Page 22

“Very well then.” Cassie gritted her teeth and put her arms around his neck. His cologne was as flashy as his waistcoat.

He closed his hands around her waist with a strong grip and straightened. Cassie felt herself lifted through the air and set on the lower step of the stile. She grimaced at the twinge in her foot from the pull against the mud.

“What?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. He was a few inches taller than Cassie, and face-to-face, he regarded her with a frank male interest she had forgotten existed.

“Tell me, Bluebell,” he said, “are you off to an assignation with your best beau?”

“You, sir, are impertinent.”

He cocked one black brow.

“If you must know, I’m off to put a letter in the post, and I must be on my way.”

“You’re certain there’s no waiting beau. That’s a fetching blue ribbon on your hat and you’ve worn your best frock.”

He was quite the flatterer to think she wore her best gown. “You are an authority on female vanity, are you?”

“I have eyes,” he said. He offered her a hand and swung a leg over the stile to the other side.

Cassie took his hand and allowed him to help her over the fence. When she stepped down on the other side, she shook off his hold. Her skirts remained hitched up, and she was eager to lower them as soon as the gentleman left her, if he was a gentleman.

A quick glance at her muddy boot reminded her of the cost of modesty. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. …?”

“Wait,” he said. “Let me get a branch to wipe that boot of yours, or you’ll have the devil of a time getting the mud off your skirts.” He snapped a dry branch from a bush of common broom.

“Stop,” Cassie protested. “You’ve been quite helpful. You may be on your way.”

“Independent, are you, Bluebell?” he asked. “I like that. You’re sure you’re not an earl’s daughter.”

“If I were, would you go away?” His objection to earl’s daughters was oddly specific.

“I’m afraid I’d have to,” he said with a rueful smile. “I promised my friend, Raven, no earl’s daughters for me.”

“Well, I’m not an earl’s daughter,” she said, “and I’m not Bluebell.”

“I’ve got to call you something.” He dropped into a crouch at her feet, and she felt the branch against her boot. “There,” he said, straightening and tossing the branch aside.

Cassie dropped her skirts at once. She didn’t know whether she was more annoyed or amused. But she had to admit she was curious about a man who apparently had objections to ladies of rank. “Who are you?”

He pulled a card from a pocket and handed it to her with a bow. “Jay Kydd, Miss …?”

The card read KYDD BROTHERS HORSE AND CARRIAGE REPOSITORY, HUDSON SQUARE, LONDON. She had heard the name somewhere recently, and tried to think of the context.

“Bluebell to you,” she said. “Thank you again, Mr. Kydd.” She offered the card back to him.

“Keep it.”

She dropped it in her basket and began to walk toward the village. Naturally, he took no hint from her actions, but fell into step beside her. She really should learn to practice a little of Grandmama’s hauteur. Then the context of the name came back to her. Sir Adrian had mentioned a man name Kydd to Grandmama in connection with her stables.

She turned to her companion. “Are you here to … help Sir Adrian?”

“You know him?” He gave her a sharp glance.

“He’s the talk of the village,” Cassie said.

“He’s my best mate, Raven,” Mr. Kydd admitted. “Jay and Raven,” he explained. “We were boys together in London and in the country. Before … well, before he got that sir of his at any rate.”