Duchess by Night Page 9

  It would have to be a great deal more sophisticated than this. More enticing. More erotic.

  If she were writing the letter for herself…

  The very thought made her whole body prickle.

  If she were writing a letter to entice Strange, she would pitch it toward his intelligence. Make it intriguing, rather than erotic. She could picture him opening her letter, puzzling over it.

  She would make him wait. He was a man who’d had too many things—women—given to him too easily. She would lead him on a dance of temptation and desire. She would—

  Harriet snapped out of her daydream. What on earth was she thinking? She was at Strange’s party dressed as a man! Not to mention the fact that she was a staid duchess, even though she didn’t feel like it at the moment. She had no business falling into salacious fantasies about her host, no matter how much she…

  She went to sleep with rhyming words in her head: delight and night. Even, salaciously: little and prickle.

  She went to sleep smiling.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which Manhood is Achieved…Albeit With Some Discomfort

  February 6, 1784

  Harriet dreamed that she was dancing. She was wearing her male clothing, which meant that she could move far more gracefully than in skirts and hoops. She was dancing with Benjamin, so she said to him: “Why didn’t you ever ask me to ride on your prickle?”

  He laughed at that, and said, “What? What’s that?”

  She was trying to explain when he slipped away with a friendly wave, walked through the doors to the balcony outside the ballroom.

  “Wait,” she said, “I’m coming too. I want to talk. I want—”

  A hand gave her shoulder a brisk shake. She opened her eyes, looked up, and uttered a little scream.

  “Time to get up, youngster,” Strange said.

  “Yip,” Harriet managed, and pulled the quilt to her neck.

  “I exercise in the morning, so if I’m going to teach you fencing, I’d rather do it now. But I thought we could go for a ride first.” He turned around and walked to the windows, throwing open the curtains. “Where’s your valet? Do you always sleep away the morning?”

  “What time is it?” Harriet stammered.

  “Almost six on a gorgeous cold morning. It’s a woman’s trick to sleep away the morning, Cope.”

  “Ah—right,” Harriet said, remembering to lower her voice.

  “Your valet?”

  “The Duke of Villiers has been kind enough to share his man with me.”

  “For God’s sake, Villiers couldn’t pick up an extra manservant for you? I’m sure I could find—”

  “There’s no need,” Harriet said hastily. “Really. I have a valet at home but he broke his arm and couldn’t attend me so this is just for a short period of time and it’s not an inconvenience to the duke.”

  Strange shrugged and walked to the door. “I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes. We’re missing the light.”

  Light? Light? What on earth was he talking about? Harriet pushed back the covers and shivered. It was February, after all, and a quick look out the window showed bundles of snow and a lowering, gray dawn. She fled through the door into Isidore’s room.

  “Isidore! Wake up! Strange is taking me riding.”

  Isidore sat up for a moment, stared at her, fell back down and rolled over, pillow on her head. Harriet pulled Isidore’s bell cord to summon Lucille.

  Lucille bundled her into a pair of buckram breeches that buttoned tightly at the knees, and then a riding coat. “Why are the jacket flaps buttoned back like that?” Harriet asked, craning to see her rear in the glass. At least her bottom would not be in evidence. Last night she kept edging around the corners of the room so that no one saw her from behind.

  “So you can flip them up when you sit on the saddle,” Lucille said. She was wrestling with a pair of boot garters. Suddenly she looked up. “Oh, Your Grace, you’re going to have to sit astride!”

  “That’s all right,” Harriet said. “I did it as a girl once.”

  “It looks perilously dangerous to me. What’s to stop you from sliding right off the end of the horse? All right, I’m ready for you to put these boots on.”

  Harriet stamped into the boots. They were heavy, with a turned-over top. “Now these garters,” Lucille muttered to herself, “they fix to the boot and then pass round the leg over the breeches, like this. I think.”

