Page 44 of The Cornish Mermaid

“Ysella, are you in there?”

Still nothing.

“Ysella, I’m coming in. I hope you’re decent.”

Still nothing. Be it on her own head. He turned the handle and pushed the door open, holding himself ready to beat a hasty retreat.

Ysella was lying face down on her bed, still in her boy’s clothes, her feet, in a pair of his own scuffed old buckle shoes, hanging off the end. She didn’t look at him.

He closed the door, walked with as much determination as he could over to the bed and sat down on the far-too pink upholstered chair beside it.

She still didn’t look at him.

“Ysella,” he tried, intending to begin with admonition, but his determination was rapidly failing and the humor of the situation was replacing it. A chuckle escaped him.

Her head whipped round. Her red and swollen eyes told him she’d been crying.

He shook his head in exasperation. What was there about his youngest sister that she could always swing him around to her way of thinking without so much as a lift of her finger, and his best attempts at discipline always went awry? It boded ill for any husband she managed to snare—she’d run rings around the poor sap.

“You do know that it is most unbecoming for a young lady to be seen by anyone whilst wearing breeches?” he tried, but couldn’t keep a straight face. Her woebegone expression was far too comical.

She pushed herself upright and a matching chuckle escaped her. “But it was such fun, Kitto. And it’s so much nicer to ride astride than on a silly sidesaddle in a habit with flappy skirts. So much more natural. I can quite see why you men so selfishly have kept it to yourselves all this time. Afraid we women would show you up if we got to ride the same way as you. We’re bound to be better at it than you.”

Kit sighed. Her argument had reason behind it. He wouldn’t like to have to ride on a sidesaddle in a dress, so he could see why she didn’t want to. But there was no getting around the fact that social etiquette insisted a girl should ride in a manner befitting a young lady, and riding astride did not fit that category. “I do understand,” he said, all his anger floating away. “And I do commiserate with you and Morvoren and wish that it were different. But unfortunately, it’s not, and you should ride the way all other young ladies ride or risk the approbation of society.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her good humor didn’t leave her. “But what if we were to ride like this only in the early mornings, when no one else is about? Could we? Please?”

He pressed his lips together, fighting the appeal in her wide brown eyes. Drat the girl. “Well,” he said, regretting the words as they left his lips. “Well, perhaps just once a week. And at the crack of dawn. And not the two of you alone. You’ll have to ride with me so I can make certain you’re safe.”

Or was this just an excuse to ride out with Morvoren, who’d looked so becoming in his blue breeches and that cream shirt?

Ysella launched herself off the bed and into his arms before he had time to dwell on that thought. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Kitto! You are the best of brothers. And perhaps Morvoren can teach you the forward seat over our jumps.” She frowned. “And now that jumping is so much easier, can you not send the gardeners out to build some more for me? All over the estate? I so love jumping, as you know, and it’s even better while astride.”

Trying to disentangle himself from her limpet-like hold, Kit opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a tentative knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Ysella cried, all trace of pique gone.

Morvoren came in, still strangely alluring in her breeches and shirt, and reminding Kit disturbingly of when he’d fished her from the sea in a state of semi-undress. He shifted uncomfortably at the memory, aware of heat rising up his neck to his cheeks. Why did her presence so often do this to him? Not even when he’d been a boy at Eton, testing out the fleshpots of Windsor, had he felt so absurdly aware of a woman. Most discomfiting.

Her cornflower blue eyes went from Ysella’s happy face to his and she hesitated a moment, hand on the still open door, clearly unsure of herself.

“Do not vex yourself. It’s all turned out perfectly,” Ysella exclaimed, separating herself from Kit. “We are to ride out once a week in Kit’s company—in breeches! And you are to teach him the forward seat and the gardeners will build us some more jumps. What could be better?”

“Young ladies who know their place and wear dresses,” Kit said, lowering his eyes from Morvoren’s frankly curious gaze. Was she wondering at how easily Ysella had got the better of him? He rose to his feet and brushed imaginary dust from his own trousers. “I think perhaps you girls had best get yourselves changed for breakfast before Mother gets wind of your escapades. You should also hope none of the servants let slip what they’ve seen.”

“Pft,” Ysella exclaimed, waving an airy hand at him. “I’ve worn your old clothes many times before and they’ve not told Mama. They won’t tell her this time.”

“They might if they find out you’ve been riding in them,” Kit said. “Servants have a stronger sense of propriety than their betters. I’ll speak to them, I think, and give them warning to be silent. But only if you two promise to behave yourselves. If you don’t, Ysella, I shall renege upon my promise to let you go to the ball at Denby.”

Morvoren’s brows knit as she glanced at his sister, but she stayed silent. She seemed very good at holding her opinion in check.

“I promise,” Ysella gushed. “We both do, don’t we, Morvoren? So long as you don’t forget your own promise, Kitto.”

Morvoren nodded. “I promise as well.”

Was that laughter playing at the corners of her pretty mouth? Was she, heaven forbid, laughing at him for having been so easily gulled by his chit of a sister?

He turned toward the door. “One other thing, brother,” Ysella said. “You and I are going to have to teach Morvoren how to dance before Saturday night as she tells me she has never been to a ball and never learned to dance.”