Page 36 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Monday – Three days remaining

When Ashford stepped into his riding breeches, he suspected something to be amiss. When his valet helped him on with his jacket, he knew something was very wrong.

‘Dear God,’ he said, looking down upon himself, ‘have I grown? Can that happen?’

Walter stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘I – I do not know …’

Ashford cast a glance into the looking glass. He looked as though he had just climbed into the clothes of a schoolboy.

‘Is this a new fashion?’ he said. ‘I wish you might have consulted me, Walter – it is not very flattering.’

‘It is not my work,’ Walter said indignantly. ‘I should never do such a thing.’ He pulled back the sleeves to examine the cuffs. ‘This is not my stitching!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone has altered it,’ Walter said, perplexed. ‘But I cannot think who—’

‘I can,’ Ashford said, rather grimly.

How on earth had she done it? He had barely let her out of his sights the past day but this was most certainly the work of Miss Hanworth.

‘It has been done to all of them,’ Walter said, rifling through Ashford’s wardrobe. ‘All your riding wear.’

Of course it had. Miss Hanworth did not do things by halves, did she? It would be admirable if it were not so very vexing.

‘Can you unalter them?’ Ashford asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

‘The stitching is so tight,’ Walter said, shaking his head. ‘It has been done by a clever hand – it will take me hours to unpick.’

Ashford took a swift look at the clock. They had all breakfasted in their rooms, that morning, so that they might begin their expedition to Chaffington promptly at nine. Since Ashford did not believe a gentleman should spend more than ten minutes dressing, it was now five minutes to the hour.

‘You might wear your morning breeches, though they are entirely the wrong colour,’ Walter said, shuddering a little at the thought. ‘But …’

The clock struck nine. Ashford groaned. He would pay her back for this – with interest!

‘It will have to do,’ he said grimly.

Fortunately, his top boots would cover most – if not all – of his calf. There was no helping the jacket.

‘Can you not say you are ill?’ Walter asked. ‘Your reputation – my reputation!’

Ashford shook his head. To do so would be to admit defeat, and he could not do that – besides, he had other reasons for not wishing to miss today’s ride.

He strode out of the house as best as he could with a sliver of shin exposed to the world.

Of course, it was noticed immediately. First by Miss Hanworth, who would have known to look for it – her eyes sprang to his, down to his clothes, and then back up to his face, utter delight writ large.

She herself was looking finer than he had seen her, dressed in an elegant habit of fine blue merino cloth and a tall-crowned hat set at a raffish angle, the peak almost obscuring the vision of one, very merry, eye.

Ashford returned her gaze with complete neutrality. This was only humiliating if he allowed it to be.

‘Coat coming up a little short, isn’t it, Ashford?’ Sir Waldo said loudly.

Ten further sets of eyes turned in his direction.

A week earlier and such a moment as this would have constituted something of a nightmare.

Ever since he had been in smallclothes, turning oneself out in neat and acceptable dress had been a stalwart of gentlemanly behaviour, and yet here he was, facing down the ton ’s finest with barely more than a prickle of embarrassment running down his spine.

Miss Hanworth was a victim of her own success.

After the humiliations she had already visited upon him, what was a short pair of trousers to signify?

‘It’s the all the rage in France,’ he said blandly.

‘A fashion for ill-fitting jackets and mismatched breeches?’ Hesse sniffed. ‘ I have not heard of it.’

‘Given the state of your shirt points,’ Ashford said. ‘That does not particularly surprise me.’

‘Let us ready ourselves,’ Lady Phoebe said, clapping her hands. She appeared to have recovered some of her usual energy overnight and was dressed in a habit of pale green cloth resembling the uniform of a hussar, with golden epaulettes on the shoulder and braiding up each arm in matching thread.

Ashford was glad for it – the murmurings of guilt within him rose every time he saw her blink tiredness away from her eyes, for he and Miss Hanworth must be adding so much stress to her week. The guilt was not enough to cause him to cease, however.

It could not equal the rush of exhilaration he felt, besting Miss Hanworth.

The sound of hooves had him turning his head eagerly toward the lady in question. He wished to see her expression, when she realized what he had done.

‘Now, Miss Hanworth,’ Lady Phoebe said, in a voice pitched low so as not to embarrass her, ‘I was concerned we did not have a placid enough mount for you, but Ashford came up with the most marvellous solution!’

Miss Hanworth turned very slowly to regard Ashford. He had been looking forward to this precise moment since yesterday and made no effort to hide his glee. She narrowed her eyes.