  Harriet looked in the mirror. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucille said. “But that’s what Finchley, Villiers’s valet, said to do. He’s a terribly knowledgeable man, you know.”

  “Well, I might as well go downstairs,” Harriet said. She had her hair tied back, but no powder.

  “Your hat!” Lucille said. She opened the wardrobe and then hesitated. “I’m sure he said the bicorne for horseback. Or perhaps a round hat.”

  The round hat had a brim that stuck out all around, and a little cockade on the side. Harriet thought it looked stupid, but she grabbed it and jammed it down on her head. “I have to go or Strange will come up and find you here.”

  “I can’t believe he walked straight into your bedchamber,” Lucille muttered. “You’re that fortunate he didn’t know it on the instant.”

  “People see what they expect to see,” Harriet said, reassuring herself as much as Lucille.

  “It’s perishing cold outside. Just look at the frost flowers on the windows. Here, I’ll put another cravat over that black one. No one will know the difference, and at least it will keep your neck warm.”

  Harriet had to make a conscious effort to pick up her feet since her boots thumped so loudly on the wooden stairs that she felt as if she were waking the whole house. Given that she had stolen off to her room around eleven in the evening, when most of the party appeared to be just starting to enjoy themselves, she would feel truly guilty to wake them.

  Strange was at the bottom of the stairs. In the morning light his hair gleamed the color of dark mahogany. She was overcome by a giddy sense of exactly how much fun she was having.

  He glanced up and said, “I might as well have been waiting for a woman to dress, Cope.”

  “Good morning to you too, my lord,” she said. The butler was waiting with their coats. When she had struggled into her great coat (Villiers’s tailor had padded her shoulders so that she looked more manly), Strange eyed her from head to foot.

  “You don’t look warm enough,” he said brusquely. “And you’re as pale as Villiers. We’ll work up a sweat soon enough.”

  Harriet smiled rather weakly and strode through the door. Outdoors the air was as cold as liquid ice, catching the back of her throat and emerging from her mouth in great puffs of steam.

  Groomsmen were holding the reins of stamping horses. Strange’s mount threw up his head in greeting. Strange said over his shoulder, “Don’t get your nose out of joint, youngster. I gave you a filly, rather than a gelding, but that’s not meant as a comment on your horsemanship. She’s got a beautiful stride.”

  A lad with a shock of white-blond hair and freckles on his nose was holding Harriet’s horse. Harriet walked over and held out her hand so the filly could blow warm air into her palm. Then she pulled on her gloves.

  “Let’s go,” Strange snapped.

  He must be irritable by nature, Harriet decided. She checked the belly strap of the horse as she watched Strange swing into the saddle. She’d seen countless men mount horses, but she never expected to ride astride herself.

  Finally Harriet put her left boot into the stirrup and flung herself into the air.

  Plop! She landed on the saddle and gathered the reins as if she expected to find herself there.

  Strange started down the driveway without looking back, so Harriet signaled to the boy to let her horse go. He stepped aside but then said in a low voice, “If you’ll excuse the presumption, sir, grip with your knees.”

  Harriet nodded in a dignified sort of way, and let her horse start picki
ng her way down the icy path. The sun was up, and Strange was right about the light. At this hour it had a peculiar, dancing clarity that edged every blade of glass with silver. Ice crackled under her mount’s feet, and hung in great dripping rows from the fence beside the road.

  “We can let them gallop at the end of this road,” Strange shouted over his shoulder.

  Gallop? When she was growing up, her mother considered horse-riding unladylike. Horses were regarded as little more than moving sofas. Riding excursions tended to be ambling trips through the woods to a picnic spot, with a groomsman leading each horse to ensure that it didn’t startle. Certainly, there had been no wild gallops down icy roads.

  She slowed her horse even further, but the end of the road arrived anyway. She found her host prancing about on a caracoling horse. “For God’s sake, Cope,” he said, “you’re riding like a maiden aunt.”

