A clatter of wheels, a neigh of horses, joyous laughter and–
“What in heaven’s name…” squawked Aunt Mildred, thrusting out a finger, “is that!”
“Egad,” ventured Jeremy. “What a prime pair of steppers.”
A mid-perch phaeton of the latest mode had halted just outside the Cumberland Gatehouse.
The coach body was painted a light green whilst the mahogany woodwork and four wheels gleamed in the sunlight. Two thoroughbred bay horses were harnessed and Jeremy was correct – a prime pair of steppers.
Sitting atop were two ladies. One was Miss Nash. And holding the reins was Miss Verity Seymour, her expression jaunty, as though she knew full well the fuss she was causing but didn’t care one jot. An exquisite gold-brocaded pelisse clung to her form and she wore a diminutive hat with a white plume.
As a lass, she’d been the same. Spirited and so full of life that she’d drawn Miles’ young eye like a heliotrope flower relentlessly seeking the sun’s warmth.
Naturally, he was now quite above such foolishness. And yet, most inconveniently, his lust was less noble.
In nature, the life and vigour that flowed through each flower and plant awed him, but to find such traits within a woman stirred him evermore, and at this moment, he felt the full force of it.
Of her.
The manner in which her supple frame leaned forward.
The way she flicked the reins, lips curving.
The recollection of how those lips had tasted.
Sweet nectar.
Yet when she’d scorned his affection, those same lips had thinned to a sabre’s edge, overflowing with bitter words and vinegar disdain.
He drew a steadying breath and hoped he was not about to make a terrible mistake. “In answer to your question, those ladies are whom we are escorting, Aunt Mildred.”
“Alasdair Firth!” she shrieked, addressing her younger son for the first time. “Is that not the Scandalous Scarlet Spinsters I’ve read of?Don’t you even think it!”
Dair raised a brow, straightened his cravat and then rested a hand on the barouche. “Along with Stonewold, I shall indeed be escorting those ladies to the fair. For you’ll never again tell me what to do, Mother. Good day, Jeremy.” A curt nod to his brother before he withdrew his hand, turned on his heel and strode off.
“Well, I never!” Aunt Mildred narrowed her eyes as her younger son greeted the Misses Nash and Seymour and admired their steeds. “Stonewold, for the journey, you will sit here with us.”
“I have my horse, Aunt Mildred.”
“Peasant travel,” she muttered. “Your brother would never have treated me thus. The indignity of it. I now see the venerableStonewold earldom, a title bestowed by Henry the Fifth no less, has been sullied by your claim to the title.”
“Not a claim, Aunt Mildred. Succession.” Miles bowed, lips tight. “And by the by, I hear you seek an increase to your stipend?”
Her face bloomed red. “My smelling salt. Now! I feel faint.”
With a mutter, Jeremy rooted around in a bag upon the floor and so with another bow, Miles enacted a rapid retreat.
Then slowed his step as he neared Miss Seymour’s phaeton. The bay horses fidgeted but with a twitch of rein and a gentle word from her, they quietened.
“Ladies.” He doffed his hat. “A fine pair of mares, you have.”
Miss Seymour had shifted a little uneasily upon his approach but now offered a tentative smile. “Thank you, my lord. I adore them.”
The lad who held the reins nodded sagely. “Deep through the girth, heads like duchess’ but arses like dox–”
“Thank you, Daniel,” she cut in. “Are we all assembled then?”
“I believe so. And if you and Miss Nash are agreeable, we will ride alongside you as escort.”
