The Duke's Bridle Path by Burrowes, Grace, Romain, Theresa (15)

The following noon, the message arrived for Colin just as he had descended the stairs of the White Hare. He had dressed in his own clothing—for once, thank goodness, and it fit like heaven—and was prepared to fortify himself with bread and tea before marching the familiar line of the bridle path toward Theale Hall.

“This just arrived from the Hall for you, Mr. Goddard,” said the publican, a hearty, friendly man named Jarvis. “Her ladyship’s groom brought it from her ladyship. Said she didn’t need a reply by note, but that you could make it in person.”

A dew of perspiration broke out on Colin’s forehead as soon as Jarvis pressed the note into his hand. It was addressed to him, so he knew it read Mr. Goddard, but the letters all twined around as if Ada’s handwriting were a living vine.

“Of course.” He fired a confident smile at Jarvis. “Thank you. I’ll just… have a look at it in private.”

Which meant he’d have to have Samuel read it to him. Clutching the note in his fist, he climbed the stairs with considerably less brio than he’d thumped down them only a few minutes before. His brother had just gone to sleep, being nearly nocturnal, but he could wake up for a moment. It would take him far less time to wake, read it aloud, and go back to sleep than it would for Colin to flounder through it on his own.

But when he eased open the door of their shared chamber and took a look at Samuel, he couldn’t bear to wake him. Samuel had stayed up long, worked hard, run off during a walk the brothers had meant to share—and now he was asleep, fiercely so, his brows knit and his eyes ringed with shadows of fatigue.

Colin stepped back, slowly so the floorboards didn’t creak, and let the door shut again. All right. He’d read it himself.

Mr. Goddard, it said on the outside. He knew that. And on the inside—

He cracked the seal, only to be faced with lines of what looked like gibberish. A wall of it, all loops and lines linking and interlocking and unlacing again. He’d been eager to set off for Theale Hall, and his concentration was all in pieces.

Squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them wide, he tried again.

Druu Qloom —all right, that had to say Dear Colin. But what came next? He couldn’t think. He didn’t want to know. What if she suspected he’d come up with the Periodical questions about her brother? What if she was done with him?

Or what if she merely wanted to ask him to buy a few cakes in the village for the tea she was planning to host in the early afternoon? It could be anything.

If Ada had ever sent him a note before, he’d have a sense of whether this was something he could give Jarvis a coin to read out for him after pleading a splitting head. But she hadn’t. So the chance was too great that the note was of a personal nature.

He hoped it was of a personal nature. Surely it would not be bad, if she wanted a reply from him. Yes, that made sense. The best way to find out would be to go to Theale Hall, as he’d intended, and tease out the substance of the note from Ada before making his reply as she’d wished, in person.

Cramming the note into an inner pocket of his coat, he set off, whistling.

“You didn’t even read it?” Ada was arranging and rearranging the dishes on a tea service. She was sorely tempted to wing one of them at Colin Goddard’s head.

But she couldn’t. Everything had to look perfect, for Lord and Lady Wrotham were coming over for tea.

They were staying in the area at some small place of Wrotham’s father, and Ada had known since the dinner a week before that she ought to have them over again. If she hadn’t once been betrothed to Wrotham, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. New company was thin in the country, and invitations were eagerly granted and seized.

Kisses on the bridle path—and on the lips—had buoyed her throughout the morning. Thoughts of the note she’d scribbled out, of Colin’s possible responses, had teased and tantalized her. Would he want…? Did they dare…?

Now she found out he hadn’t even read the damned thing. Maybe she would throw a dish at him after all.

“I was busy,” he said.

“You could have read it as you walked over from the inn.”

He looked at her pityingly. “I had other things on my mind. If it’s that important, just tell me about it now. Your groom said I might give you my reply in person.”

“Yes, but that was assuming you would have read my note and thought it over.”

Chalmers appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. “My lady, Lord and Lady Wrotham have arrived.”

Good Lord. What had she got herself into? Pasting a smile upon her face, she said, “Thank you, Chalmers. Please show them in.”

To Colin, she shot a look of pure venom. He hadn’t even read the note. “There’s no time to talk about this right now,” she hissed. “We’ll speak of it later.”

He didn’t even bother looking chagrined. He just shrugged, smiled at the entry of the two guests, greeted them in a way that was everything polite and friendly. He had a gift for that, she had to admit—though right now every kind thing she thought about him was grudging, because he hadn’t even read the note.

Ugh.

