Never a Gentleman (21 page)

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said in nasal tones. A towel pinched to his face, he offered Diccan a formal bow. “I believe I understand
what you were trying to show me.”

Diccan still wanted to pummel something. It couldn’t be this chastened puppy, though. He returned his bow. “See you don’t
make the same mistake again. Look what it did to your nose.”

“Excellent science,” Diccan heard to his right. He turned to see Geoffrey Smythe strolling his way, smiling. “I’m glad I’ve
never had anything but the greatest respect for your lady wife.”

Diccan felt his gore rise. He did not like the slick blond younger son. There was just something too cunning about him. It
didn’t take a warning look from Ian for Diccan to hold his tongue, though.

Slipping into his shirt, he shrugged. “These little lessons are tiresome,” he drawled, “but necessary to a gentleman’s education.”
Throwing off another shrug, he flashed a weary smile.

Ian looked troubled. Smythe looked amused. Diccan felt sick to his stomach. Hadn’t he just been warned to ignore Grace? To
not betray any partiality? And here was Smythe, probing for a weak spot. Expecting that weak spot to be Grace.

“I have some lovely
uisce beatha
back at the club,” Ferguson suggested as Smythe strolled off.

Nodding, Diccan headed for the door. He had to do better. He had to protect Grace. Next time a spoiled stripling tripped her
in the park, he’d have to look away.

It might not make a difference, though. He might have already made a fatal mistake.

Diccan didn’t come home that night. Grace knew she shouldn’t have noticed. But she was growing tired of having her hopes raised
and then dropped again. She was weary of being unable to receive attention from Diccan with ease or demand his attention with
authority. And she hated the fact that after hearing about his brother she wanted to forgive him any thoughtless behavior.

At least her wardrobe had finally arrived. She returned from a solitary breakfast to find her bed quilted in attire of all
colors and shapes. Her heart took a great leap. Finally. Another move forward. A chance to… what? Get her husband’s attention?
Face the
ton
with impunity? Humiliate herself by trying to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear?

“The pomona green, I think, ma’am,” Schroeder said without looking up from where she was arranging underthings in the press.
“I’ve laid it out for you. And I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, but Lady Kate gave me the name of a hairdresser. He
will attend you this afternoon.”

Grace instinctively reached up to touch her scraped-back hair. It had been so long since she’d thought to do anything but
keep it out of the way. “That would be lovely.”

Before she had the chance to change, though, there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find a footman waiting outside.

“ ’Scuse me, ma’am. There’s a man wants to see you downstairs.”

“Let him come up.”

“Er, no. He, uh, can’t. Said to meet him out front.”

Grace followed the boy downstairs, not exactly certain what to expect. She certainly didn’t expect what she found. Standing
in front of the hotel on Piccadilly was a short, bandy-legged man with a shock of red hair, the grin of a devil, and two prime
horses on the rein.

“Harps?” she whispered, overcome.

A grin split his face. In his hands were the reins of a piebald gelding and a coal-black Andalusian, who knickered the minute
she caught sight of Grace. Tears welled in Grace’s eyes. She caught herself just shy of throwing herself into the little man’s
arms.

“Harps!” she cried, grabbing his hand.

“Ah, good, then,” he growled, his eyes suspiciously bright. “You remembered. The missus and me thought maybe now you’re flittin’
about with them fine folk, you’d be after forgettin’ your friends. Not a word do we hear. Not even an invite to your wedding.
And then didn’t we get that fine note?”

Passing pedestrians stopped to stare at the little man who stood glaring at her.

“Note?” she asked, paying them no mind. Harps was here, and he’d brought her girl. She struggled mightily not to cry as she
laid her cheek against the mare’s great neck. “What note?”

Sean Harper tilted his head. “Ah well, let’s see now. Didn’t he say somethin’ mad about him not allowin’ any pugs ’r monkeys
near him, but a girl should have her horse.”

She lifted her head. “He who?”

“Your husband, lass. And didn’t he say for me to bring your lovely Epona myself so’s I could personally give me blessing to
the marriage, like I was your da and all.”

“As close as makes no difference.” Her throat felt
unbearably tight as she stroked the mare’s velvety nose. “He really asked you to bring Epona? Diccan?”

“That snooty fella what was cousin to Lady Kate? Oh, aye, that’s the one. Now, are ya gonna stand here entertainin’ all the
swells in London, or are ya gonna take y’r little lady out for a ride?”

