Page 10 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Wednesday – Eight days remaining

Ashford waited in the stable yard, still and silent and seething. The church bell, from the nearby village of Melford, had just struck quarter past the hour and Miss Hanworth was nowhere to be seen.

Ashford had risen soon after dawn, of course, spending a few hours at his desk – running his and his father’s estate at such a distance was no mean feat – before joining the breakfast table, where Miss Hanworth had been similarly absent.

She was a late riser, it seemed, which was the latest in a very long list of unfortunate revelations about his bride-to-be.

Now, all around Ashford, the rest of the party was readying themselves for the morning ride, including Mr Hanworth. This was no great consolation, however.

The Mr Hanworth of Ashford’s recollection had been a pleasant, regular sort of fellow.

This Mr Hanworth, standing at the other side of the stable yard, had – sometime between dinner last night and breakfast this morning – sourced a notebook and pencil that he was currently brandishing at Lords Dacre and Hesse at the other end of the yard.

‘He was not joking about this investigation business, then?’ Mr Brandon said, from beside Ashford.

‘No,’ Ashford said, rather grimly. ‘It appears not.’

Ought he to intervene? Dacre would not hold a grudge, but since coming into his title, Hesse’s dignity was so easily wounded.

Ashford understood, a little. Though his father was very much alive, after the loss of the duchess, Ashford had had to step into His Grace’s shoes prematurely.

At the tender age of sixteen he, too, had committed some oddities in the pursuit of being taken seriously, though he had thankfully never thought, as Hesse obviously had, that becoming a man of fashion should be one of them.

This morning, Hesse wore his hair in painstakingly dishevelled curls, and breeches so closely fitted that they could hardly have been more revealing without being transparent.

‘Pray, what has my childhood to do with anything, sir?’ Hesse said, nose in the air. ‘I’m sure I can hardly recollect it.’

‘Shows inclination to evasion,’ Mr Hanworth intoned, bending his head to make a note.

Mr Brandon snorted. Sir Waldo, standing beside Lord Hesse, bellowed a laugh and Lady Morton and Miss Hesse trilled out their own.

It was fortunate that they seemed to consider him more a comedian than a madman, but Ashford had to question the world in which this was now a comfort to him. Had he only known …

‘Fortunately, no skeletons in my cupboards,’ Brandon said.

‘Nor mine,’ Ashford said, eyes still fixed – disbelievingly – on the gentleman who would soon be considered a member of his family.

‘Truly?’ Brandon said. ‘None?’

‘Do you wish to accuse me of something, Brandon?’ Ashford said, turning to regard his friend with some bemusement.

‘I am just curious,’ Brandon said.

‘About?’

‘Well,’ Brandon said, so casually that Ashford knew it to be forced, ‘you did say you intended to marry this year. Some people have been wondering if perhaps you intend to court one of the ladies here. Miss Hanworth or …’

His eyes travelling to where Miss Hesse, a vision in palest pink, was stooping to pet at Brutus the Pekinese.

‘Miss Hesse,’ Brandon finished delicately. ‘Yes, some people have been wondering.’

‘These “people”,’ Ashford said. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Friends of mine,’ Brandon said. ‘Not sure you are acquainted.’

Ashford suppressed a smile. Even if Brandon had yet to admit it aloud, the candle he held for Miss Hesse was obvious to anyone paying the least bit of attention.

‘I am not courting Miss Hesse,’ he said.

Brandon did not look convinced.

‘She does meet all your requirements,’ he said. ‘I would understand if your heart had been caught.’

Ashford considered, for a moment, whether he might tell Brandon the whole truth.

He was the closest thing Ashford had to a confidante, and already knew, after all, of Ashford’s intention to wed and some of the difficulties he had encountered along the way, though Ashford had never fully explained his financial motives, nor His Grace’s more sentimental demands.

It was tempting, but no. To admit the duchy’s financial difficulties was insupportable and he could not risk his father finding out the truth.

For if the duke caught even a whiff of Ashford’s true motives, he might well withdraw his approval and ruin the whole thing.

‘I am not courting Miss Hesse,’ he repeated, perceiving, from the worried cast to Brandon’s expression, that he did need some further reassurance. ‘I am, however, looking forward to getting to know Miss Hanworth better.’

