Her Grace's Stable: A Jane Austen Space Opera, Book 2 (10 page)

Surprised, she reached out to Cole and he came around her desk immediately to drop at her feet and bury his face in her skirts. “You mean he hasn’t…”

“Only the time in the stable when I first found him, and then once after that when he was fully recovered. He seemed…to regret it.”

“Oh, dearest, I had no idea. I thought you might be happy with him and I was perfectly willing to step aside.”

“I don’t want another man if I can’t have you too, Mistress. I certainly don’t want a man who can only stomach the thought of touching me in a desperate moment of weakness better quickly forgotten.”

“Of course not,” she murmured, smoothing her hand through his hair. “You deserve more than that, Cole. I swore I’d take care of anything you might need, and I shall.”

“I don’t understand why you set me free in the first place.” He kept his head buried against her, muffling his words, but each one sank like a barbed arrow straight to her heart. “I don’t want to be free, Mistress.”

“You need more than I can give you.”
And I can’t bear to make you watch me die a slow, agonizing death.

“I need you more than another man, Mistress. Please. You’re my sun and my sustenance, the very air I breathe. Tell me to drop dead at your feet and I shall but don’t send me away from you, please. Keep Arthur, I don’t mind. Just keep me too.”

What could she say that might allow him some assurance? The last thing she wanted was for this dear boy to waste away at her bedside while she coughed up her lungs and slowly expired.
I can’t bear to let him think I don’t love him as much as I do.

“We shall see, all right?” She cupped his cheek and pressed her forehead to his, letting him see the tears in her eyes. “I love you dearly, Cole. It’s hurt me more than I ever imagined to give you your freedom. But I can’t explain the entire situation to you at this time. Please, trust me to do everything I can to see to your wellbeing and happiness as long as I’m able.”

His eyes narrowed and she feared she’d said too much. No one knew she was ill besides the Queen. That’s the way she preferred it. She wouldn’t have even told Majel, except no one refused Her Majesty without a death wish.
I have nothing to fear in that regard, for my death has already been signed, sealed and delivered.

“The Duchess of Blackmyre is able to do a great many things. If you can break a wild stallion to your hand, then you can surely keep this mischievous pony in your stable too.”

Relieved that he didn’t push for answers she wasn’t ready to give, she smiled and tugged gently on his hair. “Speaking of mischievous ponies, what did you find out about the sweet Mr. Wellesley who introduced himself to me at Vauxhall’s the other night?”

“It seems that he has an unusual penchant for sneaking away at dawn for an old-fashioned horseback ride in Hyde Park.” Cole grinned, and a very adorable dimple flashed in his cheek. “Alone.”

Violet sat back in her chair with a satisfied smile of her own. Arthur looked too much like the young man she’d met that night to not be related, and the old hag Wellington would certainly be the type to kick Arthur out of his own House and abandon him to the mercy of slavers in order to prevent a scandal.
I just need confirmation that Mr. Wellesley has an older brother or cousin named Arthur.
“How unfortunate for him. I dearly hope some wicked lady doesn’t compromise the dear boy.”

“Shall I ready your mount at the crack of dawn tomorrow, Your Grace?”

“Absolutely. Let’s also see if Dottie’s free for a little pre-dawn romp. I believe she still has a highwayman’s costume that we might find useful.”

Swathed in a black hooded cape, Dottie chased the wild-eyed doe straight into Blackmyre’s clutches. She pretended surprise at encountering his galloping flight and immediately drew her weapon. The latest and deadliest version of technology that Britannia had to offer, the deceptively slim lazor could slice a man in half with a flick of her wrist. “Halt in the name of the Queen!”

Dottie drew her gray to a sliding halt, fired a playful shot into the air from her ancient gunpowder pistol, and quickly high-tailed it back to bed. Hopefully to a warm and willing partner.

“Are you unharmed, sir?” Violet sheathed the blade and turned to the white-faced young man. “Wellesley, isn’t it? I remember you from Vauxhall’s.”