‘Ah, here we are,’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘This is Bumper. As you can see, he is not in the least frightening.’

Miss Hanworth took Bumper in from top to bottom.

It did not take long. Amongst the hunters, gathered gleaming and tall and impressive in the yard, the shortest amongst them fifteen hands, Bumper was so remarkably short and stout that he could well be mistaken for a donkey.

She turned to regard Ashford again, pressing her lips together as if she did not know whether to scowl or smile, as if she did not know if she were more angry or impressed.

It was, he realized, an expression he had become rather addicted to, these past days.

‘I know he has a stubborn look about him,’ Ashford said, ‘but indeed, that is just his face. Shall I hand you up?’

Bumper was short enough that assistance seemed barely necessary, but Miss Hanworth could not easily refuse in front of so many witnesses, though her eyes – when he approached – promised retribution.

‘I cannot believe you,’ she muttered, as she placed her left foot in the palm of his hand.

‘I cannot believe you ,’ he said, boosting her upwards with such force she near toppled over poor Bumper’s low back, then standing back to observe the image they made. ‘So sorry, I did not realize how little height you required to mount.’

Girl and horse both stared him down – stared him out, indeed, for she was hardly much higher than he standing in his boots – as if daring him to laugh. Ashford pressed his lips together.

‘A fine steed!’ Prett called over to her, ‘a perfect pairing!’

As much as Ashford did not like the fellow, it was rather perfect timing and he turned quickly to his own horse to hide his laughter. He might be dressed as the village idiot, but she was riding a glorified donkey, so at least they were both dunces.

It became almost immediately clear that Bumper had neither the ability nor desire to keep up with the gleaming destriers that their companions were riding.

Try as Miss Hanworth might to chivvy him up, he would not be chivvied, and the riding party was forever having to wait for her to jostle up, red-faced.

‘Do you wish to turn back, Miss Hanworth?’ Sir Waldo called, a little irately. Though it was only morning, the day was warm with promise, and there was already a shine to his cheeks.

‘Waldo!’ Lady Phoebe muttered in reprimand.

‘What?’ he said crossly. ‘It is not my fault that—’

‘Perhaps you ought to be led,’ Ashford suggested, all faux sympathy. ‘Would that make you feel more comfortable?’

This proved to be an overstep.

‘Thank you so much, my lord,’ Miss Hanworth sang out sweetly, ‘that would be marvellous.’

‘I did not mean—’ Ashford began, for plodding along at Bumper’s speed was not exactly his idea of a good ride.

‘It is so kind,’ Miss Hanworth said. ‘That way, I need not trouble the rest of the group to wait for us.’

‘A famous idea,’ Sir Waldo said cheerfully.

‘Very kind of you, Ashford!’ Mr Brandon said, reaching over to clap him on the back as he passed.

Ashford ceded to his fate, accepting the reins when they were taken over Bumper’s head and held out to him without further complaint.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, once the rest of the party was out of earshot. ‘You have managed to ruin even riding.’

‘This is your design, not mine,’ Miss Hanworth said. ‘You should have thought ahead.’

‘I could lead you into a bog, you know,’ he threatened, brandishing Bumper’s reins at her.

Bumper, taking exception to his tone, drew to a stubborn halt and began yanking his head this way and that.

‘Give me back the reins,’ Miss Hanworth instructed him.

‘He’s a stubborn mule,’ he warned her, tossing them over.

‘He just dislikes you ,’ Lydia said. ‘That, in my view, makes him a very good judge of character.’

‘The enemy of mine enemy,’ Ashford said, smiling a little despite himself.

Released from Ashford’s hold, Bumper deigned to move on, and they jostled along in silence, at radically different heights but with identical grumpy scowls.

Ashford could not help it: he began to laugh.

Miss Hanworth turned to look at him.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘We must look as though we have escaped the circus,’ he said, gesturing between them. ‘A stranger pair of riders I am certain I have never seen.’

She began to grin, too – and it suited her even better than the scowl.

‘Where did you find him?’ she asked. ‘I can’t imagine Sir Waldo buying a horse named Bumper.’

‘He didn’t,’ Ashford said. ‘We had to borrow him from one of the farmers.’

‘I hope you went to a great deal of pain and effort,’ she said.

‘As much as you did,’ he said, ‘organizing my current wardrobe.’

Her smile widened to a grin. ‘I cannot believe you are wearing them.’

‘You did not leave me much choice,’ he said. ‘Though I warn you, if your hat ends up in a pond, again, you shall be retrieving it yourself – there is no world in which I will be removing my boots.’