“Wait right there.”

Spinning around, she ran up the steps. Diccan hadn’t come home last night. But he’d taken the time and thought to send Harper
and Epona to her. How could she not fall in love with a man like that?

D
iccan saw her across the park. How could anyone miss her? For the first time since he’d met her, he was finally seeing his
wife in her element. She was riding the Andalusian. Glossy black and as sweet a goer as he’d ever seen, with big liquid eyes,
an elegant arch to her powerful neck, and the most delicate of heads. Grace had been right. Breeding her to Gadzooks would
produce magnificent foals.

But the horse only took part of his attention. Grace took the rest. Clad in an old Guards jacket and split skirt, she rode
like a Hussar, as fluid as her horse, her hands light, her posture strong. She was poetry in motion. And she glowed. It was
the only way he could think to describe it. The brisk air tinted her cheeks, and her eyes were laughing and bright, the angles
of her long face somehow softened. If this was how she’d looked on the Peninsula, no wonder the men had doted on her.

He’d once nicknamed her Boadicea. He’d been more right then he knew. She was magnificent. A goddess; a warrior queen clad
in a tattered old scarlet Guards’ jacket,
sensuous as summer. And he wasn’t the only one who saw it. Heads turned. Men smiled. Ladies straightened in saddles, unwilling
to be shown up. He felt himself swell with unfamiliar pride. He had always respected Grace. For the first time since he’d
run from her bed, he thought he understood why she had so thoroughly aroused him.

He knew he shouldn’t. Still, he called to her, hand up. “Greetings, lady wife!”

If he thought she had been striking before, it was nothing to the sight of her smile when she saw him. “Diccan!” she called
back, laughing as her horse danced beneath her. “Come meet Epona.”

Diccan almost lost his reins in shock. Good God. Grace Fairchild had a dimple. A big, saucy one, just to the left of her mouth
that only peeked out when she laughed. Had he seen her laugh before now? He must not have. He was sure he would have remembered
something that sly and seductive.

Beneath him, Gadzooks seemed to have a similar reaction to Grace’s mount. The stallion suddenly began to prance, head up,
nostrils flared, mincing toward the filly like a park saunterer.

“Gadzooks, my lad,” he said, patting the roan’s neck. “You have an excellent eye.”

Pulling to a halt, Grace leaned forward, her gray eyes alight. “You are my hero, sir.”

Diccan raised a dry eyebrow. “Gadzooks? I admit he is a handsome fellow, but I’m not sure heroism is in his nature.”

“Don’t let him slight you like that, Gadzooks,” she admonished, leaning over to pet the animal’s nose. “But you know perfectly
well, I don’t mean him. How can I thank you for my
surprise?” she asked Diccan, her hand out to him. “You can’t imagine how this brightened my day.”

“I know how it’s brightening mine,” he responded, oddly affected. “I can think of nothing more stirring than a brilliant horsewoman,
except a brilliant horsewoman on a magnificent beast. Your Epona is everything you claim her to be, madame. I am in awe.”

Beneath him, Gadzooks knickered and nudged the filly’s head with his own massive one. Epona danced coquettishly away, pulling
Grace’s hand back, and Diccan was beset by a surprising desire to follow. To prance like Gadzooks for his mate’s regard. Suddenly
he wanted to see her again as she had been in his bed, her skin flushed and her eyes deep and languorous.

Was this how Grace Hilliard was revealed? Was it enough to afford her respect in his circles? And how would he hold out against
her, knowing that magnificence lurked beneath her plain facade?

“Will you be home later, my dear?” he asked easily as if he hadn’t just been picturing her spread out before him, dripping
with arousal. “I think I’d like to match the paces of these two.”

“I would be delighted. I believe Harper has a mind to interrogate you.”

“Oh, aye,” Harper agreed with a steely nod. “I do that.”

Diccan nodded. Suddenly he found himself wanting to get to know this new Grace. This surprising Grace. He wanted to match
her stride for stride, and see how she came alive on a galloping horse. He had to figure out a way to enjoy a ride without
giving away his game.

He’d just turned away when an old man thundered toward them on a barrel-chested gray.

“Halloo, Grace!” the old man yelled, hand up as if calling a charge.

Grace stopped and stared. “Uncle Dawes?”

