Page 21 of The Lady is Trouble
“One of those for everything, I believe.” Hiding her trembling hands by clenching them in her skirt, she rose. Sought his gaze, which had turned from her to an inspection of the dour canvases at her back. Only a gossamer of yellow—caution—lit his aura, so he had not blocked himself off yet. Not completely. And his lips held a tilt she couldpossiblyconsider a smile.
With a mental handshake, she accepted the truce.
“Yours?” She gestured to the painting he perused, a father and son in ceremonial attire from a century prior.
“No,” he said with a low laugh. “But I’d rather house them than my own, so here they remain.” He cupped her elbow and led her into the hall. It was a veiled touch, familiar, relaxed. Yet it sent a whisper of cognizance through her as if he’d trailed his fingers along the nape of her neck.
She questioned them occupying the same space if he continued touching her.
“Would you like to ride?” he asked, breaking the charged silence.
Her step faltered. “Astride?”
“In that skirt?” He turned to walk backward, one step, then another. His hands rose in entreaty as he noted the stiffening of her shoulders. “Get a proper habit. Then we’ll talk. Put it on Minnie’s list.” Light snuck beneath his hat brim, revealing eyes the color of mist rising off a cobbled lane, and her heart gave a powerful squeeze. “I’m quite happy if you rip around Harbingdon like a hooligan—as long as a guard accompanies you. Unpretentiousness should be considered a benefit of country living. Though who would be surprised were you to play the hooligan in the middle of a London ballroom,” he added and turned to cross the terrace with a purposeful stride.
“I heard that,” she said and hurried to catch him as he took the steps two at a time.
Julian angled down a narrow footpath with a glance to ensure she followed. An enchanting blend of hardwoods dotted the trail: crack willow, Scots pine, field maple, wych elm. She stumbled over a root as she craned her head to see through the needled canopy. A governess once gave her a book on dendrology, the study of trees and shrubs. Knowledge contained mostly in her head, as she’d had no chance to explore, but she’d taken a liking to the subject.
The terrain was a lush, mossy-olive spill. A dense forest closing them in on all sides, as strong a defense as a moat.
Julian had planned well for his community of misfits.
The path ended abruptly at a building constructed of chalk-white brick, where a groom was leading two horses through a stable doorway streaked with sunbeams and shadow. His trouser leg caught on the rounded edge of the knife concealed in his boot as he handed Julian the reins to a gorgeous thoroughbred.
“Thank you, Murphy,” Julian said and swung a leg up, settling effortlessly in the saddle. The horse took note and began to sidestep, where he delivered a calming word and a stroke to her neck to reassure. Piper frowned as Minnie’s comment squeezed between the sharp smell of hay and the humid splay of sunshine:Men be men, miss.
Apparently, Julian was very good at soothing females.
His little dog sat by the stable door, his coat a perfect complement to the brick. Piper squatted, extending her hand with a whispered appeal.
“Henry,” Julian said from atop the black.
“Henry,” she called, deciding he looked quite like a Henry. Arrogant, a bit cunning. “Come.”
The dog tilted his head, thoughtful, then sauntered into the stable.
“Smart boy,” Julian said.
Turning her back on dog and man, she grasped the reins of the magnificent beast Murphy presented to her. The saddle had two pommels, thank goodness, which allowed freedom while still maintaining her blasted modesty. “Medieval torture,” she said with a sharp look at Julian, his muscular thighs gripping the horse’s flanks like he owned the world. She had learned to ride in America, where all was shocking and indecorous, she supposed, but where one learned to ridecorrectly.
With a leg thrown over each side of the horse.
The English method for women, in almost every aspect of life, chafed.
“M’lord,” Murphy whispered with a back-step toward Julian. “Stewart be spirited, and he can smell rain in the air. Be he perchance too much for the miss?”
Piper huffed a breath and indicated Murphy assist her up. Grasping the pommel and settling into the saddle, she crossed her right leg in front of her and shoved her left into the stirrup, which hung low. Frowning, she wiggled her boot, and Murphy rushed to adjust the strap, something she should have done before climbing atop her mount. Once again, temper caused carelessness. “I’ll have you know I’m as good a rider as he. Better even,” she added, though Julian’s burst of laughter crowded out the comment.
Murphy nodded when it was clear he fathomed little. He likely believed her crazed. Henry objected, after all.
Julian didn’t look too sure, either.
“Thank you,” she said when Murphy presented her with a pair of butter-smooth leather gloves. She turned to find Julian tugging on his own, rich black, matching his horse and his pressed breeches perfectly. She suspected he concealed a smile beneath the brim of his hat.
She felt her temper stir.Bloody happy I amuse.
“Lunch be in the saddlebag, sir. As requested.”