With an effort, she set aside that annoyance and guided Lord and Lady Wrotham to a set of comfortable chairs. The four tea-drinkers surrounded a round table on which a tea service and several towers of dainties were set out. Around them, the drawing room’s draperies were drawn back to let in early afternoon light and permit a view of the grounds.

“Nice look at the stables from here,” Wrotham granted. He put an unbelievable amount of lemon into his tea. “Talbot used to be the horse master here, didn’t he? Good old fellow. Really knows his horseflesh.”

Ada politely agreed with all of this, then offered biscuits.

“I’d love one,” said Lady Wrotham. “I am remarkably fond of shortbread.”

Colin took up a plate and passed it over to the viscountess.

“No, those are lemon biscuits,” said Ada. “See, there’s a little sign.” Fussy of her, probably, but when one put out a dozen types of biscuits and cakes, one needed a reminder of what they were. She’d written labels in her neatest script on lavender paper, then folded each into a tiny upside-down vee to rest on the plate.

“My mistake. I overlooked it.” Colin grinned. “Too eager to try a biscuit myself, I suppose.”

“I will happily have one of those, Mr. Goddard. Don’t they look delicious?” Lady Wrotham was all smiles and good cheer. Her neat blond hair and riding habit showed that the couple planned to spend another day at the horse farm.

Ada turned the subject back to that safe direction, asking what the couple thought of the Talbot horses and whether they’d determined which to buy.

“If we only wanted to buy horses,” said her ladyship, “we certainly could have chosen them much more quickly! But Wrotham and I are enjoying our stay in the area. So lovely in autumn here, isn’t it? And it is nice to get away from London. I’ve been indulging myself with daily rides on practically every animal in Talbot’s stable.”

“You must be a fine horsewoman,” Ada noted. “I’ve no doubt the new duchess would love to make your acquaintance if you find yourself in Berkshire after she and my brother return from abroad.”

Wrotham cleared his throat. “As to that, I cannot say. Our plans for the future remain unfixed.”

Ada blinked. “Well, surely you’ll cross paths with Her Grace in—”

“Lady Ada.” He struggled to smile. “You will forgive me for broaching an awkward subject, but your family—that is, since your eldest brother’s death, it has been known to me that—that is—”

“Spit it out, man,” grumbled Colin.

Wrotham sighed. “The Ellis family draws more than its share of scurrilous notice. An acquaintance cannot be too careful.”

Colin blinked. “You don’t want to meet with the new Duchess of Lavelle because there was a whisper of scandal tied to her marriage with the duke.”

“Surely not!” Ada said. “Harriet Talbot is a gentlewoman by birth and behavior, and…”

She trailed off, staring at the three faces arrayed before her. Lord Wrotham looked stony, but superior. His wife looked chagrined. Colin was all grimness.

Ada struggled to understand. “That’s it? A few impertinent questions in The Gentleman’s Periodical, and you won’t even meet with a duchess?”

She’d not thought Wrotham could sit up straighter, but he managed it. “It’s not a respectable journal, but it does a great service by asking the questions others are afraid to.”

“Not respectable?” Now Colin was piqued. Ada shot him a look of pure this is neither the time nor the place. He shut his mouth, but continued to fire darts of loathing at Lord Wrotham’s elegant self.

“I am sure Lord Wrotham doesn’t mean any insult,” murmured his wife. “He only thinks of reputation.”

“I know he does.” Ada wanted to put her hands to her temples and squeeze this conversation out of her head. Or lace her tea with brandy and drink it down as if it were lemonade. “I know that.”

“Lady Ada is constantly thinking of that too,” Colin said solemnly—a shift in mood so quick that Ada looked at him warily. “She has done me the honor of permitting my attentions to her, but always with the reservation that I am not worthy of her.” He paused. “That was my reservation, I should explain. Not hers. For Lady Ada would never for a moment betray any ungraciousness due to her birth, which is, as you are both aware, higher than any of ours.”

What the devil…? Ada knew she ought to say something, but she had no idea what. Her mouth was open, waiting for words to issue forth. But all she could think was, What the devil? Was he chastising them all? Complimenting them? Chastising the Wrothams and complimenting Ada?

From the expressions on Lord and Lady Wrotham’s faces, they were wondering something similar.

“I—” Ada began.

Colin put a hand to his heart, and she snapped her mouth shut. “Lady Ada is the best woman I could ever have imagined,” he sighed. “I know I am not good enough for her. I know I have nothing to offer that she needs. