Chapter Three
The scent of England was always Giles Throckmorton’s first impression of home: briny and brisk regardless of the weather, with an undertone of ancient geology, as if the stony hills ringing Portsmouth lent an aged, unchanging bedrock to even the smell of the place.
The languages he heard along the docks and in the coaching inn’s common were mostly English, with smatterings of French, other Continental tongues, and the occasional American accent. The variety would have been still greater in Portugal, for that nation had made seafaring even more a part of its soul than England had.
“Good to be home again?” Giles’s brother, John, asked, stepping down from a smart traveling coach in the inn yard.
“Always good to be home, but it’s beastly cold here.”
John clapped him on the back. “This is a fine spring day, nearly hot, but every time you come home, you complain of the cold. Portugal has made you soft.”
Portugal had made Giles desperate.
He returned to England yearly, mostly to get away from his children, also to gain a respite from the alternating work and worry of the vineyard. He’d learned enough of the winemaker’s trade to realize wealth was accumulated over decades, if not generations. Worries accumulated overnight.
“How are matters in Portugal?” John asked as Giles’s trunks were loaded onto the back of the coach.
John was being tactful, but then, John was a diplomat, always haring off to some treaty negotiation or conference.
“Matters in Portugal are difficult. The twins grow in mischievous tendencies as well as height, and the younger two follow the example of their elders. Without Catalina to mind the domestic concerns, I’m hard put to give the vineyards the attention they’re due.”
“You were married to the lady for years. Of course you still miss her.”
Giles missed Catalina’s ability to charm her father and brothers into assisting with the vineyard. He missed her management of the nursery and the household, however mercurial that management had been. He’d loved and admired his wife, and loved and admired the notion of building a vineyard empire with her.
But more than a year after her passing, there was also much— much—Giles did not miss about her. The guilt of that admission was tempered by the notion that if the boot had been on the other foot, Catalina would likely have felt the same about him.
“Do you like your wife, John?”
John pretended to study how the groom secured a trunk to the boot. “I like Agnes exceedingly, more with each passing year. We are friends first and spouses as a result of that friendship. Agnes understands me, and I very much value her counsel and affection.”
Catalina’s counsel had often been delivered at high volume and to the accompaniment of shattered porcelain. Her affections had become rare after the birth at long last of a daughter. Had Catalina not perished of a lung fever, the marriage would doubtless have found firmer footing as the children matured.
Giles had assured himself of that happy prognostication often in the early days of widowerhood. For the past few months, he’d taken to assuring himself that an English wife, one inured to the tribulations of the nursery and happy to improve her station even at the cost of journeying to a foreign land, would solve many of his troubles.
“Agnes will be so pleased to see you,” John said as a fresh team was put to. “We very nearly dropped in on you after our last jaunt to Gibraltar.”
“I would have been delighted to receive you.” A lie, that. Without Catalina to nip at the house servants’ heels, the staff did the bare minimum in terms of cleaning and maintenance. The harvest last year had been disappointing, and competition in the port market was fierce.
Giles was determined to take an English bride back to the chaos he’d left behind in Portugal, and his efforts in that regard would start with Miss Lucy Fletcher. The lady had cause to recall him fondly—very fondly, in fact. He’d paint a romantic picture of his fiefdom in Portugal, play a few bars of the grieving widower’s lament, and take Miss Fletcher away from the drudgery of her life as a governess in the household of some stodgy old marquess.
Giles was even handsomer than he’d been as a youth. Lucy was doubtless plainer than ever, and sweeping her off her feet would be the work of a few weeks’ courtship.
* * *
Miss Fletcher had insisted that she and Tyne dispense with the bow-and-curtsey ritual. Tyne had wanted to object—a gentleman extended courtesy to everyone, not only to the people he sought to impress—but she’d pointed out that he did not bow to the housekeeper and would feel ridiculous doing so.
“You asked for a moment of my time,” Tyne said. “I trust Sylvie and Amanda are well?”
