Chapter Seven
Philippe had not wanted to believe his eyes. He’d been behaving like a good student, walking his horse as Harriet had told him to, while Ramsdale had literally hung on her arm, taken liberties with her person, and kissed her in public.
Twice.
Harriet—who suffered no foolishness from anybody—had smiled up at the earl as if he’d promised to grant her every maidenly wish.
And now, as the line of guests outside the ballroom doors stretched down the steps and out into the receiving hall, Philippe must again behave like a biddable gentleman when he wanted instead to kick fragile heirlooms.
Or a certain earl’s backside.
Philippe longed to believe anything other than mutual attraction explained the affection Ramsdale had shown Harriet the previous day. And yet, Ramsdale’s overtures made a bleak kind of sense.
Harriet had been practicing on Philippe. She’d never represented anything to the contrary. In the long week since that wonderful interlude in her guest bedroom, she’d not so much as patted Philippe’s cravat. She had nattered on about his riding position, gradually raised the crossrails to the dizzying height of two and a half feet, and congratulated him effusively on being able to ride as well as a ten-year-old boy.
Did she even realize that was his cravat pin mocking him from beneath her chin every day?
Like a gentleman, Philippe had not assumed that one liberty granted meant others were expected.
Because they weren’t.
“Your Grace, good evening!” Lady Ambrosia Warminster offered her gloved hand, sank into a slow curtsey, and came up, eyelashes batting away.
“My lady, a pleasure,” Philippe said, the same as he’d said a hundred times in the past hour. “I’m so glad you could join us.” Though she must have traveled half the day to accept what Ada had doubtless intended as a courtesy invitation.
“I anticipate nothing but joy this evening, particularly if you’ll join me on the dance floor, Your Grace. A lady mustn’t be forward, of course, but I do so love to waltz.”
Other guests in line were smirking at this forwardness, and a month ago, Philippe would have yielded his waltz. Give the woman a bit of what she wanted and then disappear among the wallflowers, bachelorhood intact.
Philippe dropped her hand. “You dare me to deprive an entire shire’s worth of eager bachelors of the opportunity to stand up with you, my lady? I could never hold my head up in society if I should be so selfish. Ah, Mr. Stolzfuss and Mrs. Stolzfuss. I hear your filly did quite well in the rain last week.”
Lady Ambrosia went smiling on her way—she had dozens of titles to chase after if that was her game of choice—while Philippe greeted more neighbors and willed the line to end.
The Talbots were among the last to arrive.
“My friends,” Philippe said, shaking Jackson Talbot’s hand. “A pleasure to see you both.”
He bowed to Harriet and maintained his composure by a slim thread. She wore a new dress, a soft brown velvet trimmed in red piping that revealed to the entire world the lush perfection of her figure.
“Harriet looks a treat, don’t she?” Talbot said. “Resembles her dear mother more each day. Come along, Harry. A man must find some fortification for socializing in a crowd this size.”
When had Talbot become so oblivious to manners where his daughter was concerned? Philippe possessed himself of Harriet’s hand as she half-turned to follow her father.
“Miss Talbot,” Philippe said. “You’re looking very well.” Delectable, radiant, beautiful. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that frock before.”
Oh, that was original.
“I restitched one of Mama’s dresses.”
“Harriet,” Talbot barked, leaning heavily on his cane. “I need to get off my damned feet.”
Harriet snatched her hand away.
“Mr. Talbot,” Philippe said, “surely you don’t begrudge me a moment to appreciate the beauty before me?” A moment to work up the nerve to ask Harriet what exactly Ramsdale meant to her?
For Philippe could not believe that the woman who’d admitted him to her bed a week ago felt nothing but friendship for him. She could have easily shared that experience with the earl if he was her choice, and Harriet—Philippe’s Harriet—wasn’t a woman who proceeded by indirection or intrigue.
“You flatter me, Your Grace,” Harriet said, smiling graciously. “I’ll wish you a pleasant evening and see you in the ballroom.”
She curtseyed, he bowed, and away she went, Talbot leaning on her arm.
The line eventually dwindled, and Philippe vowed that next year, the harvest ball would instead be a picnic. Papa and Jonas had loved all the folderol and pageantry, but Philippe’s slippers were already pinching, and the evening had barely begun.
“Has Lord Ramsdale come down?” Philippe asked the first footman when the final guest had been greeted. Crewe had been with the family for ages, and counted as an ally.
Unlike a certain earl.
“Indeed, he has, Your Grace. He’s taking the air on the side terrace, where the other guests have yet to intrude.”
“I’ll fetch him inside,” Philippe said. “Lady Ambrosia requires a consolation earl for the opening set.” And the dancing would not start until Philippe signaled the musicians.
He slipped down the footmen’s stairs to the corridor that led to the side terrace, which was dimly lit to encourage guests to tarry in the better-illuminated back gardens. Philippe at first didn’t see Ramsdale, though he should have been hard to miss.
The earl stood in the shadow of an overhanging balcony, a woman before him.
“Had I known what treasures those riding habits kept hidden,” Ramsdale said, “I’d have forbidden you to wear them years ago.”
“My lord, no man tells me what I might or might not wear.”
That was Harriet, and she was being playful—flirtatious even.
“Somebody ought to provide you some guidance,” Ramsdale said, standing much too close to her. “Your papa is preoccupied with working you to death, but I daresay some changes are in the offing that will redound to your everlasting joy. Are you feeling more prepared to face the crowd inside? I, for one, would rather tarry out here under the stars.”
What manner of discussion was this, and what changes did Ramsdale refer to?
Harriet went up on her toes and kissed Ramsdale’s cheek. “I am much fortified by your company, my lord, and while I too would prefer the quiet of a pleasant autumn night, we’ve been away from the festivities too long.”
She hugged him—purely, openly hugged him, and Ramsdale sneaked a kiss to the top of her head.
“Then let’s away to the ballroom, my dear. Before you know it, the evening will be over and all our tribulations behind us.”
Ramsdale offered his arm with a gallantry Philippe hadn’t seen from him in London and escorted a beaming, beautiful Harriet down the path that led to the back gardens.
Philippe took a solitary bench at the edge of the terrace and watched Harriet and her swain as they joined other couples strolling beneath the torches.
In the past five minutes, nothing had changed. Philippe was still the Duke of Lavelle.
Ramsdale was still his best friend.
Harriet was still Philippe’s… more than his best friend. His dearest friend, his almost-lover on one very special occasion, and the woman for whom he’d climbed back onto a horse. She had given him something important over these past few weeks, made him take stock of his life and his priorities.
She was truly his friend, and if Ramsdale was her choice… so be it.
Philippe rose, affixed a gracious smile to his features, and returned to the house. Jonas would have laughed, or taken charge of the situation with a combination of charm and influence Philippe would never claim and no longer wanted.
The way forward was clear, and a duke might hesitate to take it, but as Harriet’s friend, as the man who loved her dearly and wanted only her happiness, Philippe knew exactly what he must do.
* * *
“Your Grace is having a bad ride,” Harriet said, trying to keep the consternation from her voice. “They happen. Sometimes we’re tired and don’t realize it. Sometimes the horse is out of sorts. You must not take it personally.”
Gawain was being contrary, which made no sense, though often a horse grasped emotions a rider was trying to ignore. Philippe had been courteous and pleasant through the grooming and saddling, but from the first moment he’d set a boot in the stirrup, he and Gawain had been having a difference of opinion.
While he and Harriet had had… not even a difference of opinion. Ever since the ball last week, her friend Philippe, her lover Philippe had disappeared. The Duke of Lavelle had taken his place, and the loss cut her to the heart.
“Let’s try a few jumps, shall we?” Philippe suggested. “Gawain needs to work out some fidgets.”
Gawain wouldn’t know a fidget if it had been braided into his tail. “You want to jump today?” Harriet asked. “I was under the impression you dreaded work over fences.”
Philippe patted Gawain’s neck. The horse switched his tail and stomped at imaginary flies. “Gawain is a trusty fellow. We’ve managed adequately thus far. Perhaps he’s bored and seeks a greater challenge.”
At the ball, Philippe had partnered a different woman at every dance. That was polite behavior for a host, of course, but why did all his partners have to be beautiful, fashionable, and from the best families? Was that Philippe’s idea of a greater challenge?
“Gawain is no longer young,” Harriet said, dropping a rail from the nearest jump. “He can start out with a modest effort and work his way up, the same as he always does.”
Harriet was no longer young, no longer a girl. She ought to have the backbone to simply ask Philippe why, when the supper waltz had come around, he’d merely suggested that Ramsdale stand up with Harriet, while Philippe had partnered some Amazonian creature who appeared to use shoeblack on her hair.
“Trot this rail a few times,” Harriet said, stepping out of Gawain’s path.
Philippe and Gawain bickered their way over the low rail three times, though Gawain never quite refused. Philippe’s timing was off, though, and that was unusual.
“Raise the damned bar,” Philippe said. “Gawain isn’t paying attention.”
This, in fact, might have been true. The lesson horse’s greatest woe was boredom, and trotting crossrails was tedious in the extreme. Harriet added a second jump, raised the bar on it a few inches and silently willed the horse to settle to his work.
Gawain seemed to have forgotten where his feet were. He took off too close to the first jump, then too far away. He ignored the second jump until the last moment, then charged through the line as if the horses of hell were trying to steal his dinner.