Get to know her, discover what on earth was going through her mind, what the hell she was thinking – it was all much of muchness. To think, only yesterday, Ashford had thought Miss Hanworth sensible, pleasant, inoffensive.

‘Oh!’ Brandon said, much surprised. ‘Oh! Yes, well, of course, she is, ah, very …’

He trailed off, plainly at a loss for how to conclude the sentence.

‘Isn’t she,’ Ashford agreed pleasantly. She had been ‘very’, after all. Very strange, very impolite, very vulgar – the list went on.

‘La,’ came a voice from behind Ashford, ‘what a fine morning.’

Brandon’s eyes had widened as they looked over Ashford’s shoulder, but even with this warning, Ashford was unprepared for Miss Hanworth’s riding dress.

It was a habit of bright green ornamented with a band of lilac stripes running down the front, and no less than five precariously drooping ostrich feathers emerging from a monstrously large hat.

All in all, she bore a striking resemblance to the circus troupers who peddled tickets outside Astley’s Amphitheatre.

For a moment, Ashford’s mind was utterly blank. What did one say, to a woman so befeathered? It defied belief.

‘A very fine morning,’ he agreed at last, groping in his pocket for the reassuring shape of his snuffbox, as he always did when he wished to steady himself – in recent days, it seemed hardly out of his hand.

‘And you are a confirmed bachelor, Lord Dacre?’ He heard Mr Hanworth say from over his shoulder.

‘He has you on the ropes now, brother!’ Sir Waldo crowed.

‘Oh dear,’ Miss Hanworth breathed, gazing over Ashford’s shoulder. ‘He has a notebook.’

‘He does,’ Ashford confirmed.

Her eyes had widened in concern, and Ashford found the sight oddly reassuring. She had not lost all her commonsense, then.

‘Everyone is taking it in good humour,’ he reassured her, and her eyes moved back to him. As their gazes met, she seemed to startle.

‘I am so nervous,’ she confessed abruptly.

Ashford felt his vexation ease a little. The young lady he had known in London still existed, she was there, under the ostrich feathers – just besieged by nerves he had not thought she possessed.

‘I did wonder if that might be the case,’ he said, as gently as he could manage, ‘but I assure you—’

‘For the ride,’ Miss Hanworth added, in a rather rude interruption. ‘Do you think we will go far?’

‘Oh, I should think only an hour or so,’ Ashford said, ‘and then, once we return, perhaps we might speak—’

‘An hour ?’ Miss Hanworth interrupted again, and a snappish retort was on the tip of Ashford’s tongue – would she not let him finish ? – when the clattering of hooves had him turning. Soon, the yard was taken over with the business of mounting, made only noisier by Brutus, yapping furiously.

‘Ought the little monster be shut inside?’ Mr Brandon said, watching with concern as Miss Hesse’s horse gave a nervous skip away from the noise, just as she was being helped into the saddle. ‘He is upsetting the horses.’

‘He’s no bother,’ Miss Hesse said, serenely, mastering her horse as beautifully as she did everything.

Ashford fought the urge to scowl. He had meant what he had said to Brandon.

He would never torture his friend by putting his hat in the ring, but after the events of the past day, Miss Hesse had never seemed more tempting.

‘Let us be off,’ Lady Phoebe declared, clapping her hands as she approached the gleaming thoroughbred that was Sir Waldo’s latest purse-breaking gift. Her groom made to give her a leg up, but Sir Waldo shooed him away in order to throw her into the saddle himself.

‘Sir Waldo cannot keep his hands off you,’ Lady Phoebe,’ Lady Hesse observed with indulgence.

‘How sweet,’ Lady Morton said. Then, with a pout, added: ‘Does no one throw me into the saddle?’

She picked an imaginary piece of fluff from her overspilling bodice. Lord Hesse stepped forward so quickly his skintight breeches creaked under the strain.

‘Your groom can assist you perfectly well,’ Lady Hesse said waspishly, seizing her son’s arm.

Ashford hid a smile behind his horse’s neck, allowing the scent – leather, hay and horsehair all mingled together – to calm him for a moment.

In his belief, there was no problem that could not be solved by an hour on horseback, and Miss Hanworth would be no different.

He took the left stirrup in his hands and was just about to place his foot within, when he became aware of a flurry of commotion to his right.

‘Miss? Miss?’

