried. “You stop it. You can’t have me flowers less’n the lady buys ‘em first.”
Bridget smiled. The child was small, but she faced up without fear to the great stallion.
“Yer a pretty ‘orse,” she said. “But I gots to eat, too. And flowers won’t do fer me.”
She held up the now-lopsided nosegay. “Flowers, milady? Fresh-picked flowers.”
Bridget reached in her pocket, then realized she’d brought no coins with her. “I’ve no money with me today,” she said. “But I’ll have some tomorrow.”
She saw hope leaving the child’s eyes. “I pass here every morning,” she went on.
The child nodded. “I seen you.” She reached out a dirty hand and stroked the great horse’s nose. “Seen ‘im, too.”
“Yes,” Bridget said. “Now, I’ll have a nosegay from you every day. Maybe two. If you’re here when I pass.”
The child smiled then. “Oh, I’ll be ‘ere, milady. This ‘ere’s me corner. I’m ‘ere ever day.” She stepped aside. “And thank ‘ee.”
Bridget clicked to the stallion and he headed on homeward, Ned trailing behind. She tried to think of other things, but the child’s face had looked so pinched. She was hungry, poor thing, and maybe even cold.
By the time they’d reached home, Bridget had made up her mind. She swung down from the stallion and turned to the boy. “Take care of him,” she told Ned. “But don’t unsaddle your horse. I’m going into the house to get some coins. I want you to take them back to that little girl.” She had an awful thought. “You can find her again, can’t you?”