AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Is it? Public, I mean? I assumed it was, but there are no other riders. I was beginning to wonder if I had broken some dire rule of etiquette.’ He did not sound as though he cared a toss for such rules.
‘The fashionable place to ride is Hyde Park,’ she informed him. ‘Even at this time of day those who wish for some solitude and a long gallop go there, leaving walkers in peace. I suggest you try it.’ Now.
He did not take the hint, but strolled beside her at a perfectly respectable distance, whip tucked under one elbow, the horse’s reins in the other hand. She could not have been more aware of him if he had taken her arm. What did he want? Probably, Phyllida thought, bracing herself, he was going to make some insulting suggestion now that he knew about her birth. He had kissed her by the river, flirted in the ballroom. What would the next thing be?
‘Hyde Park was where I was going, but on the map this looked a more pleasant route than finding my way through the streets. I did not hope to see you.’
‘Why should you?’ Phyllida enquired with a touch of acid.
‘To apologise.’
That brought her to a halt. ‘Apologise?’ It was the last thing she expected him to do. She stared up at him and he met her eyes straight on, his own green and shadowed by thick black lashes. Even in the conventional uniform of a gentleman—riding dress, severe neckcloth, smart beaver hat—he seemed faintly exotic and disturbing. But more disturbing was the expression on his face. He was not teasing her, or mocking her. She could have dealt with that, but he appeared quite serious.
‘For my rudeness last night. I have no excuse. I had just discovered who your brother is, so I was confused by your lack of a title, then I was surprised when Lady Malling explained. Your smile caught me in the middle of those emotions with my thoughts… unsorted.’
‘Do you have to sort your thoughts, my lord?’ It was such a direct explanation with no attempt to excuse himself that Phyllida felt herself thawing a trifle. Dangerous. Little alarm bells were jangling along her nerves. He cannot be anything to you and you do not want him to be, either.
‘My brain feels like a desk that has been ransacked by burglars,’ he admitted and her mouth twitched despite everything. ‘Or one where all the files have been overstuffed and have burst. I am still, even after three months at sea, having to remember to think in English all the time. There are all the rules of etiquette that are different enough to European society in Calcutta to be decidedly confusing and so removed from my great-uncle’s court where I have spent the past few years that they might be from a different planet.
‘Then there is all the family stuff to learn, the estate, the… But never mind that, it sounds as though I am excusing myself after all and that was not my intention.’
‘You did not want to come back, did you?’ Phyllida asked. It was not a lack of intellectual capacity to cope with all those things that she heard in his voice, but the irritation of a man who did not want to be bothered by them, yet was making himself care. How interesting. Most of London society assumed that there was no greater delight and privilege than to be part of it and absorbed in every petty detail.
‘The only one for whom England is back is my father. For my mother and sister it is as strange as it is for me. But I offended you and I apologise.’
‘You are forgiven.’ And he was, she realised. It had not just been good manners that made her say it. Why? Because you have beautiful green eyes? Because you have been honest with me? Because I am deluding myself? ‘So, what do you intend to do with yourself now, Lord Clere?’
‘We will stay in London for the Season and see my sister launched. We all need to outfit ourselves, the town house must be resurrected from fifteen years of neglect. I must learn to be a viscount, the heir and an English gentleman. Dancing lessons,’ he added grimly, surprising a laugh from her.
At some point they had veered from the path towards the Queen’s House. Phyllida looked round and found they had reached the edge of the park close to the point where Constitution Hill met the Knightsbridge Road. ‘You cross here to Hyde Park.’ She pointed. ‘That is the Knightsbridge Turnpike.’
‘Then Tattersalls is near here. I was intending to find it after I had ridden.’ He whistled. The big crow flapped up and perched on the fence, eyeing her bonnet trimmings with malevolent intent.
‘That is not something a young lady knows about, my lord.’ She attempted to look demure. ‘But, yes, it is just around the corner behind St George’s Hospital.’
‘Thank you.’ Ashe swung himself up into the saddle, all long legs, tight breeches, exquisite control. ‘I hope we will meet again, Miss Hurst. Now we know each other better.’
The stuff of every maiden’s dreams. Phyllida suppressed a wince at her choice of words and lifted a hand in farewell as he took the horse out into the traffic and across to the other park. Ashe had been surprised and taken aback at what he had discovered about her and confessed as much, she thought as she made her way back to Anna. It was honest of him to admit it so freely.
And yet, thinking about it without his distracting presence looming over her, she had the uneasy feeling there was more than that in the blank look he had sent her last night, if only she could put her finger on it. He had apologised with disarming frankness, but he had not told her the whole truth. It would be as well to be wary of Lord Clere, however decorative and amusing he might be. Now we know each other better.
That had been a stroke of luck. Ashe turned his hired hack’s head towards what he guessed was the famous Rotten Row and pressed the horse into a canter. He had not wanted to enquire about the Hursts’ address and risk drawing attention to his interest in Phyllida, nor had he wanted to disconcert her by turning up in her shop. This encounter had been ideal, without even a passer-by as witness if she had done what he deserved and cut him dead in her turn.
But she had not. She had been gracious, ladylike with an edge of acid humour that he enjoyed. She had poise, intelligence, looks and enough maturity not to be expecting hearts and flowers and hypocritical protestations of love. Damn it, she is perfect. He liked her, he was attracted to her and she bore not the slightest resemblance to Reshmi, his dead love. In fact, he would have no objection to marrying her tomorrow and cutting short this tiresome search for a wife.
Except that Phyllida Hurst was baseborn and, as if that was not enough, had a secret life that would ruin her if it was exposed and a brother who was, apparently, no catch as a relative. That old harridan Lady Malling had made it quite clear how ineligible she was.
Phyllida would not be received at court and she was not the sister-in-law for a young lady making her come-out and who deserved to be launched into the highest echelons of society.
Ashe guided his mount on to a smaller track, away from a group of riders in the distance, and gave it its head. She was twenty-six, he had discovered last night. Unmarried, ineligible, old enough to have forgotten girlish fantasies about love. Might she find the prospect of a liaison interesting? His body tightened at the thought and he knew it had been in the back of his mind, unacknowledged, since he had discovered the truth about her.
He explored the idea. For three years he had been in an environment where encounters with respectable women were formalised, distant and impersonal. The women one knew, in all senses of the word, were not respectable, they were courtesans like Reshmi. He had no model for a sexual relationship with a lady in this world. How did one manage a liaison in this chilly, alien, new society? He had no wish to ruin her in its eyes, but he could be very, very discreet and with her two secret identities she had already proved she could be, too.
He would think about it. But first, before anything, he had to get a decent horse because this slug was useless. Tattersalls, his objective this morning, might be open by now and there, at least, he could get what he wanted, simply by exercising good taste and expending money. Horses were much less trouble than women.
‘I’ve been talking to that Indian chap.’ Gregory strolled into the sitting room and collapsed on to the sofa with his usual indolence.
‘Ashe… I mean, Lord Clere?’ Phyllida dropped a handful of paste jewellery she had bought from a dealer in Seven Dials back into its box and hoped she was not blushing.
