Secrets in the Regency Ballroom: The Wayward Governess / His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford
Читать онлайн книгу.
where several horses were grazing. It was clear at a glance that they were hunters, huge, powerful beasts all sixteen hands or more at the shoulder. Unperturbed by its size, Lucy was feeding one of them through the fence with handfuls of grass. It was clear that the child knew to hold her hand out flat and that she had no fear of the great teeth or the long tongue that whisked the grass away. As the horse munched she stroked its nose gently.
‘You like the horses, don’t you?’ said Claire then.
Lucy nodded.
‘Shall we find the head groom and ask if we can have a look around the stables?’
Lucy turned round, her expression animated. ‘Oh, yes, please, Miss Davenport.’
And so they spent a delightful hour walking along the row of stalls and loose boxes and admiring the beautiful animals they encountered there. It was immediately clear to Claire that the Viscount and his late brother had a good eye for horseflesh. The head groom was Mr Trubshaw, a stocky, grey-haired individual with a weathered face and a thick Yorkshire accent, and he possessed a fund of knowledge about his charges. He told Lucy the name of each horse and a little of its history. She listened avidly, committing all the details to memory, and asked questions in her turn. Seeing her interest was genuine, he warmed to her very quickly and soon the two were chatting like old friends. Claire watched thoughtfully. Trubshaw had accomplished more in an hour with the child than Marcus had managed in weeks. Lucy was in seventh heaven here and that knowledge gave her an idea.
Later that evening, when Lucy was in bed, Claire inquired of Mather where His Lordship was to be found. The butler directed her to the small salon. It was the same room he had interviewed her in before, when they had spoken about books and teaching equipment.
Marcus was seated in a chair by the fire, but he rose as she entered. Claire caught her breath. He was dressed in cream-coloured breeches and a coat of claret velvet over immaculate linen. A single fob hung from his waistcoat. His hands were innocent of adornment save for one gold signet ring. It was a simple costume, but she thought it would have been hard to find one more elegant or better suited to such a powerful physique.
‘Good evening, Miss Davenport.’
She replied to the greeting and took the offered chair.
‘How may I help you?’
‘I wish to speak to you about Lucy.’
The dark brows twitched together. ‘Is something wrong? Is she ill? Has she been misbehaving?’
‘No, nothing like that. I wanted to ask if there is a pony in your stables that she might ride.’
‘A pony?’
‘Yes, the horses are all too big, you see.’
Undeceived by the innocent tone, he threw her an eloquent look. ‘Is the child keen to ride?’
‘Yes. I believe she has a real affinity with horses.’
She told him about the visit to the stables. He heard her in silence, thinking carefully as he did so. It was not an outlandish request. Horsemanship was one of the accomplishments expected of a young lady of Lucy’s station, and it was healthy exercise besides.
‘There is nothing in the stable that is suitable at present,’ he replied, ‘but I am sure that a pony could be found.’
‘I know that Lucy would be delighted.’
‘I’ll speak to Trubshaw in the morning. He knows every horse within a twenty-mile radius of Netherclough.’
‘He is most knowledgeable,’ she replied.
‘Yes, he is. It was he who taught me and Greville to ride. He’ll be an ideal teacher for Lucy, too.’
‘I have no doubt he will.’ Claire took a deep breath. ‘However, I was hoping that perhaps you might go out with her sometimes, sir.’
The grey gaze came to rest on her face while his own assumed an expression of hauteur. Feeling her cheeks grow warmer, Claire hurried on before her courage failed her.
‘I know you have been very busy since your return, but this would provide a good opportunity for you to spend some time with the child.’
‘What are you implying, Miss Davenport?’
‘Nothing. It’s just…’
‘Just what?’
‘It’s just that I thought it might bring you together more.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘I do not mean to criticise,’ she said, ‘but it is true that you have seen very little of the child so far and, well, she notices, sir.’
The grey eyes grew as cool as his tone. ‘You think I neglect her?’
‘No, of course not. Well, not deliberately anyway.’
‘So you do think so.’
She swallowed hard. ‘The only reason I said anything is because Lucy asked me if you liked her.’
‘And what did you say, may I ask?’
‘That I was sure you did.’
‘How very reassuring to have your support,’ he replied. ‘However, it is not your place to discuss me with my niece.’
‘She asked the question, sir, and I answered it. I intended no disrespect in doing so.’
For a moment he was silent. Almost she could feel the anger radiating off him and her heart sank. She had spoken too frankly and antagonised him. Perhaps now she had made the situation worse.
‘If I have caused offence, I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘As well you should. In future you will confine yourself to your duties, Miss Davenport, instead of interfering in matters that do not concern you.’ He got to his feet. ‘That will be all.’
Uncomfortably aware of having made a false step, she rose from her chair and dropped a curtsy before beating a retreat, aware as she did so of the fierce hawk-like gaze that followed her every step of the way. Only when she was safely in the hall did she let out the breath she had been holding. Her cheeks burned. How angry he had been. Yet in spite of that she could not regret having said it, even if he did ignore the words.
After she left him Marcus poured himself a glass of brandy and took a deep swig. Claire’s assessment had been quite correct: he was angry. Angry with her for presuming to tell him his duty and angry with himself because he knew the words were merited. It was true he had been very busy since his return; Greville’s death had left a vacuum and there were numerous matters requiring his attention. However, he realised now that in part they had been an excuse for avoiding his young niece. Having spent the last ten years soldiering, he was unused to children and unfamiliar with their needs. The journey from Essex had been more difficult than he had anticipated, for the child was withdrawn and shy of him. Though he spoke to her with the utmost gentleness he had hardly been able to get half a dozen words out of her. He had tried telling her stories about the animals in India that he thought she might enjoy but, though she heard him quietly, she had offered no response. Moreover, she ate very little and slept badly. Clearly the disruption of recent months was taking its toll on her. More than once he had been overwhelmed with a sense of inadequacy.
Claire had known what to say, he recalled. From the first she had instinctively known how to get past the barrier that Lucy had been protecting herself with. He sighed. He had spoken more harshly than he should have done, but her words had touched a nerve. At the same time, he acknowledged, she was offering him an opportunity. Could it work?
After the unfortunate interview in the salon, Claire had seen Marcus only twice in the following week, and that was when he had come to the schoolroom. As usual he had stayed only a short time, just long enough to see what his niece was doing and to ask about her progress. When he had spoken to the child it was always in a tone of quiet encouragement, but this had never elicited