Page 4 of Wit, Wiles and Courtship

“Shall we gallop?” Joanna proposed, and at Camilla’s nod, surged forward.

The horses were given their head, and although Camilla had not ridden much of late, she was not inexperienced. One thing their father had not neglected in their education was riding and handling the reins. They charged forward at an exhilarating pace along a dusty path and Joanna, who rode every day, cut through a large opening in the hedges on her left then sped across a field toward the wooded area in the distance. As they traveled over the open space, a movement to Camilla’s left caught her eye, and she turned to it just as Joanna began to rein in. They eventually slowed to a trot and converged with the party of four riders, who revealed themselves to be Miles, Felix, Pembroke, and Evo.

“You couldn’t convince Tilly or Sophia to come, I suppose,” Felix said as they exchanged greetings, then held up his hand. “Never mind. I should know best since I left Sophia sleeping. Not for them a gallop across the countryside before breakfast.”

“Too poor spirited,” Evo said.

“I was not implying it,” Felix protested. “Simply commenting on their preferences.”

“They are not poor spirited,” Camilla said in their defense, adding with a smile, “They simply have better sense.”

Joanna shot her a look. “Do not tell me you are not enjoying this, for I shall not believe you.”

“I am enjoying it,” Camilla promised, resisting the urge to steal a look at Lord Pembroke as the two parties continued together.

“Where are you headed?” Miles asked Joanna. “To the glade, I suppose?”

She nodded. “It is pretty, and the trees surrounding it keep even the unshaded area cool. I wanted to show it to Camilla. Besides, there is that large pond where the horses might drink.”

“We are going there ourselves. Rock and Felix haven’t seen it yet.” Miles occasionally slipped into calling his cousin by his old nickname from when he was merely the Viscount Throckmorton and not yet the earl. Pembroke did not seem to notice.

They rode ahead, Joanna naturally keeping pace with the gentlemen and her brother, and Camilla falling comfortably behind. Pembroke also fell back to ride alongside her, prompting her to sit up straighter. It was imperative that he see her at her best; otherwise, she had no chance of winning his heart.

“I had not thought you such an early riser,” he said, his voice teasing.

“Oh? And why is that?” She could not think of a flattering reason why he would say such a thing, even when teasing. Did he imagine her a slug-a-bed? It was the absolute truth, but she would not like for that to be the image he held of her.

“I expect you spend your early waking hours in deep contemplation of how you might deliver the perfect witticism. A word aptly spoken and all…”

Camilla laughed, pleased, and finished the proverb. “Like apples of gold in settings of silver.” This opinion of her didn’t seem so very poor. At least he thought her witty. But she must not make it too easy by letting the compliment stand. “I do not need to contemplate my retorts. They spring forth on their own without any effort on my part.” This was not entirely true, but he did not need to know that.

He laughed. “Of course they do. How ignorant of me to have suggested otherwise.”

A short silence fell, and she wondered if she should break it and set them both at ease, or cloak herself in a mysterious aura where he had to work to keep her engaged. She was far from being mysterious, one of her great disappointments, but she thought she had grown at least a little in curbing her tendencies for outspokenness or awkward displays of enthusiasm.

He glanced at her. “You handle the reins well.”

“Thank you. My father made sure we were all taught.” He had drifted closer as they rode, and she wondered if he was conscious of it. “Not that Father would do it himself. He had our groom teach us.”

“Not overly involved, was he?”

“Not at all,” Camilla answered honestly. “His paternal responsibility began and ended with siring the six of us. He left us to our own devices to sort out the rest.” When the words were out, she wanted to knock herself on the head. Perhaps she should spend time thinking of witticisms. Otherwise, she would keep uttering such wholly inappropriate statements as the begetting of children.

If Pembroke was shocked, he did not show it. “I did not know my father long enough to say this with any kind of certainty, but I suspect he was not dissimilar to the late Lord Poole. Fortunately, my grandfather seemed to dote on me. He claimed to do so to make me aware of my consequence, but there was true affection behind it.”

She dropped her gaze to her hands holding the reins, a smile lurking. “He must have seen the need. Even now, your confusion over what is your due seems to have entirely stolen your confidence.”

His only sign of laughter was in the quirk of his lips. “You find that hard to believe, but I assure you it is true. I tremble at social engagements.”

“You tremble for fear that a single woman will set her sights on you,” she retorted, her eyes directed forward. It felt good to say what she thought in the guise of a jest. She could speak honestly but pull back and dissemble if it went too far.

“I tremble about a great many things, but not about that,” he replied smugly. “I am not so easily hooked.”

“Hm.” She closed her lips, the good feeling evaporating. He viewed engagement and marriage as getting hooked, with the result akin to a trout flopping about on land. What did he think? That single ladies were waiting in line with fishing rods?

“I don’t like that sound you made—or that look on your face. What is behind that “hm” and those puckered lips?”

Ahead of them, the opening in the woods appeared, and it was not too soon to find shelter. The sun had already begun to beat down, and they still had the ride back to endure. Riding with Pembroke was not as pleasurable as she had found it at first—not when her heart raced, ached, soared, or froze by turns. But he would not be put off from hearing her answer.