Ashford turned to see Miss Hanworth’s groom standing, baffled, holding the reins of a cheerful-looking fellow of fourteen hands. Next to him, Miss Hanworth was wringing her hands.

‘Is anything amiss?’ Ashford asked, frowning.

Her horse turned curiously to regard her, as if he did not understand her behaviour any more than Ashford did and blew a soft snort of air in her direction. Miss Hanworth skittered back several steps.

‘I cannot,’ Miss Hanworth said. ‘I simply cannot do it – I am too afraid.’

She seemed to be shaking, the ostrich feathers on her hat wobbling precariously.

‘But I have seen you riding, haven’t I?’ Ashford said, perplexed. ‘In Hyde Park?’

‘Ashford?’ Lady Phoebe called over from atop her horse. ‘Is all well?’

Ashford and Miss Hanworth were the only ones not mounted now, and they were beginning to attract curious glances. Ashford felt a prickle of embarrassment run up his spine.

‘You need not ride if you do not wish to,’ he told Miss Hanworth, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. ‘Perhaps you ought to—’

‘See how he looks at me,’ Miss Hanworth said, speaking over him – and truly, if she interrupted him once more he was going to lose his temper, he really was – ‘Leering down his nose in such a way.’

‘I think that is just the way all horses …’ Ashford began, rather helplessly, for what could he say? Their noses simply were very long.

‘What is going on?’ Sir Waldo grumbled.

‘I think she is a nervous rider,’ Lady Phoebe murmured.

‘Why say you can ride, if you cannot,’ Lady Morton drawled in perfectly audible undertone.

‘Darling, we must be sympathetic!’ Lady Hesse said, loudly this time. ‘Not every lady has been raised in the saddle, as we have!’

It was turning into a Scene and there was nothing in the world Ashford hated more.

‘Remain here,’ Ashford told Miss Hanworth. ‘If you would prefer,’ he added, hearing the peremptoriness of his own voice.

‘Very well,’ Miss Hanworth agreed. Then, turning limpid eyes upon him, she asked: ‘Will you – will you remain here, with me?’

Ashford hesitated. It was such a fine day …

Surely, if anyone should stay, it should be Mr Hanworth?

But Mr Hanworth was seated upon his own horse, regarding his notebook with absolutely no ounce of concern for his sister’s plight.

Ashford repressed a rush of indignation.

Recollect, he urged himself, spending time together was an integral part of courtship.

‘Of course,’ Ashford said, ungritting his teeth with some effort. ‘Of course I shall. Phoebe, Miss Hanworth is not feeling well, so she and I will remain here.’

‘Oh,’ Lady Phoebe said, audibly disappointed. ‘Oh, of course – perhaps you might ask Reeves to give you a tour of the house?’

Next to Lady Phoebe, Lady Hesse looked from Miss Hanworth to Ashford and back again with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘if you are to stay, Ashford, then will you take Cynthia with you, too? You did say you were feeling fatigued, didn’t you, darling?’

‘Yes,’ Miss Hesse said agreeably. She slid off her horse, the very picture of good health as she sent a sunny smile Ashford’s way.

‘You know I think I am feeling peaky, too!’ Mr Brandon said, throwing the reins of his own horse back to his groom.

‘Truly, Brandon?’ Lady Phoebe bemoaned, looking round at her riding party, halved in size in the work of two minutes.

‘Afraid so – my throat, you know,’ Brandon said. ‘Miss Hesse, may I offer my arm? The ground is a little slippery.’

Ashford suppressed a sigh as the horses filed past them, skittish and fresh in the morning light.

Then, taking in a deep breath, he turned back to Miss Hanworth.

She looked, for someone who had just ruined his morning, remarkably cheerful, and he added ‘obliviousness’ to his mental list of her flaws.

It was growing rather long now. Miss Callow’s overuse of French phrases seemed practically charming, in hindsight.

‘Shall we go inside?’ he said, offering his arm to her and forcing his rising temper down into his boots.

There was no point in succumbing to anger or frustration.

What was done could not be undone, and the only thing left was to make the best of it.

He had eight days before he had to introduce Miss Hanworth to his father.

Whether her strange new turn of behaviour was the result of agonies of nervousness or poor advice from her family, it did not matter.

She could conduct herself well, for he had seen her do so with his own eyes. She would do so again.

He would not be felled by this. He refused.