The Duke's Last Hunt (11 page)

“Indeed I am, Miss Ashbrook,” said Henry reverting to his normal voice. He rose from his chair. “And now that you have solved my identity so admirably, I shall beg leave to take your place.” He held out his hand for the shawl that she had removed from her face. “Another round, ladies and gentlemen?”

Miss Ashbrook hesitated, then handed him the shawl. Henry wrapped the soft material around his head and—as he had suspected—was still able to make out the surrounding faces with little trouble through the semi-sheer fabric. He would not call a lady out for cheating, however. And besides, he was quite happy to do a little cheating of his own.

“I am ready. Change places!”

Henry held perfectly still as the guests scurried about and scuffled over the chairs. Alone of the group, Miss Malcolm remained seated. Perhaps she thought to throw him off by maintaining her position. He spun around three times and then walked forward until his knees grazed another pair of knees beneath a green silk skirt.

* * *

Eliza’s eyes widened in horror
as she saw the blindfolded Lord Henry walking her way. This, of all things, was what she had hoped to avoid. And now here he was, his hessians nearly toe to toe with the slippered feet she was hiding under her chair, his knees pressing against her own insistently. Everyone’s eyes were upon her, and she now had three questions to answer.

She wished she could see his eyes to know what he was thinking.

“Do you enjoy staying in London?”

Eliza’s lips parted in surprise. “Yes,” she said in a low voice, “I do.” She
did
enjoy London. She much preferred it to the country. Not the parties or the intrigues, but simply the city-ness of it.

She took a deep breath. That question was not so bad…but perhaps the embarrassment was still to come.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No, I do not.” The thought struck her that Adele had brothers, and Miss Cecil too. That answer must needs give her away, if he did not already know whose chair he stood in front of.

“And for my last question—do you like fish for supper?”

The way that his mouth curled up into a little smirk, she could almost swear that he was looking at her straight through that blindfold. Yes, he knew it was her. There could be no other reason for such a question.

“No, Lord Henry, I detest fish, especially turbot.”

“Ah, I see.” He clasped his hands behind his back, feet spread apart. “I think that I have your measure then. You are Miss Ashbrook!”

“Henry, you gudgeon!” said Adele, breaking in before Eliza could say a word, while across the circle, Miss Ashbrook let out a little squeak. “It is Miss
Malcolm
, of course!” The younger sister leaped from her chair and tore the flimsy scarf off of Henry’s face so he could witness his mistake himself.

“Why, yes, so I see,” said Lord Henry, looking down at Eliza where she sat. The closeness, which had been bearable only because of the blindfold, became unthinkable now that their eyes had met without the veil. Eliza’s face grew red as fire, and Lord Henry himself took a quick step backwards. “I beg your pardon, Miss Malcolm, for my slow wits.”

“You’ve lost, Henry,” said Adele disapprovingly, “and now you must pay a forfeit. Come, give something to Eliza in penance for your stupidity.”

Lord Henry looked more amused than downcast at this command. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a small white card. “Your servant, Miss Malcolm,” he said with a bow.

Eliza took the calling card and glanced at it. “Henry Rowland, Duke of Brockenhurst.” Startled, she looked up.

The rest of the crowd had turned their attention to selecting the next player. Lord Henry met Eliza’s eyes and gave a little wink. He had somehow contrived to get her through a parlor game with little to no humiliation—an unheard of feat. But what on earth was the meaning of this calling card, assigning him a title so patently untruthful? Henry Rowland had seemed her friend more than once during her sojourn at Harrowhaven, yet why must she always be suspecting that he was up to no good?

11

A
dele would have continued the games far into the morning, but just before midnight, the Duchess of Brockenhurst intervened, kindly but firmly bidding farewell to the guests who must go home by carriage and saying goodnight to those who must retire to their rooms upstairs. Instead of following directions, Stephen and Robert tiptoed away for a game of billiards, while the duchess pulled Adele aside for a tête-à-tête.

