jackets should be. It was no secret among those interested in such matters that Weston refused the duke his services, fearing the results would put off other clients.
Lord Horatio performed the introduction, then let nature take its course. He was more comfortable having a glass of sherry with Bea before the Rumford grate.
Gillie saw nothing amiss in the duke’s looks or manner, nor did she see anything intimidating in his title and numerous estates. “Your uncle tells me you have a fine stable at Ardmore Hall, Duke,” she said the moment he had performed his graceless bow and stumbled onto a chair.
“No,” he said. “Only a small stable at Ardmore Hall. A dozen stalls.”
“What’s in them?” she demanded.
“Percherons, mostly. Ardmore’s just a farm. Dandy cattle—cows, I mean. I don’t go to Ireland very often, except to a breeding farm I know of there. Evendon, in Suffolk, is where I keep my cattle.”
“Your horse cattle,” she said, not at all confused by this lack of specifying.
He nodded. “Two dozen stalls. A fine Arabian stud. I bred Firefly from him. Took the Oaks at Epsom last year, and the One Thousand Guineas at Newmarket as well. Might have taken the Derby, too, but I did not want to overwork her. Only two days apart. Mind you, she’ll run against the colts at Ascot this year. She ain’t afraid of going against the colts.”
Racing was an unknown field to Gillie. She interrupted his spasmodic utterances to say, “What do you ride yourself, Duke?”
“Prefer mares to geldings for hacking. I hunt a gelding, though. More power. My hands are too weak for a stallion. Broke my thumb riding one once.” He held up a crooked thumb for inspection. “Uncle tells me you ride a pony.”
Gillie bristled at this slur on her mount. “Penny is not a pony! She is part thoroughbred, even if she is only thirteen hands high.”
He gave a derisive snort. “Welsh or Shetland?” he asked, undeceived.
She ignored his jibe. “My brother, Lord Southam, rides an Arabian mare,” she announced grandly.
The duke nodded. “Black Lady. Papa sold her to him.”
“You bred Black Lady at Evendon?”
“Black Knight,” he said cryptically. “The Arab stallion I was telling you about. Sire. Dame was Gray Lady.”
“You didn’t tell me anything about your stallion, except that you own him. What line is he from?”
“Godolphin Barb.”
“Rawl thought he was from the Byerly Turk.”
A glimmer of interest flashed in the duke’s eyes. It wasn’t often that he met a lady with whom he could have a conversation of more than two or three syllables. It was nice to finally meet one who spoke equine English. “You drive?” he asked.
“I’m learning. Your uncle is giving me lessons.”
“A shocking bad fiddler. Cow-handed. Holds the reins too tight. Ruined more mouths than I care to think of, and don’t treat the wounds properly, either. Bran.”
Gillie nodded at this wisdom. “Mashed. Or at least cooked oats, till the mouth is healed. Where can you get good clean hay here in Bath? There were hawthorn twigs in Penny’s hay today.”
“Can’t. Not in the city. I order mine from old Jed Hanks, just north of Guinea Lane. I’ll send a load to your stable if you like.”
This was condescension of a high order and appreciated as such. “Yes, I would, thank you.”
“So, when would you like a driving lesson?”
“We ride in the morning—usually out the Old Roman Road. I should like to try some more challenging routes, but my Aunt Bea is old, you know.”
The duke looked across the room to the fetching widow and found nothing foolish in this statement. “A bit past it. We’ll ride north.”
“Drive, you mean.”
“I meant ride, in the morning. Will your aunt let you out with me, or are you too young?”
“I’m not young!”
“I’m twenty-seven. Don’t look it, they say, but I am. How old are you?”
“Nearly eighteen—in nine months. But I cannot like to abandon my aunt. She
Lord Horatio performed the introduction, then let nature take its course. He was more comfortable having a glass of sherry with Bea before the Rumford grate.
Gillie saw nothing amiss in the duke’s looks or manner, nor did she see anything intimidating in his title and numerous estates. “Your uncle tells me you have a fine stable at Ardmore Hall, Duke,” she said the moment he had performed his graceless bow and stumbled onto a chair.
“No,” he said. “Only a small stable at Ardmore Hall. A dozen stalls.”
“What’s in them?” she demanded.
“Percherons, mostly. Ardmore’s just a farm. Dandy cattle—cows, I mean. I don’t go to Ireland very often, except to a breeding farm I know of there. Evendon, in Suffolk, is where I keep my cattle.”
“Your horse cattle,” she said, not at all confused by this lack of specifying.
He nodded. “Two dozen stalls. A fine Arabian stud. I bred Firefly from him. Took the Oaks at Epsom last year, and the One Thousand Guineas at Newmarket as well. Might have taken the Derby, too, but I did not want to overwork her. Only two days apart. Mind you, she’ll run against the colts at Ascot this year. She ain’t afraid of going against the colts.”
Racing was an unknown field to Gillie. She interrupted his spasmodic utterances to say, “What do you ride yourself, Duke?”
“Prefer mares to geldings for hacking. I hunt a gelding, though. More power. My hands are too weak for a stallion. Broke my thumb riding one once.” He held up a crooked thumb for inspection. “Uncle tells me you ride a pony.”
Gillie bristled at this slur on her mount. “Penny is not a pony! She is part thoroughbred, even if she is only thirteen hands high.”
He gave a derisive snort. “Welsh or Shetland?” he asked, undeceived.
She ignored his jibe. “My brother, Lord Southam, rides an Arabian mare,” she announced grandly.
The duke nodded. “Black Lady. Papa sold her to him.”
“You bred Black Lady at Evendon?”
“Black Knight,” he said cryptically. “The Arab stallion I was telling you about. Sire. Dame was Gray Lady.”
“You didn’t tell me anything about your stallion, except that you own him. What line is he from?”
“Godolphin Barb.”
“Rawl thought he was from the Byerly Turk.”
A glimmer of interest flashed in the duke’s eyes. It wasn’t often that he met a lady with whom he could have a conversation of more than two or three syllables. It was nice to finally meet one who spoke equine English. “You drive?” he asked.
“I’m learning. Your uncle is giving me lessons.”
“A shocking bad fiddler. Cow-handed. Holds the reins too tight. Ruined more mouths than I care to think of, and don’t treat the wounds properly, either. Bran.”
Gillie nodded at this wisdom. “Mashed. Or at least cooked oats, till the mouth is healed. Where can you get good clean hay here in Bath? There were hawthorn twigs in Penny’s hay today.”
“Can’t. Not in the city. I order mine from old Jed Hanks, just north of Guinea Lane. I’ll send a load to your stable if you like.”
This was condescension of a high order and appreciated as such. “Yes, I would, thank you.”
“So, when would you like a driving lesson?”
“We ride in the morning—usually out the Old Roman Road. I should like to try some more challenging routes, but my Aunt Bea is old, you know.”
The duke looked across the room to the fetching widow and found nothing foolish in this statement. “A bit past it. We’ll ride north.”
“Drive, you mean.”
“I meant ride, in the morning. Will your aunt let you out with me, or are you too young?”
“I’m not young!”
“I’m twenty-seven. Don’t look it, they say, but I am. How old are you?”
“Nearly eighteen—in nine months. But I cannot like to abandon my aunt. She
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