The old man pulled his horse up inches away, spraying gravel. “Where have you been, girl?” he demanded. “I’ve been wasting
my time on these riding paths for a solid three days looking for you.”

Tall, as barrel-chested as his horse, and clad in the broadcloth of a country squire, the old man was red-faced, with merry
eyes and an excess of snowy side whiskers. Obviously a cavalryman.

Grace was leaning over to buss the old man on the cheek. “Oh, I didn’t expect you in town. I wrote to you and Aunt Dawes at
Marchlands. I’m so glad you’ve come!”

“And where would I be when I found out you’d been chased down like a fox by some man milliner?” Without hesitation or apology,
the old man lifted a monocle in Diccan’s direction. “Good God, girl! He’s a nancy boy!”

Diccan couldn’t help laughing. Grace joined him. “I believe you seriously underestimate him, my dear,” she told the old man.
“Did you know he’s won four duels, a dozen horse races, and a bout with Gentleman Jackson himself?”

Diccan was surprised, not so much at Grace’s correct history of him, but at her air of pride. “You put me to the blush, wife,”
he protested.

“Nonsense,” she retorted with a bubbling laugh. “You wouldn’t have done any of those things if you didn’t want them spoken
of.”

Her uncle let loose a bark of laughter. “Never waste time fencing with her, lad. She’s deadly.”

“I know that only too well, sir.”

Laughter lit her face. “Uncle Dawes, may I present my
husband, Mr. Diccan Hilliard. Diccan, this is General Lord Wilfred Dawes.”

Dawes peered at Diccan as if he were a new recruit. “Princess Royal’s Heavy Dragoons, sir. You?”

Diccan bowed. “King George’s Light Diplomacy. It’s good to see my Grace has a defender. Well, besides the eight thousand or
so troops she seems to have saved on the Peninsula.”

The general’s glare grew even fiercer. “You makin’ light of soldiers, sir, or my great-niece?”

“Myself, sir. Only myself.”

That seemed to sit well with the old tartar. “Well, at least you have that much sense. And by the looks of that bonerattler
you sit, you have an eye for horseflesh. Is he as bad-tempered as he looks?”

“Worse. And he’s just now added to his sins by become enamored of my wife’s lovely Epona.”

Diccan had no sooner spoken, then Gadzooks lunged at the general’s horse. The general cursed, his horse screeched and backed
away, and Gadzooks tossed his head, very satisfied with himself.

Diccan smacked him. “Cease, you ill-tempered brat. I’m trying to impress the lady’s family.”

“That’s the way of it for us unfortunate men,” the general announced with a booming laugh. “Always pining for a pretty filly.”

Gadzooks shook his head. Calmly watching him, Grace chuckled. “Oh, he’ll have wonderful babies. All the fight in the world.
Uncle Dawes, you must promise to come for dinner.”

“Once we find a home, sir,” Diccan offered, “you must consider it yours as well.”

General Dawes shot him a trenchant look. “Oh, I will, lad. I will.”

Diccan gave a bow. “And now I will leave Grace in the capable hands of two of her champions. Seems to me that just before
I saw your niece on her horse, I was thinking how nothing could make me late for my meeting.”

Grace flushed. The general barked and nodded, as if delighted. As he turned away, though, Diccan saw the steel in those old
eyes and wondered just what it was he would have to face there.

He only gave the general a passing thought, though. He had more important things on his mind, such as whether he should have
brought Grace’s horse to town after all. It might be the bridge they needed to make a real marriage. But did he want that?
Did he dare chance it, especially now?

Diccan got his first glimpse of the new Grace later that afternoon. Pulling up before the Pulteney, he found her standing
with her loyal Harper alongside their horses. She smiled at seeing him.

“Oh, good,” she said, her gloved hand resting on her Epona’s gleaming neck. “I was hoping you’d remember.”

“Of course I remembered,” he answered, trotting up. “And as my reward, I’m given a chance to see you in your new glory. You
have my abject apologies for ever doubting you, wife. You and Madame Fanchon have indeed triumphed.”

Grace did benefit from Fanchon’s dressing and a new hairstyle. Her riding habit was a symphony of tailoring, a sharply cut
green kerseymere with frogging
a la militaire,
matching shako, and scarf that flirted with the breeze. Beneath, her hairstyle had been softened into a chignon, with a light
fringe. The look complemented her lithe frame
and contrasted perfectly with the glossy black of her horse. Diccan couldn’t stop staring.