This was all Tyne knew to do with her—discuss the girls, be polite, keep his questions to himself. Freya’s comments came back to him, though: How was a woman to know Tyne esteemed her if he never gave voice to his sentiments?
Miss Fletcher was nothing if not tidy, though today her hair was arranged more softly about her face. Her dress was a high-waisted blue velvet several years out of fashion, and the color flattered her eyes. If he said as much, she’d likely box his ears with her book.
“Lady Sylvie and Lady Amanda are in good health, my lord. Both, however, could stand to improve their equestrian skills.”
Tyne had ridden like a demon almost before he’d been breeched. He missed that—riding hell-bent at dawn, his brothers thundering along beside him. Josephine hadn’t had much use for horses, or the stink, horsehair, and mud that inevitably resulted from time in their company.
“Did you or did not you,” Tyne said, “recently scold me into buying Amanda a mare to replace the equine sloth she was previously riding? If she can ride a pony, she can ride anything.”
“With the pony, she was on a lead line most of the time. A lady should be in command of her own mount.”
Miss Fletcher wore a lovely scent, not one Tyne had noticed previously. Minty with a hint of flowers.
“What were you reading?”
She edged to the left two steps, putting herself between Tyne and the discarded book. “I was merely browsing, awaiting your arrival.”
He reached around her. Myths, Fables, and Ancient Legends of the North by Roderick DeCoursy.
“Are you in want of adventure, Miss Fletcher? Looking for an exciting tale or two?”
She took the book from him. “And if I am? Do you suppose because I am a governess that I don’t enjoy a light dose of excitement from time to time? We can’t all be devoted to ledgers and parliamentary committee meetings.”
She was in fine form today, very much on her mettle. “Regardless of my boring proclivities, I will not subject my daughter to unnecessary risks. You are working up to a demand that I take the girls riding in the park.”
Ah, he’d surprised her. She didn’t retort until she’d turned to the shelves. “Most children on this square are taken for regular outings in the park on horseback. My request would have been reasonable.”
She was trying to reshelve her myths and fables, but the library had been arranged for Tyne’s convenience, and she was petite, relative to him. He came up behind her, took the book from her, and slipped it onto the shelf above her head.
She turned, and abruptly, Tyne was improperly close to his daughters’ governess. She regarded him steadily, neither affronted nor welcoming.
“What is that scent?” Tyne asked, leaning down for a whiff of her hair. “It’s delightful.”
She apparently found the toes of his boots fascinating. “Did you just pay me a compliment, my lord?”
He had the odd thought that she’d fit him much as Freya had were he to take her in his arms—which he was not about to do. He did, however, treat himself to another sniff of her fragrance.
“I did, and now that I know the heavens do not part, nor the end times arrive as a result, I might venture to pay you another. I’d take the girls riding, except I have no notion how well Amanda’s mare would deal with such an outing.”
He stepped back, though he wished he knew which myth or fable Miss Fletcher had been reading.
“Surely you bought a quiet mare for your daughter?”
“Shall we sit? I’ve been running all over Town today, and last night went later than planned.”
Miss Fletcher had fixed notions about what constituted excessive familiarity between employer and governess. She joined the family for informal meals, always arriving and leaving with the girls. She attended services with them. If Tyne took the young ladies to call on family, Miss Fletcher did not go along.
And yet, the girls were blossoming in her care. Tyne had no doubt she would give her life for them, and surely her ferocious loyalty excused Tyne’s vague fancies regarding a woman in his employ. He tugged the bell-pull and prepared to embark on a small adventure of his own.
“You’re ringing for tea?” she asked.
“Am I to starve for the sake of your etiquette, Miss Fletcher? Supper is hours away, and I’m peckish. Perhaps you could stand some sustenance yourself.”
She looked tired to him, as if an afternoon spent curled up with that blasted book wouldn’t have gone amiss. She perched on the edge of the sofa, like a sparrow lighting on an unfamiliar windowsill. Had some loss or heartache made her so careful with social boundaries? The idea explained much, including a love of fairy tales masked by a brisk lack of sentimentality.
“A cup of tea while we discuss an outing for the girls would be permissible,” she said.
“Two cups,” Tyne replied. “They’re quite small. If Englishmen were sensible, they’d drink their ale from tea cups and their tea from tankards. We’d all get more done that way, and the streets would be safer.”
“Back to Lady Amanda’s mare, if you don’t mind, sir.”
Tyne did mind, but he was nothing if not persistent. Freya had been right—fate would not hand him a marchioness and the girls a step-mama. He hoped his Valkyrie kept their appointment in two weeks, mostly so he could thank her for inspiring his determination where Miss Fletcher was concerned.
“You refer to my daughter’s lovely mare,” Tyne said, “whom the auctioneer assured me could canter from one moonbeam to the next, never putting a hoof wrong. I’m not of a size to ride the mare myself, else I’d take her out the first few times. If she should shy at the sight of water or prove unruly in traffic, Amanda will take a fall, and matters will deteriorate apace.”
“Can’t the grooms take her out?”
“My grooms disdain to ride aside, and Snowball is a lady’s mount.”
“Snowdrop, my lord.”
“Mudbank, for all I care. I propose that you take out the mare, Miss Fletcher. I will ride with you, so the horse can accustom herself to the company of my gelding. If all goes smoothly after several trial rides, Amanda can join me for a hack.”
A fine plan, so of course Miss Fletcher was scowling. She didn’t pinch up like a vexed schoolteacher, but her brow developed one charming furrow, and her lips—she had a pretty mouth—firmed.
“My habit is hardly fashionable, my lord.”
“But you do have one, and you have neglected your adventuring sorely. Ride out with me, Miss Fletcher, and call it an adventure.”
A tap on the door saved Tyne from elaborating on that bouncer. No lady had considered any time in his company adventurous, with the possible exception of Freya. The first footman wheeled in the tea trolley, and Tyne waved him off.
“Miss Fletcher, would you be so good as to pour out?”
Her scowl faded as the dawn chased away the night, to be replaced by a soft, amused smile. “Never let it be said I allowed you to starve, my lord. Have a seat. You prefer your tea with neither milk nor sugar, if I recall.”
That she’d noticed this detail pleased him, thus proving that he was addled. “You are correct, while you prefer yours with both.”
Her smile became a grin, and she fixed Tyne’s tea exactly as he preferred it.
* * *
Lucy was lucky to get on a horse once a month, if Marianne wanted to hack out on Lucy’s half day. The outings invariably left her sore and frustrated.
Sore, because she didn’t ride often enough to condition her muscles to the exertion.
Frustrated, because as a girl growing up in Hampshire, she’d ridden almost every day when the weather had been fine. The weather this morning was very fine indeed, though brisk enough that the horses would be lively.
The prospect of starting her day with a gallop in the park had her in a happy mood, despite her out-of-date riding habit, despite the early hour.
“Up you go,” Lord Tyne said when Lucy had been ready to lead the mare over to the ladies’ mounting block.
His lordship looked fixed on the task of assisting Lucy into the saddle, and she was in too good spirits to argue with him. His grasp around the ankle of her boot was secure, and when he hoisted her into the saddle, she got an impression of considerable—and surprising—strength.
She took up the reins as his lordship arranged her skirts over her boots, a courtesy her brothers had never shown her.
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “If you could—”
He was already taking the girth up one hole. “The stirrup is the correct length?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He walked around to face the mare. “Behave, madam, else it shall go badly for you.”
So stern! For an instant, Lucy thought his warning was for her. Then the marquess stroked his gloved hand gently over the mare’s neck, giving the horse’s ear an affectionate scratch.
“Miss Fletcher tolerates no disrespect,” he went on, “and any high spirits must be expressed within the confines of ladylike good cheer.”
Ah—he was teasing. He was teasing Lucy, for one could not tease a horse.
“Walk on, Snowdrop,” she said. “An entire park awaits our pleasure. If his lordship thinks to interfere with our enjoyment, it will go badly for him.”