“Your Grace,” he stammered. “Thank goodness you were nearby! I had no idea bandits might be about in broad daylight, let alone in the center of Londonium.”

“Her Majesty’s capital is a hellhole of violence if you know where to look.” The boy was too naïve to understand the meaning hidden behind Violet’s words. Majel had probably seen more enemies killed than all the soldiers they’d lost in the war. “Allow me the honor of escorting you, Mr. Wellesley. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, I accept your offer of assistance.” His attempt at a prim and proper response was ruined by his vibrant blush. “As long as you neglect to mention this incident to anyone. Grandmama has been beside herself lately. I’m afraid this sort of accidental encounter may push her over the edge.”

Somehow, Violet managed to keep her face smooth and devoid of her contempt. “I’m sorry to hear that she’s not well.”

“It’s not her health, exactly.” He sighed, fumbling with the reins as though mulling over how much he dared say aloud.

“The war, then? I know it must be dreadfully exhausting to manage all those trivial details.”

His eyebrow shot up and his mouth quirked. “Between you and I, those trivial details are beyond her comprehension.”

Ah, not so naïve then. This boy was definitely related in some fashion to her Arthur. That same challenging look glinted in his eyes, if younger and more innocent in the ways of men and women.
Too bad he’s so young and unschooled—Dottie would have immense fun breaking this colt to halter.

“So I thought when I heard of her promotion. Although the war is going well, isn’t it? At least as well as the Queen wants us to believe.”

Wellesley guided his mount closer to hers and lowered his voice, even though no one rode within sight. A wise move, for no one knew exactly where the Queen’s Ravens listened. “It was,” he admitted, “but due in no part to Wellington’s credit. She was receiving assistance from my older brother, but something’s happened to him. He’s no longer able to give her any information and she’s floundering, Your Grace. Once Majel finds out, I fear the worst.”

“And your brother—what happened to him?”

Wellesley lowered his voice even more, until Violet strained to hear. “He disappeared. Grandmama is quite distraught.”

Violet couldn’t help the sneer that twisted her mouth. More than likely the old hag feared the scandal if news got out about Arthur’s equine proclivities.

“I speak truly, Your Grace. I know there’s bad blood between your family and mine, but in this, I fear the worst. Grandmama has hired private runners to search for him. Last night, she admitted that she might well have to throw herself on the Queen’s mercy and beg help in his search.”

“Majel has no mercy,” Violet said automatically, though her mind raced through alternatives. She could absolutely believe that Arthur had been helping Wellington in the war effort, for he’d already proven to be a clever strategist. She might only have their time in the ring for comparison, but in her experience, that’s where a man’s true self was exposed. He was courageous and bold in all ways, bending only to her command when she proved herself capable and trustworthy.

If he’d been leading men to war, then he’d take his recent captivity especially hard as an extreme blow to his pride. He might even doubt his ability to lead since he’d been broken by a woman.

So many things to consider in how best to handle him, not to mention the greater scope of the war effort. If he’d been helping Wellington against Francia, then all of Britannia may soon feel his loss. Yet she couldn’t send him back to Wellington seemingly in disgrace with such a violent distrust of women. He’d be forced to work with ladies of all ranks, from the lowest dragoon to Her Majesty herself.

“I’m not privy to the conversation Grandmama had with the Queen, but I suspect Her Majesty knew exactly who would be making recommendations on the front, and it certainly isn’t Grandmama. For appearance’s sake…”

Violet let out a disgusted growl. “It’s fine to send our young men off to die in war, but it’s not acceptable to give them the honor of leadership positions. Never mind that most of those officers have been bought and paid for by supposedly honorable ladies who’ve never even seen the backside of a cannon.”

