Peter nodded. “Oh yes. I told the Linden girl, the stickish one.” He looked at his watch. “Told her five minutes ago. By now she’s told her fat mama and at least half the crowd.”
Andrew frowned. “And I look foolish.”
“Not so. They all think you wonderfully eccentric.”
Just what he needed! And the Lindens yet. Once they started talking, all London would be achatter.
“Is there much betting?”
Peter frowned. “Not really. The blacklegs aren’t offering very good odds. The stallion’s by far the favorite. I saw Wichersham.” He grimaced. “I kept my distance, you can be sure. But I couldn’t help hearing the fellow boast how he’d tame the animal if it were his.” His eyes clouded over. “Makes a man’s blood run cold just to hear him talk. And to think that he might have got ahold of Diablo—”
“He didn’t,” Andrew said firmly. “And he won’t—as long as you leave off wagering.”
“I
have,”
Peter said vehemently, crossing his heart in the old childhood gesture of promise. “And I
will.
Look! Here she comes.”
Bridget, her head held high, led the stallion toward the track where Jackie waited on the filly. Bridget was keeping her gaze away from the crowd, and she avoided his gaze, too. Lord! Andrew thought, he’d give a lot to know what the girl was thinking now.
* * * *
Bridget didn’t dare look at all the people. She kept her eyes straight ahead, feeling Waterloo’s warm comforting breath against her ear.
We’ll just trust Papa,
she told herself. That’s what we’ll do. He knows what he’s doing.
Waterloo nickered softly, sensing her uneasiness. He hadn’t seemed quite himself this last hour, but then she wasn’t herself either. He was probably picking up her feelings. That would explain it. But his ears weren’t pricked as usual—and he didn’t show his normal interest in the crowd.
Papa was waiting by Sable.
He helped her mount Waterloo and then he whispered, “Don’t worry, Bridget, ‘twill all turn out for the best. Ye’ll see.”
That worried her almost as much as Waterloo’s strange behavior. Usually before a race Papa was all smiles, jovial and happy. He should be that way today. After all, he knew Waterloo was bound to win. So why did he look so sober? So—
“We’re ready to start this race,” the appointed timekeeper shouted. “Horses to their places!”
Bridget kneed the stallion into line. He seemed sluggish, slow to respond to her commands. Was there something really wrong with him today? She started to turn back.
“Ready! Set! Go!”
Sable leaped forward, Waterloo right behind her. It was too late now to say anything. She had to race. Bridget leaned low, urging him on. “Come on, boy, you can do it!”
The first lap the horses kept even. The roaring of the crowd beat against her in great waves. Crouching over the horse, she tried to puzzle it out. Something was clearly wrong—Waterloo wasn’t acting like himself. He should be ahead by now. Should she rein him in? Should she stop the race?
But that would make his Lordship the winner by default. And his winning would mean marriage to him and— She couldn’t think of that.
“Oh, please, Waterloo,” she begged, “faster! You’ve got to beat her!”
But the second lap was no better than the first, and on the third the filly pulled away from them! Bridget could feel Waterloo straining, trying his best, but it was as if some huge load was weighing him down, holding him back. No matter how the great horse tried, he could go no faster.
The filly won the race by a nose. Bridget could hardly believe it. She wanted to run somewhere, to hide her grief. Thank God these people didn’t know about the second part of the wager. Maybe, maybe his Lordship would forget that part of it. But then she would lose Waterloo. And she wasn’t sure she could bear that.
His Lordship wasn’t a bad sort. She liked him better than any man she knew. Maybe being married wouldn’t be so—
Papa was waiting when she dismounted. “Smile,” he said, smiling himself, though a trifle strangely. “Trust me, Bridget, ‘tis all fer the best.”
She couldn’t see how that could be, but she had always trusted him, and she could do no less now. “Yes, Papa,” she said, and forced herself to smile.
* * * *
Andrew stood stunned. Sable had won the race!
But
how could that be? Peter was tugging excitedly at his sleeve. “Come on! They’re waiting.”
Andrew, following through the crowd, tried to smile at the congratulations he was receiving. But he still couldn’t believe it. Waterloo was his! And Bridget.
