Duchess By Night

Page 30

“Yes.” He turned away, and Nick came running toward her.
“I was that worried when your horse came home alone, miss,” he whispered.
“I’m all right. It was Strange’s fault; he told me to drop the reins because his horses were so perfectly trained that they would stay in place.”
“Well, there’s some that will do it,” the boy said fairly. “But not many in this weather. So you didn’t fall off, then?”
“No, and your tips helped. I think I know how to manage a gallop, though trotting is a terrible thing to endure.”
“Perhaps we could get up really early one morning and I could show you how to manage a trot.”
“I’d hate to get you up so early,” she said.
“I’m already up. But night may be better. That way you wouldn’t be riding with me, and then with Lord Strange. He might notice. But we should start with mounting a horse. It’s a miracle he hasn’t seen the way you climb your mount like a rocky hillside.”
“Perhaps even tonight?”
“I’ll wait for you in the stables. There’s generally no one around so it should be safe.”
She gave him a quick smile. “Thank you!”
Strange was waiting for her at the door. “You’re very friendly with that stable boy.” His tone was unfriendly again.
“His name is Nick, and I like him,” she said, walking past Strange to get into the warmth.
“You like him?” Strange said.
She glanced back at him. “He’s nice.” But the only thing on her mind was how to get warm without losing her manhood. “If you’ll forgive me, I’m going to take a piss.” She managed to walk half the way up the stairs, but then broke into a run. When she got to her chamber she dashed across the room and dove under the quilt, leaving only her boots sticking off the bed.
“Your Grace,” Lucille exclaimed, coming over. “Are you all right? Are you ill?”
“Cold,” Harriet said with chattering teeth. “So cold.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Lucille clucked. She ran over and got another quilt and piled it on top of Harriet. “You’ll be catching your death, riding around on a morning like this. Why, the Duchess of Cosway isn’t even out of her bed yet. She’s just breakfasting.”
“You can have my hot chocolate,” Isidore said, appearing in the doorway. “Have you been pounding around on freezing roadways for hours?”
“Ye-ess,” Harriet said from under the covers. “My horse went home alone and I had to ride behind Strange and it was so cold.”
“Sit up and drink this chocolate,” Isidore said. “The cup is nice and hot.”
Harriet finally did, gratefully curling her fingers around the mug.
“What’s next in the life of a gentleman?” Isidore asked.
“Fencing again,” Harriet said. “Fighting with rapiers. He makes me take my jacket off and it’s bloody cold up there in those galleries. The man must have cold blood, like a reptile.”
“Harriet!” Isidore said. “I’ve never heard you swear. I think all this masculinity is rubbing off on you.”
“I like riding,” Harriet said. “You can’t imagine, Isidore. It’s all different with men. You know how we perch in the side-saddle and then pick our way down the road?”
Isidore nodded. “I don’t often bother, but I know how.”
“Men just fling themselves into the saddle and pound down the road—so fast the wind blows their hair directly back. They don’t wear a wig because it wouldn’t stay on. They just go. It’s sweaty and tiring, but afterwards you feel so good.”
“Watch out,” Isidore said. “You’ll end up dressing like this forever. You know, everyone always says that Lord Findleshanks is really a woman. Did you ever look at him closely? He does look like a woman.”
“He has a beard,” Harriet pointed out.
“So did my grandmother.”
Harriet swung out of bed. “I have to meet Strange for fencing practice. Ouch!” She rubbed her bottom.
“I am going back to my bed,” Isidore said. “Strange lent me a book of poetry.” She paused for a moment. “Do you still dislike him?”
Harriet shrugged. “He’s acceptable. What do you think?”
“I think he’s interesting,” Isidore said. “Really interesting.”
Harriet looked at her. “You are married, Isidore.”
“Not so anyone would notice,” Isidore said wryly.
“You know what I mean.”
“There’s something about Strange,” Isidore said. Harriet noticed with a pulse of alarm that her eyes were almost dreamy—and Isidore never looked dreamy. “He walks into the room and everyone notices. I like being with a man like that.”
“Well, he is the host,” Harriet said. “Although I’m not sure he really knows who some of his guests are. Have you noticed?”
“Povy reads him a list of his new guests every night,” Isidore said. “Lucille told me about it.”
Lucille popped her head in from the adjoining room. “Do you need me?”
“Does Lord Strange know who his guests are?” Isidore asked. “You said that Povy is in charge of informing him.”
“Well, Strange does and doesn’t,” Lucille said. “He may hear about them, but that doesn’t mean he always knows who they are, if you see what I mean. This is a big house. That run of scientists in the east wing, for example. I’m sure he doesn’t know all of them.”
There was a short knock on the door, a knock that Harriet was getting to know. Isidore gave a shriek as it opened. Harriet turned and looked at her through Strange’s eyes.
Isidore was in dishabille, a sweep of curling black hair matching her eyelashes. Her nightgown was everything Harriet’s wasn’t. It could never be mistaken for a man’s.
A smile of greeting appeared in Isidore’s eyes for one second, before she gave another little shriek (entirely unnecessary, to Harriet’s mind) and disappeared into the room next door, slamming the connecting door.
Harriet had never realized that a woman’s legs could be seen straight through the thin lawn of a nightgown.
Strange didn’t seem to be ravaged by desire, but what did she know? He had an eyebrow raised. “An early morning visitor, Cope? You constantly surprise me,” he said. His voice was unfriendly again.
But this time he had a reason. It probably looked as if she was intruding on the woman he had selected for an affaire, given his flirtation with Isidore the previous night.
“We’re friends,” she said quickly. “Friends.”
“Ah, friends.”
There was a moment of silence while Harriet thought desperately. “She’s my—my mother’s goddaughter. I’ve known her for years.”
“For years. How lucky.” There was something inscrutable in his face.
“Yes,” Harriet said. “When my mother was ill, Isidore was often the only person who visited for months.”
“Are you ready for breakfast? I instructed the staff to put out a side of red beef for you and a good tankard of ale, of course. And Eugenia is eager to watch our lesson.”