  She scowled at him and he cocked an eyebrow. “Tetchy about getting up so early? Worse and worse. I’m not sure I can teach you to be a man.”

  “You sound as if you belong to some sort of exclusive club,” she retorted. “As far as I can see, the definition of a man has nothing to do with whether he thinks it’s masculine to be out breathing ice and clopping around on a dangerously slick road.”

  “Fear is not manly,” he told her, with an insufferably condescending look on his face.

  “The list grows more and more interesting,” she said, intent on distracting him so that she could avoid galloping off down the lane. “Men get up at dawn, feel no fear, and—what was that you told me last night?—stay away from women’s hemlines.”

  “Look, you’re at a disadvantage,” Strange said.

  “As you already indicated.” Harriet put her nose in the air. “I find your rudeness insufferable.”

  “Look at you!” he erupted. “You look exactly like a—well—you probably don’t know the word, so I won’t use it. But you’ll never find a woman at this rate.”

  “Kitty seemed to have no questions about my manliness,” Harriet pointed out. “She said I was very handsome.”

  “You are handsome,” he said, and then made a funny strangled sound in his throat. “It’s just that you—look at your hair!”

  Harriet frowned at him. “I’m wearing a hat.”

  “It has golden streaks in it,” he said. “Like a woman’s hair.”

  “Well, yours has streaks too,” she retorted. “It looks just like mahogany.”

  For some reason his face froze with horror. He spun his horse around and said, “Bloody hell!” And the next moment he was pounding away down the road.

  Harriet let out a little snort of laughter. Strange was cracked. But her horse was straining at the reins, so she gripped with her knees just as the stableboy told her. It felt odd, but perhaps it would keep her in the saddle.

  “All right,” she said to her mount. “Go, then.” She loosed the reins.

  She would have screamed, but the icy air blowing in her face stole her breath. She would have stopped, but pulling on the reins did nothing. Her horse was intent on catching up with Strange and clearly considered its rider an afterthought. She would have fallen off except she couldn’t loosen her knees from pure terror. So she held on the reins and screamed silently. Her hat flew off. Her ears froze.

  The horse seemed to eat up the ground with its long legs—and every time it lurched forward, she flew into the air and then came down with a crash. Ow! Ow! Ow!

  Through narrowed eyes streaming with tears from the cold, she saw that somehow she was catching up with that devil, Strange. A moment later, her horse actually started to pass him, except that Strange bent over and shouted at his horse until it drew ahead again.

  At the end of the road she drooped over the horse’s neck, panting. She didn’t even look at Strange. If he dared to say something about her being a poor rider, she’d—she’d—kill him.

  But when she finally looked over, he didn’t have that sarcastic sneer any longer. “You’re not a bad rider,” he said. “That’s something. I had no idea that Bess had it in her.”

  She glared at him.

  He was looking pleased with himself. “We’ll go back now—but we shouldn’t gallop again, I’m afraid. It’s too cold out here for the horses to be sweating this much.”

  Thank God, Harriet thought.

  He talked all the way back to the house about manly things like fencing moves and boxing matches. She ignored him and thought about whether she had suffered irrevocable damage to her most tender parts, her female parts. She was very fond of that part of her body and didn’t want it battered to pieces. She couldn’t feel anything between her legs at the moment. It was all numb.

  By the time they arrived home, she was regaining sensation—and those sensations were not pleasant.

  Strange jumped off his horse and threw the reins to the groomsman. “I’ll see you in the portrait gallery in ten minutes, Cope,” he bellowed.

  “No, you won’t,” she said.

  He frowned at her. His plan seemed to involve keeping her in motion for the next twelve hours.

  “I want breakfast.”

  His face cleared. “Right. Beef and beer, that’ll do the trick.” He went into the house without waiting for an answer.

  Beer? Beer for breakfast? He must be insane.

  The freckled stableboy was standing at her side. He had a nice face, so she gave up her attempts at dignity. “I’m not sure I can get off of this animal,” she told him.