How was the girl going to react to this? Well, he’d find out after the crowd had dispersed. Then he’d offer to release her from that part of the wager. She was a proud one, too proud to be forced into marriage because of a horse race.
Still, though he might be able to prevail on the Irishman to forget the Bridget part of the wager, he knew Durabian would insist that the stallion was now Andrew’s. Since that part of the wager was common knowledge, the man couldn’t welsh on it without losing his reputation. They’d gotten themselves in a pretty tangle, and all because Andrew had wanted to help.
* * * *
Finally the crowd was gone. Andrew had sent Peter on, waiting alone. He wanted to put the girl’s mind to rest, but he couldn’t do it when someone might overhear. Besides, she’d avoided him after the race, walking the stallion up and down to cool him off and then taking him back to the stable.
As the last carriage headed back toward London, Durabian came toward him. Now, Andrew thought, tell him right away. “We’ll forget the part about the girl,” he said with no preliminaries.
“It isn’t—”
“Ye can’t!” Durabian glanced around almost fearfully. “Ye’ve got to take her!”
He grabbed Andrew by the arm, his fingers tightening almost painfully. “Please, milord, I got me reasons—good ‘uns. Bridget, she’s got to be safe, too.”
Andrew read the fear in the old man’s eyes. Safe from what? There was something awfully wrong here. “But I—”
“Please, milord. I’m counting on ye. And do it quick! Get a special license and make her legally yer wife. Right off!”
“But man, she’ll hate me.”
Durabian shook his head. “She might be a little tetchy at first, but she’ll tame down. Please, milord, ye’ve got to take her. I’m begging it of ye.”
“But—”
“Hush! Here she comes.”
As she went toward them, Bridget risked a glance at his Lordship’s face. He looked almost as bad as she felt. Probably he didn’t want the marriage either. Maybe—
“His Lordship’ll pick up the horse after the wedding,” Papa said before she could open her mouth.
“After?” Her heart fell. So they meant to go through with it.
“Aye. He’s getting a special license. So ye’ll be wed tomorrow.”
“We won’t be calling the banns?” How could they rush her like this? She’d thought she would have at least a few weeks to get used to the idea.
“No,” Papa said. “It’ll be by special license. Ain’t that right, yer Lordship?”
Haverly looked uncomfortable. “Yes, that seems best.” He looked at her, meeting her eyes squarely. “I’m sorry about this unseemly haste, Bridget, but it does appear best to get the deed done. Afterwards you and Waterloo can come live with me.”
She nodded. It was like a dream, a bad dream.
“I’ll be a good husband to you, Bridget, I promise. And I’ll leave the horse in your hands.”
She almost broke then, fighting hard to control her tears. It wasn’t fair that men should have the running of a woman’s life. Not fair at all. Still, his Lordship was being kind. Some men would have taken the stallion for their own. She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “Thank you, milord.”
“Andrew,” he said, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “My name is Andrew. Please call me by it.”
* * * *
Some minutes later Andrew told his driver, “Home,” and leaned back in his carriage. He could hardly believe any of this was happening. In the space of a few minutes he’d acquired a superb stallion and a prospective wife. And he still wasn’t sure how it had happened.
Why had Durabian been so emphatic about his taking Bridget to wife? It had seemed as though the man thought some harm would come to her if he didn’t get her married off immediately. But what harm? Certainly Durabian was man enough to protect her from anyone, except possibly the Prince Regent. And he couldn’t imagine Prinny, whose current taste ran to grandmothers, wanting to bother with Bridget.
Well, whatever his reason, Durabian’s urgency was clear. His haste for the wedding showed that. The poor girl should have been given some weeks to prepare, but instead he had conceded to her father’s evident apprehension and agreed to this imminent marriage.
Tomorrow at this time Bridget would be his wife—and a lady. Lord, how the
ton
would gossip then! Thank goodness they’d kept that part of the wager secret. The
ton
would think him even more eccentric, but the onus would fall on him, not Bridget. Lords had been known to marry commoners before, all sorts of commoners. So that was nothing new.