Henry watched Miss Malcolm leave the room and, after waiting until the door had closed, got up to follow her. His larger stride caught up with her as she entered the saloon. It was the room where he had first caught a glimpse of her. He had frightened her then. He would tread more carefully now.

“Good night, Miss Malcolm,” Henry said, intending it to begin a conversation, not end one.

Miss Malcolm pulled up sharply and looking around. “Good night, Lord Henry.”

“I trust your headache has abated?”

“Yes, thank you.” She smiled shyly. “I am sorry I could not join you and your sister for the picnic.”

Henry waved his hand dismissively. “It is no matter. Did your maid give you the book?”

She colored at that. “Yes, thank you.”

“And…?” He could not resist pressing the question a little further.

“I am not accustomed to reading novels.”

“Ah.” He might have known that her mother would have forbidden that sort of reading material. It was a hard thing, though, that a young woman of one and twenty should not be allowed to choose her own books. A married woman would have more freedoms. “Perhaps, some day,” he said, imbuing his voice with understanding.

“Perhaps,” said Miss Malcolm. It did not sound hopeful. “Good night then, your lordship.” She turned toward the staircase.

“Miss Malcolm,” said Henry with insistence. He would not let her escape so easily. “Since your headache has abated, I have another activity to propose for tomorrow.”

She waited.

“Would you care to go riding with me, early, before the heat of the day?”

Her dismay registered on her face, but Henry forged ahead before she could object. “I am aware that you do not approach equestrian pursuits with enthusiasm. Perhaps the chance to familiarize yourself with one of Harrowhaven’s horses, at a slow pace and out of the eye of public scrutiny, might be to your liking?”

She took a deep breath, her bosom rising and falling beneath her green silk dress. He could tell she was considering the merits of his proposal.

“Would it be…proper?”

Henry grinned. She wanted to come. She was on the verge of accepting.

“Certainly. After all, you must remember that we’ve ridden together several times in London.” He gave her a wink.

Her lips tightened into a straight line, but the brightness in her eyes seemed to indicate that she enjoyed the jest.

“I shall bring a groom with us. Two grooms, if you like.”

“I think one groom will be sufficient. Good night.” She reached the stairs and began her ascent.

“Good night,” Henry said, his gaze lingering on her until she reached the top of the grand staircase and disappeared down the corridor. Her tall, willowy figure was designed for such a house—the staircase a perfect setting for this jewel. She would make an admirable duchess, the perfect hostess for Harrowhaven—and
that
was what he was determined to prevent.

True, said a part of him, but it is only right to do so, for she would not be happy with Rufus. Ah, said his wiser self, but that is no guarantee that she would be any happier with you….

* * *

“A late night, miss,” said
Ollerton, who had been waiting up for her lady’s daughter.

“Yes, I beg your pardon,” said Eliza, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her. “I did not mean to keep you up.”

“Oh, it is no matter to me,” said Ollerton, in a tone that belied the truth of her statement. “As long as you enjoyed yourself.”

Eliza offered no comment on how the evening had gone—in truth, she had not yet decided whether she had enjoyed herself. The duke’s absence, Lord Henry’s presence, the overly intimate games, the fear of embarrassment, the elation of escape, and then, at the end, Lord Henry’s invitation to go riding…. He seemed to mean well. She hoped it had not been improper of her to accept.

She could not remember the last time she had perched on a saddle—it would be very good to practice before she humiliated herself in front of the whole company at the hunt. Of course, now there was the nagging fear that she would humiliate herself in front of Henry Rowland. But somehow, that seemed a much remoter possibility—he had carried her through the blindfold game with as much consideration as he had used at the awkward dinner two nights ago. Even if she were to fall off her horse, she suspected that somehow, he would be able to make everything…all right.

She wished that she had not stumbled upon that scene with him and the housemaid. In every other particular he seemed so gentlemanly, it was unfortunate to have to view him in that light. Perhaps she had misunderstood the situation? But no, she knew what she had seen—and what good reason could possibly be given for such familiarity between a young man and a servant girl?