His lordship swung into the saddle without benefit of a mounting block and walked his gelding alongside the mare.
“We’ll start slowly,” he said as the horses clip-clopped down the alley, “because you ladies have not kept company before. Attila, stop flirting.”
The gelding, a substantial black with a flowing mane, whisked his tail.
“He’s a good lad,” Tyne said. “Up to my weight, calm in the face of London’s many terrors, but he’s shamelessly spoiled for treats. About the mare, he cares not at all. For the slice of apple in your pocket, he’ll be your personal servant.”
“I brought carrots.”
“Carrots might earn you an offer of eternal devotion. Where did you learn to ride?”
As they navigated the deserted streets of Mayfair at dawn, Lucy saw a new side to her employer. He was an attentive escort, pleasant company even, asking her one polite question after another and listening to her answers.
Actually listening, to the story of how she came to be able to write with either hand.
“I was determined not to fall behind my brothers in my schoolwork, and yet, my wrist was broken, not sprained. I had to learn to write with my left hand or suffer the torments known only to younger sisters with very bright older siblings.”
“You were allowed to climb trees?” his lordship asked as the horses walked through the gates to the park.
“If one is to invite one’s dolls to tea in the treehouse, one had best be a good climber. Shall we let the horses stretch their legs? Snowdrop has been a pattern card of equine deportment.”
Attila, on the other hand, was prancing, apparently ready for a gallop.
“Let’s trot to the first bend in the Serpentine and then find room for a more athletic pace.”
Tyne was being careful with her, giving her and the mare a chance to become cordial. Attila was having none of it and all but cantered in place as Lucy cued Snowdrop into a ladylike trot. A few other riders were up and about, but today was Thursday. Most everybody of note had likely been at Almack’s late the previous evening. They would miss this glorious morning in this gorgeous park.
Attila had taken to adding the occasional buck to his progress, which his lordship rode with the same equanimity he showed toward parliamentary frustrations, feuding footmen, and cross little girls. Truly, not much disconcerted Lord Tyne, a quality Lucy hadn’t much appreciated in recent months.
“This way,” Lucy called, turning Snowdrop onto a straight stretch of bridle path. “Tallyho!” She urged the mare into a canter, and joy welled, for the horse covered the ground in a beautiful, smooth gait.
Tyne let Attila stretch into a canter as well, and the gelding soon overtook the mare, though Snowdrop refused to be baited. She kept to the same relaxed, elegant pace, and every care and woe Lucy had brought with her into the saddle was soon cast away.
When the horses came down to the walk, Lucy was winded, while Tyne had plenty of breath to scold his horse.
“You, sir, are a naughty boy. You wanted to show off for the ladies, though how you expect to gain anybody’s respect by bucking and heaving yourself about in such an undignified manner beggars all comprehension. You should be ashamed of yourself, and”—the gelding began to prance—“anticipate the cut direct from Miss Snowdrift if you ever attempt to stand up with her again.”
Tyne’s chiding tone was offset by an easy pat to Attila’s shoulder.
“Do you always talk to your horse, my lord?”
“Is there a proper English equestrian who doesn’t?”
“No,” Lucy replied, “and the conversation is invariably witty and charming.”
“Do you imply that I could be witty and charming, Miss Fletcher?”
Despite his bantering tone, Lucy suspected the question held some hint of genuine curiosity. “I dare to imply that very possibility, my lord.” He was also an athlete, with natural ease in the saddle, strength, skill, and fitness Lucy would not have suspected based on the time he spent penning correspondence or drafting bills.
Another feature of his riding was tact. He reminded his horse to behave; he chided; he did not bully.
“I speak honestly when I say that you ride well, Miss Fletcher. We must get you into the saddle more often, because you clearly enjoy yourself there.”
A governess did not expect such consideration. “I love to ride—really ride, not merely mince along on some doddering nag wearing a saddle. I sometimes forget that.”
“Why is it,” Tyne said, “the voice of duty can drown out all other worthy considerations? We must make an agreement, Miss Fletcher, to remind one another that an occasional gallop in the park, an afternoon with a good book, a picnic even, are all that makes the duty bearable sometimes.”
The gelding snorted, the mare swished her tail. As the horses walked along beneath greening maples on a beautiful morning, Lucy realized once again that her employer was lonely and that part of his devotion to duty—like hers—was a means of coping with the loneliness.
“I will honor that pact,” Lucy said, “though picnicking with two high-spirited children isn’t exactly my idea of a treasured joy.”
“Who said anything about dragging that pair along? I meant picnicking in the company of a congenial adult of the opposite sex. Perhaps even—one delights to contemplate the notion—reading to her on a blanket spread upon the soft spring grass, or sharing a glass of wine with her while she cools her bare feet in the summer shallows of an obliging brook.”
Oh, how lucky that lady would be. Tyne had a beautiful reading voice, and his grip on a wineglass had the power to rivet Lucy’s attention. She had discovered months ago the pleasure of sketching his lordship’s hands, trying to capture their grace and masculine competence with pencil and paper.
As he tormented her with further descriptions of his summer idyll, Lucy’s imagination went further: What would his hands feel like on her?
“You are quiet, Miss Fletcher. Has the company grown tedious? Shall we have another gallop? And I do mean a gallop. You and Snow-moppet are fast friends now, and I know you want to see what she can do.”
“One more run,” Lucy said, “and then we must return to the house, for the children will be rising.”
Lord Tyne aimed Attila back up the path they’d cantered over earlier. “The children have highly paid, highly competent nursery maids to attend them, a staff of four in the kitchen to feed them, and various other domestics to ensure there’s no falling out of windows, climbing of trees, or other wild behavior. After you.”
He gestured with his riding crop. Attila pretended to spook, and Snowdrop lifted easily from walk to canter and from thence to a tidy gallop.
Some of Lucy’s joy in the outing had fled, because she was soon to reunite with her duties. She’d change out of her habit and into the drab attire of the governess, correct the children’s manners at the breakfast table, and turn her attention to… irregular French verbs.
The mare seemed to share Lucy’s diminished glee, for her gallop was less than exuberant by the time the path joined one of the park’s larger thoroughfares. Lucy slowed Snowdrop in anticipation of that turn and realized the mare wasn’t simply tiring, she was… off stride.
“Miss Fletcher!” Lord Tyne called from three lengths back. “Something is amiss with your mount. She’s favoring the right front, blast the luck.”
He was out of the saddle in a smooth leap before Attila had come to a halt. The gelding stood obediently as Lord Tyne lifted Snowdrop’s right front hoof.
“She’s picked up a dratted stone. Why the bridle paths are strewn with gravel, I shall never know.” He produced a folding knife, flipped it open, and applied the tip to the offending stone. “Some lord or other ought to introduce a bill forbidding the use of gravel on bridle paths. The poor beast could have been seriously injured. Walk her a few paces, if you please.”
He set down the mare’s hoof and tucked the knife away.
Lucy directed Snowdrop across the grass rather than along the gravel path. “She’s not right,” she said. “She’s not lame, but she’s not right.”
Attila snatched a mouthful of grass, but otherwise stood like a sentry where Tyne had dismounted.
Tyne regarded the mare, his hands on his hips. “If this outing has caused Snow Princess to become lame, Amanda will ring a peal over my head that makes the bells of St. Paul’s sound like a polite summons to the family parlor.”
“I can walk,” Lucy said. Though hiking through the streets of Mayfair with her riding skirts over her arm was hardly an appealing prospect.
“Nonsense,” Lord Tyne replied. “You shall take Attila, and I will walk.”
They’d left their groom loitering with the other grooms at the gates of the park. “I could take the groom’s horse.”
“James brought out an unruly ruffian by the name of Merlin for this outing. He’d run off with you for the sheer pleasure of giving me a fright. Damned beast should go to the knacker, but James is fond of him.”
Tyne approached the mare and held up his arms. “Down you go, Miss Fletcher.”
