His Lordship's Filly

HIS LORDSHIP’S FILLY

Nina Coombs Pykare

Chapter One

Andrew, Marquess of Haverly, watched the lad lean forward, pushing the stallion to his limits. As the great chestnut lengthened his stride, eating up the track, Andrew whistled softly and turned to the portly man beside him. “He’s a goer, all right. You’ve got yourself a fine one there.”

“Aye.” Grinning, Victor Durabian pushed his tweed cap to the back of grizzled red hair. “He loves to run, that Waterloo does.”

Andrew smiled, glancing around. He’d spent several years fighting Napoleon, and several more on his return to England in getting the estate at Haverly back in shape. When he left, Tattersall’s had been the place to go for horses. But while he was gone, Durabian had moved his business down from Ireland to a farm outside the city. Durabian’s stables were small, but his paddocks were well-kept and it was easy to see his horses were prime stock—the best around Peter said—and worth going the extra distance to see. And now that he’d been here, Andrew could easily believe it.

“Raise him yourself?” he asked.

“Aye. From a spindly little colt.” Durabian chuckled. “He’s a fierce ‘un, can’t bear to be beat.”

“I can understand that.” Andrew turned back, watching in admiration as the rider finished the course, slowed, and guided the magnificent animal toward them. The horse had superb lines and the handsomest head he’d ever seen.

The boy on his back was a fine rider, too, and, if the red hair peeking out from beneath his cap was any sign, probably one of Durabian’s progeny.

His cap pulled low, the boy brought
the
horse to a halt in front of them and swung lightly down. “Great ride, lad!” Andrew said, clapping him heartily on the shoulder.

The boy turned, whipped off his cap, and glared at him with the iciest green eyes he’d ever encountered. Female eyes! With a sense of shock, Andrew took in the tangle of fiery red hair that had tumbled loose. This was no boy. This was a woman, a full grown, beautiful woman.

“Ye’ve no call to cut his Lordship to pieces with yer eyes, girl,” Durabian said briskly. “If ye will go about in that male getup, how’s he to know?”

The green eyes didn’t lower their hard gaze—if anything, they got even icier. And the girl didn’t move, just stood there, glaring at him.

“Me daughter Bridget,” Durabian said cheerfully. “This here’s Lord Haverly, Bridget. Friend of Lord Peter, he is.”

The girl vouchsafed Andrew a brief unfriendly nod.

Her father smiled at him. “She loves the horses, Bridget does. And Waterloo here, he’s her pet.”

He coughed apologetically, blushing under his daughter’s burning gaze. “To tell the truth, milord, it’s Bridget what raised the stallion. She what had the training of him.”

Andrew extended a hand to the girl. “Please accept my apology, Mistress Durabian. And my congratulations. You did an excellent job. I’ve never seen a finer animal.”

“Your apology is accepted,” she said crisply, her cultured tones contrasting oddly with her father’s broad Irish brogue. But to Andrew’s dismay, she completely ignored his outstretched hand. “As long as you keep your hands to yourself, we’ll have no trouble.”

What a shame! The looks this girl had—and the tongue of a shrew. “Very well,” he conceded. “Then we should deal famously together.
And
my congratulations?” he went on, his curiosity piqued in spite of himself by this aggravating creature who carried herself like a queen, a queen in shabby leather breeches and scuffed boots. And a white shirt that, now that he was really looking, didn’t hide the swell of an intriguing bosom.

“The horse is a wonder of himself,” she said, conceding nothing and meeting his most engaging smile with a look of cold disdain. “He needed very little training.” She turned and led the animal away, an arm thrown familiarly round his neck.

“Don’t mind her,” Durabian said, pulling out a well-worn pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “She’s apt to be a bit on the tetchy side, Bridget is.”

Andrew nodded, regretfully averting his eyes from the tantalizing sway of leather-clad hips. “Isn’t it a bit unusual—I mean—” He ground to a halt. Liking Durabian as he did, he was reluctant to offend him.

But the Irishman merely chuckled and tamped his pipe. “If you’re meaning why do I let me daughter go round in men’s clothes and mess about with horses like a lad—I’ll give ye a simple answer. Truth is, milord, I can’t hardly stop her. Headstrong, Bridget is. Real headstrong, like her mama.”