Ollerton unlaced Eliza’s dress and carried it over to the wardrobe to put away. “That reminds me, miss. Do you know where your golden gown is? Did you give it to one of the maids to have it cleaned?”

Eliza’s forehead puckered. “No, I gave no instructions about it. It is missing?”

“Yes. I turned this wardrobe inside out and it was nowhere to be found.”

“How strange!” said Eliza. She unpinned her tresses and shook them out.

“Suspicious is more like it,” said Ollerton with a snort. “I’ll take it up with the housekeeper—some light-fingered housemaid needs to be sacked. It’s at the bottom of her trunk and we’ll never find it, I wager.”

Eliza said nothing. It would be unfortunate to lose that dress with so many memories attached to it. But she refused to worry about it. Ollerton had been wrong about things before.

She slipped into a clean chemise while Ollerton’s back was turned and folded down the bedclothes.

“Would you like me to brush your hair, miss?” asked Ollerton, taking the comb in hand.

“No, thank you,” said Eliza, climbing into the bed. “I am tired now. My hair can wait till the morning.”

Before she dismissed Ollerton, she remembered something essential. “My riding habit is not missing, is it?”

“No,” said Ollerton, “I will make sure it is laid out for the hunt on Wednesday.”

“I shall need it laid out for tomorrow morning.”

Ollerton’s eyebrows rose. “As you wish, miss,” she said pulling it from the wardrobe.

Eliza could sense that Ollerton was hoping for an explanation, but she had no intention of divulging whom she would be riding with in the morning. She did not want her maid going straight to her mother with that story. The thought of hiding such a thing from her mother gave her some unease, but she deflected the guilt and suppressed the thought. It was simply an innocent excursion to help her practice her equestrian skills.

Ollerton’s fingers felt the brown fabric of the riding habit. “It has been so long…there is a little damage from the moths. But perhaps if we pin a ribbon here.” She pointed at the shoulder of the garment.

“Thank you,” said Eliza. She had never liked this article of clothing—her father’s tailor had made it, since riding habits were more properly the province of men, and she felt uncomfortably masculine in the military cut of the jacket—but it was the only riding habit she had, and it would have to do.

She snuffed the candle as Ollerton left and pulled a light quilt over herself. She had almost drifted off to sleep when the unfortunate memory came to her that the duke had invited her to go riding with him this morning. What would he think if he learned that after declining his invitation, she had agreed to go out riding the next day with his younger brother?

Eliza grew uncomfortably warm and threw off the quilt. Her mother would not be the only one annoyed that she had chosen to go riding with Henry Rowland.

* * *

The early morning air was
pleasantly cool as Henry went to consult with the head groom Gormley about the best mount for Miss Malcolm. He yawned as his quick stride covered the ground between the house and the stables.

He had slept fitfully for most of the night. Shortly after falling asleep the first time, he had awoken to the sounds of arguing in the hallway. There were two voices, both male. It was not hard to identify Rufus. Henry swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked silently to the door to get a better listen.

“You’ve been hiding something from me!” the duke said, in a tone halfway between a hiss and a snarl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the other man in a more measured voice. Was it Robert? No. Less urbane, more gravelly. Walter.

“Don’t play games. You know what I mean.”

The voices quieted now and Henry strained for a moment to hear more than a collage of mumbles.

“How dare you follow me!”

“How dare I? Oh, that’s rich. I’ll do more than follow you next time…I’ll get there first.”

“Stay away from her or—”

“—or what?”

There were more growls and mumbles, and then—“For God’s sake, calm down! I’ve never seen you get so worked up about anything in the petticoat line.”

The pair had taken themselves off then, presumably to resolve their quarrel or continue it in a more secluded setting. Henry had paced his room a while.

It was gratifying to hear those two at each other’s throats. But, at the same time, the topic of their conversation filled him with the gravest concern. What woman were they speaking of? Whom had Walter been concealing from Rufus? Even after Henry had calmed himself enough to go back to bed, he had still tossed and turned the night through.

