Lady Drusilla's Road to Ruin. Christine Merrill
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shook his head. He was dreaming again. If he was fortunate, at the end of the journey he would find a Scottish widow sympathetic to his plight, and he would regain his equilibrium.
As he led the horses back to Lady Dru, he put on his most proper and deferential air, getting clear in his own mind the distance between them and the relationship they must have: respectful courtesy on his part and complete indifference on hers.
She looked dubiously at the horses, which were probably not the fine bloods to which she was accustomed.
‘You have experience enough to ride, do you not?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered, although her tone did not make her sound the least bit sure. ‘But I did not pack a habit.’
He almost sighed in relief to hear the sort of clothes-obsessed response he’d expected from a smart young lady of the ton, foolish and easily dismissed. ‘There is no place to change into it, even if you had it.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘In any case, there will not be room enough to take much luggage. You will have to make do with a single bag; the rest will travel north to meet you when you reach your destination.’
‘I do not have more than that now,’ she said, glaring at him again. ‘I left in rather a hurry and am not such a great ninny that I wasted what time I had in packing band boxes.’
Damn. ‘Of course, my lady.’
Then she whispered more urgently, ‘But, Mr Hendricks, there is a problem. This saddle is … wrong.’
‘You are referring to the lack of a side saddle?’ he asked. ‘Coach horses are not generally equipped for a lady’s Sunday ride. These are accustomed to having a postillion, so at least we will not have to worry about being thrown into the dirt. But I cannot promise more than that.’
Such an enormous beast would frighten a normal woman to tears, but his employer was staring at the horse with a raised chin and a dark look. Then she stared back at the saddle with apprehension. ‘But what am I to do?’
There, at last, he saw the frightened girl under the iron façade. Perhaps this trip was not as easy as she made it out to be. He tried to hide his smile at the well-bred delicacy that thought spreading her legs was more risky than breaking her neck on a coach horse. ‘You must weigh your desire for further rapid progress against the need to retain your modesty in the wilds of the country, where no one will see you.’ He hoped she would take the more sensible choice, but knew that she would not.
‘I cannot ride astride,’ she said, finally, ‘but I must continue north.’
‘Then you can balance on your hip as best you can with no pommel to hold on to. Or we can use one horse for the luggage and you may ride with me.’ It would be faster than walking the horses so that she did not slip from the saddle, but it would mean that he would have to hold her close as they travelled, which would be awkward in ways she could not possibly imagine.
She stared back at him, brow smooth, eyes cool, chin raised and lips narrowed. ‘It cannot be helped, I suppose.’ The expression put him firmly in his place, assuring him that the ride would not be a pleasant one for either of them.
And yet … He thought for a moment that he saw a fluttering in the pulse of her neck and a nervous swallow. And the faintest of pink flushes to her cheek. Then it was gone.
He cursed his wayward imagination and mounted the larger of the two horses, then offered her a hand up. To assure her, he said, ‘Let us go a short way and see how we manage. You need have no concern for your safety, for I am an excellent horseman.’
‘I know you will not let me fall,’ she said. Her confidence in his abilities would have pleased him had it not been delivered in a testy voice, as though she’d just as soon be dropped upon her head than share his saddle. But she sat before him comfortably enough, posture good, and an arm about his waist with a grip that was firm and not the least bit missish.
It took only a few miles for him to begin wishing she’d taken the other choice. It was nice to ride with her—far too nice. She fit easily into the space before him, her soft hip pressed into his thigh as though it belonged there. As he spurred the horse, wisps of her fine black hair escaped from her bonnet and whipped in the breeze, teasing the skin of his cheeks. It was a tickling sweetness, bringing with it a whiff of cologne that made him want to lean forwards and bury his face in the side of her throat. He had to work to stifle the urge to loosen the bonnet and free the rest of it to let it stream in the wind.
He wished he was in a position to make conversation with her, for it might have helped to pass the time and occupy his mind in anything other than the scent of her hair.
‘Who are you?’ The words came from her suddenly, with no preamble. And then she stopped herself, probably shocked at sounding ridiculous, nonsensical and, worst of all, rude.
But she was unaware of what a blessed relief it was to him.
‘I am John Hendricks, as I have already told you. I worked for the Earl of Folbroke as a personal secretary.’
She relaxed a little as though she’d been bracing for some sort of harsh retort. It made him wonder at the sort of conversation she was accustomed to, if a simple question was not met with a polite answer.
‘But I think that is not what you are asking me,’ he said. ‘I would be happy to answer you in detail, if you would clarify your meaning.’
‘How did you come to be who you are? Who are your people? Where did you come from?’ And again he felt her tense, as though she were expecting ridicule. It made him want to reach out and offer physical comfort of some kind—a touch on the shoulder, a word in her ear urging her to relax in his company. Or, worse yet, to ask similar questions of her. He must remember that conversation between them, given his position and hers, was a one-sided affair at best. A desire to know his personal history did not demonstrate a desire to share hers.
He answered carefully, giving just the information required. ‘I was born in London, though I spent very little time there. My mother died when I was quite young; there is not much I can tell you of her, other than that she was beautiful. But that is what all children say of their mothers and so it hardly signifies.’
And that had been enough to loosen her tongue and relax her rigid posture. ‘I suppose you are right, Mr Hendricks. I would say the same of my departed mother. Beautiful and happy.’
‘Mine was sad.’ He reflected for a moment, surprised that her questions had raised a fresh feeling of loss for something that had happened so long ago. ‘I was sent away to school when she died. To Eton and then to Cambridge. There was never any question of how it would be paid for. But around the time of the death of Duke of Summersly, I received a nice settlement. I think that tells us both all we need to know about the identity of my father.’
‘A bastard son of a duke?’ Again she had blurted the words in a way that was the height of bad manners. He could almost hear her mouth snap shut.
‘Of him, or some member of that family. While he did not acknowledge me in life, I cannot really complain about the way I was treated.’ At least, he had no right to. ‘I was a natural student and quite happy at all the schools I attended. I cannot say the same of my fellows. I took great pleasure in besting them when I could, at lessons or at games. It proved …’ and then he remembered his audience and shut his own mouth.
‘That it is not always one’s parentage that proves one’s abilities,’ she finished for him, unbothered by the idea. Of course, she had no reason to feel threatened by it. She was a symbol of the rank he’d been denied; nothing he could say would change her status in society. ‘And when you were finished with your education?’ she prompted.
‘I used the money I was given to buy a commission and did quite handsomely for myself as a soldier. I was aide-de-camp to the Earl of Folbroke. We were friends as well as comrades. When he returned home, I followed and took a position in his household.’
‘And you might have been equals …’