Of course, this tantalizing creature had a mother. How could the woman—Andrew turned. “Her mother lets her—?”

“Her mama’s gone,” Durabian said, crossing himself with a sigh. “She died birthing Bridget. She were a lady through and through, though her family would have none of her after she run off with the likes of me. We were that happy.” He swallowed. “But I lost her. And so I had the raising of Bridget meself.” He sighed again and lit the pipe. “I hadn’t the heart to give her out to a wet nurse to raise, so I kept her by me. Prob’ly it were wrong, her being a girl and all. And no woman about the place to teach her the right of things. But—”

“I think I understand,” Andrew said. “And who’s to say what she should learn. She’s—” He hesitated again.

“She knows horses better’n any man.” Durabian chuckled. He turned and looked Andrew straight in the eye. “And she’s a looker, milord. Ye needn’t quail at saying it. I’ve had plenty others say so.”

Andrew frowned. He could see Durabian’s quandary. A daughter like that could well draw buyers, but if she was rude to them—and she certainly knew how to be rude— Durabian’s business could suffer. It was obvious the man had loved his wife. And just as obvious that he loved his daughter. So this couldn’t be an easy thing for him.

“I’m surprised some lord hasn’t made off with her,” Andrew said. “Or that some honest fellow’s not offered marriage.”

Durabian puffed heavily on his pipe. “Honest fellows
have
offered,” he replied, “but she’d have none of ‘em. And as for lords—” He shook his head. “They’ve tried, too, lots of ‘em, but Bridget ain’t got no use for quality. On account of how bad they treated her mama afore she was born.”

“I guess that’s understandable,” Andrew said. “Loyalty’s an admirable characteristic.”

“Thank ‘ee, milord. Bridget is that—loyal no end. She do worry me, though, her being me only child and her not wanting to marry. I never married agin, ye see. Mayhap that was a mistake, too. But I loved her mama something fierce.” He sighed again. “ ‘Tis sad, my Bridget not being a lad, but—”

“Sad?” Andrew clamped his mouth shut before he could finish his thought. The girl’s father wasn’t likely to appreciate his saying that such a gorgeous creature shouldn’t be relegated to a stable.

“So, ‘twas Lord Varley that sent ye here,” Durabian went on, changing the subject.

“Yes,” Andrew said. “He told me you had some great horses.” He smiled ruefully. “He didn’t tell me about Bridget, though. If he had, I’d have been more careful.”

Durabian nodded. “His Lordship treats her like another lad. ‘Tis the best way, milord. She’ll be civil to ye then.” He chuckled ruefully. “At least I hope so.”

“I’ll hope so, too,” Andrew said. He looked toward the stable where the girl had led the horse and was preparing to unsaddle him. “That stallion’s one marvelous animal. How much do you—”

“Saints preserve me!” Durabian whispered, his ruddy face growing even redder. “I should have told ye, milord. Don’t be after wanting
that
stallion. ‘Twill do ye no good, ye see.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “You mean he’s not for sale? You must have had some good offers—a great beast like that.”

Durabian shook his grizzled red head. “Not that I wouldn’t like to sell him. Or at least to see the blunt I’d get for him. But I daren’t even think of it, milord. He’s her heart, that stallion. Her heart and her soul.” He puffed at his pipe. “If I separated ‘em, milord, well, I’m afraid the girl would up and die on me. She’s that attached to him, she is.”

Andrew gazed out across the paddock. He loved horses, too. It wasn’t that difficult to imagine her attachment to that magnificent creature. To lose such an animal . . .

He himself knew loss. The pain, the struggle just to go on living. When he’d come home from Spain to find his brother Thomas dead, struck down by disease, he’d thought his own life had ended. As in a sense it had. Thomas had been the oldest son—the heir. With him dead, the mantle of inheritance had fallen on Andrew’s shoulders. And it was a mantle he didn’t want—had never wanted.

Before Napoleon’s delusion that he could conquer England, Andrew had enjoyed the life of the man about town: horses, prize fights, the theater, and an occasional bit of fluff. A good life—quite satisfying. But now everything was different.
He
was the Marquess of Haverly. He had a duty to fulfill, a name to live up to. He had Thomas’s place to fill.