In the morning, his mind pushed away his midnight worries and returned to Miss Malcolm. They had not set a time for their ride, but Henry’s experience on Sunday morning had taught him that she was an early riser. He had risen early himself and, after changing into the buckskins and riding boots that Biggs had laid out, taken himself off to the stables to prepare for the outing.

Miss Malcolm did not disappoint. Not fifteen minutes later, he saw her step out onto the front porch in a fitted brown riding habit trimmed with orange braid. Her hair was swept up in a twist with a little hat perched on the pile of curls at the top. The style of the jacket was not altogether flattering, but it still made an appealing scene—her slender figure framed by the columns of the entrance with the train of her skirt draped over her arm.

“Gormley,” said Henry, without taking his eyes off Miss Malcolm. “Do you have a groom you can spare to accompany me? Someone discreet.”

“Aye,” said the head groom, looking from Henry to Miss Malcolm and then back again. He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Martin can go with ye.”

As the straw-blond undergroom saddled up a mount, Henry raised a hand to hail Miss Malcolm and led his chosen pair of horses over to where she stood. His own gelding that he had ridden down from London pulled at the loose reins, while Marigold, the docile mare he had selected for Miss Malcolm, showed much less spirit.

Miss Malcolm came down the stairs.

“Enchanted, Miss Malcolm,” said Henry, doffing his hat.

“Good morning,” she replied tautly.

Henry saw that he would have some ground to regain again this morning. Must he do this each time he saw her afresh—make a concerted effort to dispel her wariness?

Martin, the groom, approached at a respectful distance, already seated on his own mount.

“This,” said Henry, nodding his head at the mare, “is Marigold. She’s a pretty, gentle little thing, and I think you two will get on splendidly.”

“I suppose first I must get on her, though?” said Miss Malcolm, wrinkling her forehead. Her fingers tightened around the train of her skirt, crumpling it instead of just supporting it.

Henry signaled for the groom to come over and take the reins of his own animal. “Come here, Miss Malcolm,” he said. She obeyed. “Now, if I may….” He took her hand in his and brought it near to the mare. “Good darling,” he said, placing Miss Malcolm’s hand upon the horse’s side and moving it over the horse’s coat to stroke it gently. “Sweet darling.”

Slowly, her fingers relaxed themselves underneath his own.

Marigold whinnied and turned her head. Henry lifted Miss Malcolm’s hand to the horse’s face. “Easy, girl.”

Miss Malcolm remained perfectly still, but Henry saw the hint of a smile on her face when the horse nuzzled her fingers. “Now that we are all friends….” said Henry. “Allow me.” Kneeling down he cupped his two hands and waited for her to step up. “Other foot, my dear,” he said, as she lifted the wrong half boot, and blushing, she placed the opposite foot into his hand.

In less than a second she was up, Henry’s hands steadying her waist and then immediately letting go. Marigold had been well trained, and she barely moved a muscle as Miss Malcolm’s weight dropped into the side-saddle.

“Now,” said Henry, “we walk.” Taking the reins in hand, he started leading the mare around the circular drive. Martin fell in behind, leading Henry’s horse behind his own.

“Are you not going to ride?” asked Miss Malcolm in a tone of apprehension.

“When you are ready to take these reins yourself, I shall.”

They proceeded onward. Glancing back every few minutes, Henry could see her struggling to maintain her seat in the saddle as the horse’s back shifted with each step. It was no mean feat to ride as a lady ought; it was far harder than riding astride.

Gradually, her seat grew more secure, and Henry thought that something more difficult might be attempted. “How do you feel?” He slowed his step and looked around.

“Like a lapdog stuck on the skinny branches of a tree,” said Miss Malcolm, “which is to say, better than I usually feel when on a horse.”

Henry laughed at that, and she rewarded him with a smile in return. “May I pass you the reins?”

“Yes,” she replied, her teeth clenched. Slowly, carefully, Henry placed the loops of leather in her hands.