Lucy unhooked her knee from the horn, gathered up her skirts, and eased from the saddle, straight into Lord Tyne’s arms.
* * *
Tyne had been ready to curse aloud, to damn all lame horses, all pebbles, and all parliamentary bills for good measure, until Miss Fletcher slid into his embrace.
He’d been striving mightily to achieve a tone of harmless banter and failing at every turn. Miss Fletcher had made the requisite charming responses, but she didn’t simper or flirt, she didn’t offer any bold conversational gambits of her own. The sum of the morning’s accomplishments had been to prove that she was a natural equestrian, and he was a failure as a flirt.
Fancy that.
Then Miss Fletcher slipped from the saddle on a soft slide of velvet and lace, and the fresh morning air became tinged with the fragrance of mint and possibility. She was warm from her exertions, and her arms rested on Tyne’s biceps, while his hands remained about her waist.
“Your skirt,” Tyne said, reaching behind her, “is caught on the billets. I’ll have you free in no time.”
The lady could not move, because she was pinned to the horse’s side by her habit. The moment was theoretically dangerous and exactly the sort of mishap that inspired gentlemanly assistance with a lady’s dismount in the first place.
Tyne eased the fold of velvet from between the lengths of leather, though his task required that he all but crush Miss Fletcher against the horse.
She didn’t appear to mind. In fact, she might have leaned into him, and she certainly kept her hands on his arms. For a moment, she was embracing him while he fussed with yards of damned riding habit and tried not to let a particularly eager part of his anatomy become obviously inspired by her closeness.
Which was no use. He had to step back, lest public improprieties ensue.
“I can walk,” Miss Fletcher said.
I very nearly cannot. “That won’t be necessary. If you’d hold the mare’s reins, I’ll switch the saddles, and we’ll be on our way shortly.”
That exercise took enough of Tyne’s concentration that he regained a measure of composure. Then, however, came the challenge of hoisting the lady onto Attila’s back. Because the gelding was considerably taller than the mare, a simple hand around Miss Fletcher’s ankle would not suffice.
“Step into my hands, and I’ll boost you up,” Tyne said. “Attila, you will stand like a perfect little scholar reciting his sums, unless you want to make the knacker’s acquaintance before sundown.”
Attila stood. Miss Fletcher gathered her skirts over her arm and lifted a dainty boot into Tyne’s cupped hands. She scrambled aboard Tyne’s horse and took up the reins, leaving Tyne to do further battle with the sea of velvet.
He tightened the girth a hole, took up the mare’s reins, and sent Attila a warning glower. “You will walk, with all pretensions to dignity, horse. Set one hoof wrong with Miss Fletcher aboard, and you will never lay eyes on a carrot or apple again, not if you live to be thirty and win the Derby in three successive years.”
“He’s trembling with fear,” Miss Fletcher said, patting the wretched beast. “A quaking mass of equine nerves, my lord. If you’ll show the way, we shall summon all of our courage, put our complete trust in your leadership, and brave all the terrors awaiting us. Is that not what an adventure requires?”
Tyne’s spirits lifted at the sight of her smile—for she was smiling at him, not at the stinking creature trying to impersonate a harmless lamb.
“As long as you’re having an adventure, Miss Fletcher, my joy in the day is complete.”
“As is mine.”
That was ladylike banter, by God. In an entirely acceptable, though unmistakable, manner, she was bantering with her employer and possibly even flirting. Tyne tried not to smile the whole distance back to the house, and Attila came along, as docile as a perfect little scholar.
* * *
Because the mare was recovering from her stone bruise, Lucy was excused from riding out again with his lordship. In little more than a week, she’d face the choice of whether to keep her assignation with Thor, or let her single encounter with him fade into fond, if frustrating, memory. She had the odd notion that if she discussed her choice with the marquess, he’d offer her considered, disinterested advice, much as a true friend would.
But did she want to limit the marquess to the role of friend? He’d been charming on their dawn ride, attentive, considerate… very nearly swainly. He’d shared a longing to read to some lucky woman on a picnic blanket, to admire her bare feet…
“I find you once again among the fairy tales,” Lord Tyne said, striding into the library on Saturday afternoon. “Where are the children?”
