Jack surveyed his riding attire in the tall oval-framed mirror, frowning at the mud-brown waistcoat and crow-black jacket Miggens had chosen whilst in his humps and grumps. The boots were likewise polished to the highest sheen but without the slightest adornment. He appreciated Miss Penrose appeared immune, but how did Miggens expect him to woo a female with his appearance so lacklustre?
A little sartorial elegance never went amiss. Rule nine.
Today, he’d harangued the daughter of the house into showing him the estate as conversation with Miss Penrose was nigh impossible within the manor: Professor Pilkinghorne constantly stumbled about, Mr Sewell lurked in corners, and Mrs Pencally’s all-seeing eye quite put a rogue off his stride.
It might also be a way to gain Miss Penrose’s trust, considering their first encounter had demonstrated her love of riding…at speed.
She’d acted coy at breakfast and had instead sought to extract from him the purported depth of local china clay veins – three hundred feet in case anyone had missed it.
With Sir Jago’s support, however, Miss Penrose’s reticence had been in vain.
As such, he was due to convene in the stables upon the hour of ten sharp with both ladies of the house – but it would help if the companion Miss Treherne was occupied.
“Come with us, Oliver. I can claim you are also my groom, and no one gainsays a marquess. Likewise, it might aid your ill-humour as there’s nothing like a hard ride to alleviate friskiness.”
Miggens bared his teeth. “I loathe horses, amnotfrisky, have five cravats to iron, have the rest ofChina Clay – The Geology, Geography and Industryto abridge on your behalf,have Helston to visit with your London post, have not yet breakfasted, and have no blasted ill-humour!”
“Miss Treherne will be there.” And with a satyr’s smile, Jack flicked a curl. “Naturally, I could entertain her myself. She has the most adorable dimples and a bevy of beauties holds no trepidation for one such as I.”
His valet’s brow furrowed in the mirror, green eyes mossed with annoyance.
The rogue’s rules weren’t so absurd now, were they? Rule one. A little jealousy never goes amiss.
∞∞∞
From atop her mare, Tamsyn scrutinised the azure sky. She inspected the polished saddle. She even eyed old Ruan, the stable master, who returned a wink and toothy grin.
She gawked at everything except Lord Winterbourne’s backside as he bent down to adjust his boot and then, without assistance, mounted his horse in one agile motion, his dark coat flicking like swallows’ tails.
Desire.
That was the feeling. And she’d thought desire had been ousted years back, leaving nothing but deadened scars. It was more than a little disconcerting to realise she was just like any other woman.
Desire for a heartless, handsome rogue.
To be fair to her baser instincts, he did appear exceedingly fine this morning. Even in subdued apparel, he carried an air of polished refinement yet striking sensuality.
“The hoss has been grizzling like a badger this morn, my lord. Bit overgone, ’tes,” warned Benjamin as he tightened the girth, and assuredly, Jowlik chomped at the bit with a wild roll to his eye.
Lord Winterbourne smoothed a hand over the gelding’s frolicsome cinnamon-coloured head. “No matter, my lad. Now, where’s Miggens? He’s coming along too.”
A loud screech accompanied hurried footfall and low curses until a panting figure in brown hurdled the low beech hedge that surrounded the stable yard, skidded on the gravel and came to an abrupt halt, eyes flicking in unease back to the inadequate leafy barrier.
Behind prowled Petrok the resident peacock, who bristled in full aggressive stance, metallic eye feathers all scowling with dislike. He pecked at the hedge in search of latent gaps, debating if his quarry would be worth the hassle of flight.
“Miggens,” called the marquess, “try feeding the blighter nuts. He seemed to quite like me.”
“Birds of a feather will flock together,” groused Tamsyn before she could halt her wicked tongue.
Why did she say these things? She hadn’t uttered such bold words for years, preferring to go unnoticed. Reserved. Colourless and unassuming.
Lord Winterbourne ought to have glared at the very least, but he laughed, damn it, a growl of utter delight.
“Doubtless it was the nuts,” he confided, leaning close to her saddle, lemon fragrance tantalising her nostrils, “or the threat of being plucked for a hat.” His lips curved and her own tugged in response.
But on no account did she allow a smile.
Odious rascal. She wanted him glib and false and he was undermining all her efforts to dislike him.