“Your Grace, I think that’s enough for today. Sometimes, the best you can do is put the horse away and hope for a better ride tomorrow.”
“He’s being contrary,” Philippe said, trotting Gawain in a circle that included a small, ponderous buck. “Raise the damned bar, and we’ll end on a good note if I have to toss him over the jump myself.”
On the next circle, Gawain kicked out, but he was such a large, well-padded animal that even this misbehavior posed no danger to the rider.
“You haven’t jumped more than two and a half feet,” Harriet said. “Are you sure?”
“For heaven’s sake, Harriet. How many times have you told me that it’s easier to jump three feet than two?”
There came a time to raise the bar, and no instructor knew for sure when the pupil was ready. Philippe wasn’t riding well today, but then, perhaps he was bored—ready to be through with his instruction even.
“That’s three feet and three inches,” Harriet said, moving the rail upward. “Gawain can handle that height easily. Try it at a forward trot.”
Philippe adjusted his reins and guided the horse in a circle, but as Gawain came out of the circle, he broke into the canter. Harriet kept her peace, rather than hollering adjustments when Philippe might already be coping at the limit of his abilities.
“Drat you,” Philippe yelled as Gawain sped up.
Oh, no. Oh, dear angels. “Ride around!” Harriet called, heart sinking. “Pull him in a circle!”
Philippe ignored her, though he wasn’t in position. Gawain took off in a mighty leap half a stride too soon. He also chose to jump a good foot too high, and in the middle of his airborne arc, he twisted his back, sending Philippe flying into the dirt.
The duke landed in a heap, a puff of dust rising around him. Jeremy, who’d been wheeling a load of muck to the manure pit, came clambering over the rail, and Harriet ran the width of the arena to kneel in the dust beside her duke, and still, Philippe did not move.
* * *
“You’re an idiot,” Ramsdale said, pacing before the breakfast parlor’s fire. “A very great idiot, and if you don’t soon show some sense, I will decamp for London and let all and sundry know that the Ellis family has fallen prey to a strain of lunacy.”
Philippe was not an idiot, unless being in love qualified. “You must do as you see fit, Ramsdale, though I’m sure the Talbots will miss you. I’m for a walk.”
“What you call a walk these days would cross half of Spain. Why not ride with me? Everybody falls off from time to time—everybody—and we get back on, Lavelle.”
Being angry with Ramsdale was difficult when the earl was determined to be so loyal, and in truth, Ramsdale had done nothing wrong.
“I’ve had that discussion with Miss Talbot,” Philippe said. “She was desperate for me to get back on the horse, but my mind is made up. Horses are dangerous and smelly. They attract flies and drain a man’s exchequer. I’m done with horses.”
In truth, Philippe missed his rides with Gawain, and if anything plagued his conscience, it was the look of reproach in the beast’s eyes as the stable lad had led him away from Philippe’s last lesson.
“For reasons beyond my humble ken,” Ramsdale retorted, “I’m sure Miss Talbot has missed you, but you haven’t so much as paid a call on the Talbots since you took a tumble.”
“Miss Talbot is quite busy. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed how hard she works to keep her father’s stables in business, but I won’t bother Miss Talbot when she has other tasks to see to.”
Leaving the lady to her horses had been rather the point. A clean break, cede the field, stand aside so that two people in love might find their happily ever after—or whatever version of love one of Ramsdale’s nature ascribed to.
Harriet would pity Lavelle if he explained that he’d had aspirations in her direction, and her pity would have unhorsed his pride more thoroughly than Gawain had tossed him backside-first into the dirt.
No need for messy explanations or awkward scenes.
Like this one.
Philippe patted his lips with the serviette. “We have few beautiful days left before winter arrives. If you should take the bridle path in the Talbots’ direction, please give them my fondest regards, but don’t expect to see me on horseback ever again.”
Philippe had hiked the bridle path in both directions for miles. His steps always took him past the Talbot property, and most of the time, he tarried behind the hedges as Harriet rode one horse after another, coached the grooms, or stood by while her father and a client watched sale stock put through their paces.
Ramsdale visited Jackson Talbot frequently—or Jackson and Harriet, both.
Soon there wouldn’t be enough leaves left to conceal Philippe’s spying, and that was for the best. Regardless of how a rejected swain behaved, a duke did not lurk in hedgerows.
“If you’re determined to tramp over half of Berkshire, I’ll tramp with you,” Ramsdale said. “We should pack some comestibles, for the pace you set leaves a man peckish.”
“I’m paying a call on my nephews,” Philippe said. “By this time next year, they’ll be at public school. I’m their guardian, and a consultation with their tutor is in order. You’d be bored witless.”
A local widow had presented Jonas with twins before Jonas had completed his university studies, and they, along with two girls—one each in Kent and Sussex—were Philippe’s responsibility. He’d looked in on the boys within two days of returning to Berkshire, but not since.