He shook his head. He had a great deal to do. Mrs. Purvey would have to set her staff to work preparing the room adjoining his. It was decorated in yellow and hardly a suitable foil for an occupant of Bridget’s coloring, but she should have a chamber of her own. Later he would have it redecorated in more complementary shades. Or better yet, give the redoing of it into her hands.
Good grief! As soon as he reached the city, he must go directly to the dressmaker’s. The girl would need a gown to be wed in—something simple but elegant, something white.
The thought gave him pause. Was Bridget the innocent she appeared to be? He frowned. He’d had ample experience with women, but none of it had prepared him for a woman like Bridget. She was an unknown quantity—he didn’t know how to handle her. Well, he’d get to that later.
Let’s see. She’d definitely need clothes. She probably only owned one gown, if that, so she’d need the whole array—morning dresses, walking dresses, evening dresses, a riding habit. She’d need boots and slippers, too. And bonnets and gloves. All the little frewfraws that delighted feminine hearts.
Thank goodness she spoke well: the effect, no doubt, of her mama’s books—over which her father said she pored daily—a good ear for language, and the efforts of the teacher Durabian had hired for her. But perhaps he should engage a dancing master. The rest he could teach her himself—the proper eating utensil, the proper reply to introductions, the proper curtsy.
He frowned. He liked the old Bridget. She had a rough, untutored honesty, a freshness that appealed to him. What would she be like when she lost that freshness? When she became like the other ladies in the
ton?
He sighed. It was next to impossible to imagine Bridget as a lady at all. But he could imagine her in the room next to his, even in his bed. He gave himself up to thinking about the pleasanter aspects of this marriage.
Chapter Five
The next day Bridget stood before the vicar. Haverly—no, she was supposed to call him Andrew now—stood at her side. She felt like some other woman, not herself at all. For one thing this gauzy white gown he’d given her to be married in seemed almost indecent after the safety of her familiar leather breeches. And the flimsy little satin slippers and thin stockings were practically useless for keeping her feet warm. The patterned Indian shawl was pretty and it did help to keep her from catching a chill, but a jacket would have been much better. Much more sensible, too. It was hard to see how ladies could do anything at all wearing these peculiar clothes, clothes that made it practically impossible to move.
Of course, Mama had been a lady. A beautiful lady, Papa said, and kind, too.
Bridget sighed.
She
wasn’t beautiful—or kind. Except to animals. Too bad she wasn’t a horse. She’d make a good mare—and if Hav—if Andrew were a stallion, maybe they could—
The vicar paused in the words he was saying, words about love and honor. How did they expect her to love a man she’d only known a month? What
was
love anyway? Certainly not something that could be won in a wager.
She glanced sideways at the man who would soon be her husband. She supposed it was honor that made him go ahead with this marriage. He had given his word and he would stand by it. She liked that about him—that he was an honorable man.
And his looks weren’t bad. He looked quite handsome today, but she liked him better in the clothes he usually wore to the stable—tan buckskins and shining top boots, a white cravat and a coat of blue superfine. The fancy black clothes he had on today made him even more the stranger to her.
Papa looked strange, too, in the best clothes which he hardly ever wore. But he looked happy, happier than either of them. For some reason known only to him, Papa wanted her married to Andrew. It was very odd. He’d never wanted her married before. Why he should want it now?
She pulled her attention back to the vicar. He had reached the point where
she
was supposed to speak. She said the proper words and soon the ceremony was over. She was Andrew’s wife. He offered her his arm, and Papa and Peter followed them down the aisle.
Thank goodness there were no other spectators; no one but Papa and Peter had witnessed this strange marriage.
Outside the church, Andrew shook Durabian’s hand. “The situation is unusual,” he said, his face grave. “But I want you to know that I’ll do my best to make Bridget happy.”
Papa smiled. “I know ye will,” he said. “Else I’d not have given her into yer keeping.”
What was Papa talking about now? She didn’t need to be in anyone’s keeping. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—if men would only recognize it. But of course they didn’t. They had to go on thinking that
they
were the strong ones—in charge of everything, knowing everything, when most of the time they knew very little.
Andrew’s carriage was waiting, the driver holding open the door for them.
“Well,” Papa said, his voice turning hoarse. “Ye go along now and be happy.”
Bridget nodded. The lump in her throat had grown too big for talking over.