He was looking all too handsome, blond hair slightly disarranged, suggesting he’d been at his ledgers. His blue eyes were impatient and held a hint of mischief.
“Sylvie has taken it into her head that Amanda and I are too old to join the nursery tea parties, and Amanda has decided that sketching embroidery patterns does not require my assistance or the distraction of a younger sibling. That they are amusing themselves, and separately, is a good sign, my lord.”
Tyne gestured to the other reading chair positioned before the hearth, and Lucy nodded her assent. He was so mannerly, so—
He plucked her book from her hand. “I knew it. Mr. DeCoursy has carried you off again. He will simply have to wait his turn today, for I’m intent on carrying you off as well.”
Lord Tyne was mannerly most of the time. “I’m not exactly a sylph, your lordship, and I object to being hauled about.”
“No, you do not, else you’d never have lasted a single waltz at the tea dances you were doubtless forced to attend. From my observation, too many fellows do little more than haul their partners about. Why the waltz hasn’t been outlawed for the preservation of the ladies’ toes is a mystery for the ages.”
He wore no coat, which was unusual for him, and a trial for Lucy. She knew now how strong those arms were, how muscular his chest. She had become fascinated with his wrists—sketched them for an hour last night—and they were on view because he’d turned back his cuffs.
“Perhaps some obliging fellow of a parliamentary bent might draft a bill outlawing the waltz,” Lucy said. “Do you happen to know an MP who might oblige?”
Tyne rose and shelved the book. “Why would I associate with such a prosy old dodderer when I can instead kidnap fair maidens and take them to Gunter’s?”
Maidens, plural. “You’d like to take the girls out for an ice?”
“Not without you,” he said, extending a hand to her. “If I take them by myself, I’m outnumbered. Any papa knows that’s bad strategy. I also lack your ability to settle their squabbles with a calm word.”
Lucy took his hand and rose, though she was capable of standing unassisted. She simply wanted to touch him and wanted him to touch her. The short time she’d spent in Thor’s company had awakened some mischievous inclination in her, or made her loneliness—and her employer—harder to ignore.
“The girls squabble to get your attention,” she said. “If they were boys, they’d resort to fisticuffs for the same reason.”
“Some boys scrap for the pure joy of it. My younger brothers were always at each other, until Papa threatened to send one to Eton, one to Harrow, and one to Rugby.”
His younger brothers had likely been trying to get his attention. “Did you scrap for the pure joy of it?” She’d pictured Lord Tyne as a quiet, dignified boy—or she had until they’d ridden out together.
“I was the oldest, and thus the largest. I had to let them come at me in twos or all at once to make the fight fair. You will think me quite the barbarian, but I did enjoy horseplay as a youth.”
She smoothed her hand over his cravat, which was a half inch off center. “You scrap with the boys in the House of Lords now, don’t you?”
His smile was downright piratical. “You’ve found me out. Let’s mount a raid on Gunter’s, shall we? A spot of pillaging lifts the spirits of any self-respecting barbarian.”
Lucy took his arm, which was ridiculous, but so was fisticuffs for the joy of thrashing one’s siblings, so was categorizing a barberry ice as plunder, and so was entertaining fanciful notions regarding one’s employer.
“Perhaps we ought to take a blanket to spread beneath the maples,” she said. “Raiding on such a lovely day might tire out your foot soldiers.”
“Excellent notion,” his lordship replied, pausing at the foot of the main stairs. “You will doubtless do a better job of ordering the infantry from their barracks. I’ll meet you here in ten minutes.”
He strode away with his characteristic energy, and Lucy watched his departure with uncharacteristic longing. Berkeley Square boasted no babbling brook into which she might dangle her bare feet, and his lordship simply wanted assistance with the children—not some sighing damsel for him to read poetry to.
What Lucy wanted was becoming increasingly unclear, though barberry ices were her favorite treat, and that was insight enough for the day.