They were lively, dear, and he missed their high spirits.
“I forget how many little darlings Chaddleworth left you. Three? Six? It’s a wonder he didn’t work his wiles on Miss Talbot, though I suppose he knew you’d hold him accountable for that folly.”
Philippe set aside half a plate of hot, fluffy eggs. “Ramsdale, are you trying to get yourself evicted? One mustn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Admitting the truth is not speaking ill, and your sainted brother was a hound. Thank God, you never sought to emulate him in that particular.”
Just the opposite. Philippe considered that insight as he finished a lukewarm cup of tea. “Perhaps I did learn from my brother’s bad example. If you’re intent on burdening me with your company when I visit the boys, then meet me at the front door in fifteen minutes.”
Ramsdale took the place at Philippe’s right and appropriated the unfinished plate of eggs. “You are daft, hiking all about the shire at a time of year when the weather changes by the minute. We could ride the distance in a quarter of the time.”
Well, yes, they could, and a pleasant hack it would be. “I tried getting back on the horse, and despite Miss Talbot’s best efforts, I failed. A fool persists at a doomed endeavor, a wise man gives up and accepts what cannot be changed.”
Ramsdale gestured with his fork. “Very profound. Perhaps you should make that the family motto. These are superb eggs. You will please not hold supper for me. I’ll be dining with the Talbots this evening, for Mr. Talbot and I have much to discuss, and I’ll wish you the joy of your perambulations.”
This casual announcement, made between bites of egg—bites of Philippe’s eggs—was a death blow to Philippe’s faint, ridiculous hopes where Harriet was concerned. Ramsdale planned to closet himself with Jackson Talbot. Given what Philippe had witnessed the night of the ball, the agenda for their conversation was all too easy to imagine.
“I’ll wish you a pleasant day and let Lady Ada know you won’t be joining us this evening.”
At least Ramsdale had spared Philippe the necessity of asking an old friend what his intentions were toward a dear friend.
A dear, much-missed friend. Who’d almost become Philippe’s lover… and his duchess.
Breakfast with Ramsdale was sufficiently unsettling that even walking five miles to call upon the widow and her offspring wasn’t enough to raise Philippe’s spirits. He went two miles out of his way to pick up the bridle path on the return journey, and there he found a measure of peace.
Jonas might well have seduced Harriet.
Jonas might have been up to eight by-blows by now, had he lived.
Jonas should have known better than to attempt that damned stile, but at Philippe’s last riding lesson, he’d finally gained some insight into his brother’s life and death. Riding was a risk, but the greater risk was in living a life without challenge, a life that refused to grapple with the difficult questions.
Besides, the first thing Jackson Talbot had taught Philippe long ago was how to take a fall safely, and Philippe had learned that lesson well.
If Philippe loved Harriet—and he did—then her happiness mattered more than his own. If Philippe loved Ramsdale—and he more or less did—then honor demanded that Philippe not question his friend’s claim on the lady’s affections.
That conclusion wasn’t ducal, wasn’t even particularly gallant, but simply where common sense and honor led.
Philippe had traveled a mile down the bridle path when he spied a riderless horse cropping grass beneath a stand of oaks. The bay gelding’s reins were drooping over its neck, which was bad news all around. A hoof could get caught in those reins, a leg tangled.
“Halloo, horse,” Philippe said as he approached the animal. The last thing a loose horse needed was an excuse to spook. “Having a light snack, are we?”
The horse’s head came up abruptly, and it dodged off a few paces.
“You’re a fine, big specimen,” Philippe said, “and you look familiar, but you’re not too bright a fellow if you intend to jaunt off across the countryside with your reins dangling.”
The horse took another mouthful of grass, keeping an eye on Philippe all the while.
This could go on for the rest of the day, until the horse either galloped off down the bridle path or stepped on a rein and fell in a heap. A day that had begun sunny and mild was turning overcast, and Philippe was still several miles from home.
Several miles from anywhere, given that this little corner of Berkshire was more woods than cultivated land.
“You’ve had your snack,” Philippe said, walking right up to the horse. “Time to be a good boy and tell me what you’ve done with your rider.”
In the face of confident handling, the horse stood docilely. Philippe got the reins sorted out and took stock of the surrounding terrain. No coat of sweat suggested the gelding had galloped any distance, but a relaxed trot with time for the occasional graze could still cover five miles in an hour.
Philippe examined the saddle, lifting the flaps and peering behind the cantle. A stylized coat of arms had been burned into the leather beneath the offside flap—a ram’s head, caboshed.
Unease wafted on the freshening breeze. Philippe got a firm grip of the reins, because he was about to shout at the top of his lungs and the horse would doubtless startle.
“Ramsdale! Ramsdale! Where the bloody hell are you?”