  He looked around, but the other groomsman had led Strange’s horse away and there was no one to be seen but a footman huddled just inside the front door, waiting for her.

  “Swing your right leg over, miss,” he said quietly.

  “What?”

  He grinned at her. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  She swung her right leg over and squealed. “Ouch!” And: “How did you know?”

  “Lord Strange must not have looked closely at your riding,” he said. “You ride just the way my sisters do. The trick is to grip your knees and keep yourself a little above the saddle. Brace your boots in the stirrups.”

  He reached up and pulled her off the horse. Harriet looked around hastily, but the footman at the door had retreated indoors and there was no one to see.

  “Thank you!” she said breathlessly. “I’d give you a tip, but I couldn’t figure out where to put my money since I can’t carry a knotting bag.”

  He laughed. “Gentleman have pockets sewn into their garments. You’ll find them. I’m just happy you didn’t sail into the air and land on your rump.” He looked a bit uneasy. “If you’ll forgive the familiarity, miss.”

  “Believe me,” she said, smiling at him, “I’ll forgive a great deal from the man who just told me how to avoid such a bone-jarring ride. What’s your name?”

  “Nick. I’ll make sure that I come tomorrow morning as well.”

  “Thank you!” she whispered fervently, and started to limp toward the house.

  Though tomorrow was a moot point. She’d be lucky to walk again.

  And if she ever did ride again—no more padding in front! She surreptitiously adjusted her breeches.

  Ouch!

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Chapter in Which the Delights of Swordplay and Manhood are Confused

  Jem waited in the entry until Cope finally walked back into the house. Probably Villiers’s protegé was out there caressing his mount’s nose or some such frippery. Cope finally entered and handed over his greatcoat to Povy. He seemed to be a little stiff.

  Good. He needed muscle. If Cope had more muscle, he would lose that effeminate look.

  “Beef,” he said, striding off to the breakfast room. “Come on, Cope.”

  The butler stopped him. “Lord Strange, if you cared to eat in your private dining room, Miss Eugenia would be very pleased to join you.”

  Jem allowed very few of his male guests to meet Eugenia—but Cope was far from a rakehell. He was practically the girlish playmate he thoug
ht of finding for his daughter.

  “All right,” he said, reversing direction and heading up the stairs. He stopped halfway when Cope hadn’t followed him. “What are you waiting for?”

  Cope glanced up at him. “Did you say something, my lord?”

  “We’re having breakfast in my private dining room.”

  The man had the impudence to grin at him. “That must have been my invitation. So sorry I didn’t hear it before.”

  Jem ground his teeth. Cope practically coo’ed his little retort.

  He should go upstairs right now and tell Villiers that there was no way he could turn a moon-calf into a bull. But Cope was walking up the stairs. And the odd thing was that Jem actually liked him.

  He liked the stickler way that Cope made it through that ride, even though he was obviously one of the least experienced riders ever put on the surface of the earth. He didn’t complain, though. And he didn’t look too sissy in a riding jacket. He looked delicate in some lights, but he had a good strong chin. The real problem was his eyes. What man had eyes of burned velvet brown?

  Swallowing an oath, he turned around and went back up the stairs.

  Just when had he ever wasted time thinking about a man’s eyes? He was truly losing his mind.

  “I’ll wash my face and hands in my chamber,” Cope said. “Where shall I join you?”

  Jem rolled his eyes. Washing. “End of the corridor to your right,” he barked.

  In the end he went to his own chamber and washed his face too, though he was plagued by the idea that his guest’s overfastidious habits would be contagious in more than one sense. He strode into his private dining room to find Eugenia there.

  She ran over to give him a hug. It was pure Sally, that hug. His wife used to think that if people would just be kinder and nicer to each other, all problems could be solved.

  “Remember when you used to carry me around on your shoulders, Papa?” Eugenia asked, scooting into her chair.

  “Yes. We’re going to be joined by a gentleman named Mr. Cope.”