“I hear tell ye bought a nice-looking filly from Tattersail’s of late,” Durabian said. “What’d ye call her?”

“I call her Sable,” Andrew said. “She’s a real beauty. Rather on the touchy side, but she can run. Still, I don’t know that she could rival Waterloo.”

Durabian chuckled. “So that’s her name—Sable. I’ve heard, though, that she goes by another.”

“Oh.” Andrew raised an eyebrow. “And what other is that?”

“They call her ‘his Lordship’s filly,’“ Durabian replied, his eyes twinkling with suppressed merriment.

Andrew was not surprised. “Do they indeed?”

“Aye. And they say ye had a mite of trouble taming her. But ye did it and she’s fast, very fast.” He looked a little dubious. “They say she might even be able to take my Waterloo. Not that
I
believe such a thing.”

“I don’t think I care to race her,” Andrew said.

“Ye don’t?” Durabian didn’t sound surprised. “And why is that, milord?”

“A friend of mine recently fell into bad times because he was too fond of wagering on the horses. And I don’t think I want to put others in the way of temptation.”

Durabian’s ruddy face broke into a scowl. “Wagering can bring a man low, all right. That’s God’s own truth. I ain’t always been the carefulest about such things meself.” He looked around. “ ‘Tis Lord Peter Varley ye’re talking ‘bout now. I heerd he come a bad way. Wichersham, wasn’t it, who had his vowels?”

Andrew nodded. “But fortunately Peter’s friends were able to pay his
IOUs and keep him from being sent to debtor’s prison.”

Durabian knocked his pipe against a post, emptying it. “Wichersham’s the worst sort. I seen his cattle. His stock ain’t healthy. Ye can tell a man’s character from the look of his horse, ye know. And that man’s horse shows he ain’t friend to no man, nor animal neither.”

He gave Andrew a sideways glance. “Most of us in the business knows which of Lord Varley’s friends it was what bought up his IOUs. Ye’re a good man, milord.”

Andrew sighed. Could nothing be kept secret in this town? “I didn’t want that known. I’ll thank you not to spread the story about.”

“As ye wish, milord.” Durabian put the pipe back in his pocket. “Shall we be taking a look at the stock I do have for sale?”

* * * *

Outside the stalls, Bridget frowned, stuffing her hair up under her cap again. That lord had startled her, clapping her on the shoulder like that.

Most of the men who came here knew better than to touch her. And if they didn’t, they soon learned. Why couldn’t this one just mind own business? Why did he have to come round in his elegant clothes, lusting after the horses she loved? If she could, she’d have kept all the horses they raised. Each one was like a child to her, a piece of herself. But Papa was right—he did have to make a living. And to do that he had to sell horses.

But he wouldn’t sell Waterloo, not ever Waterloo. Waterloo was hers. Papa had promised.

She ran a hand down the stallion’s warm flank, relishing the feel of taut muscle and smooth coat. “You’re such a beauty,” she crooned. “Such a marvelous beauty. And you’re mine, all mine.”

She threw the saddle and blanket over a bench and reached for the currycomb and brush. “You like this,” she told him. “I know. It feels good.”

The horse whiffled, thrusting his nose at her playfully. “No more sugar,” she said, stroking the velvet spot between his nostrils. “Too much sugar will make you fat.”

That lord—that Haverly—wasn’t fat. She risked a glance at him over the horse’s back. He wasn’t fat at all. Lean and fit, he looked quite elegant in his fine clothes. But clothes didn’t make the man. Under his finery this man could be just as bad as the others—always trying to get her alone, always trying to put his hands where he shouldn’t, always wanting what a woman shouldn’t give a man—unless he was her husband.

But maybe this Lord Haverly was like his friend Peter. She liked Peter. He treated her like another man. Like an equal.

She glanced down at her leather breeches and scuffed boots. She dressed like a man and worked like a man. But she could never
be
a man. She could never control her own life and make her own choices. Thank God Papa understood her. Another father might have forced her to marry—or even to accept one of the lords who’d come sniffing around, talking about establishments of her own. As if she’d consent to be kept! As if she cared about jewels or fine clothes. She had her horses. That’s all she wanted, all she needed.