From the slack-jawed look on his face, she’d managed to surprise young Wellesley with her radical opinions. “Forgive me, sir, but that’s a very sore subject for me. My father served in the army for nearly a decade and saved countless lives in Bengali, but he was never commended for his service. Meanwhile, my mother drank her way through every officer’s pub between here and Kali Kata and still managed to bring home Her Majesty’s Cross and half a dozen other worthless trinkets, thanks to my father’s dedication. My mother constantly berated him for his low-class birth and failure to even earn a captaincy. If your brother has the ability to command, then he should rightfully possess the honor and rank associated with that responsibility.”

Wellesley gave her a wan smile. “I think Arthur would like you very much indeed. Is there anything you can do to help us find him without alerting the gossipers of our difficulty?”

I knew it.
Violet dismounted and reached up to hand the young man down at his door. Inside, a woman’s voice boomed with pompous authority, though Violet couldn’t make out the words. “I’ll see what I can do. Forgive me, Mr. Wellesley, but I’d rather be along. If I must speak to your Grandmama, I’m afraid I’ll issue a formal challenge rather than exchange pleasantries.”

She swung back up on Caesar and thundered down the street. Wellington yelled after her, but she kept riding as though she hadn’t heard.

Arthur Wellesley of House Wellington, whatever am I going to do with you?

Chapter Nine

Violet measured her progress with Arthur by how much less clothing he wore each day. One day he neglected to wear a coat. The next, his neckcloth. It took him a few days of sweating hard before he removed his shirt and stepped into the ring.

It was that day that she decided to reward him—and torture herself—by oiling him down before they started. Of course, without the impediment of his clothing on at least his upper half, she could try some of her fancier tack as well.

“I’ve been wondering how long you’d make me wait before you allowed me to get my hands on this magnificent chest of yours.”

He made a low whuffing sound that she was coming to associate with a proud sort of amusement. He might refuse to speak words in her presence, but they’d worked out a fairly thorough form of communication, granted with typically equine sounds and signals. It’d forced her to read his body language extremely well, which wasn’t a bad thing at all.

When she laid her palm on his bare shoulder, he didn’t shy away or snort a warning. She kept her touch light, trailing her fingers down his thick biceps, back across the impressive breadth of his pectorals, and down his other meaty arm. Heat radiated from his skin, muscles gliding just beneath the surface. He managed to flex without actually moving, as though showing off silently for her.

Which I greatly appreciate.
She let a sultry smile curve her lips but didn’t voice her approval aloud.
Let him read my body language for a change.

Pouring a small amount of oil into her palms, she rubbed them together, warming the oil before spreading it over his skin. She used firm pressure now, letting him enjoy the strength in her hands. His knees actually buckled a moment when she gripped the back of his neck and worked those muscles.

Standing close enough to his back that her breasts brushed him, she continued massaging the ridge of muscles joining his neck and shoulders. “I’d love to have you spread out in my bed so I could massage every inch of you. Think how good this would feel on your knees, the backs of your thighs. Or perhaps…” She trailed her fingers down his spine to the waistband of his trousers, but no lower.
I gave him my word.
“Your calves. A pony’s leg muscles can get very sore after running so hard in the ring.”

She stepped back around to his front so he could watch her face as she poured more oil into her hands. Spreading out her fingers wide, she ran her hands over the broad planes of his chest. Chiseled rows of muscle ran over his ribs. Her fingers found a puckered scar low on his right side. “Bullet wound?”

He shrugged one shoulder as though to say
nothing to be concerned about
.

So many questions burned in her mind. She yearned to talk about the war. Cole said he’d mentioned the front, so he must have been to the Iberian system. In which company had he served? Where had he trained? How many times had he been wounded? Did he prefer traditional weapons or embrace the newer technologies?

She could certainly use her datapad to find out all of these details, but it would be so much more rewarding to hear it straight from him. However, she couldn’t ask him anything. Not when she wasn’t supposed to know who he was, while he refused to give his voice.

She slid her palm up around his throat, working that long, proud column. His jaw flexed, the bit rattling against his teeth. Impatience? Or a growing concern that she was touching him too much? She couldn’t know with one hundred percent confidence because he refused to tell.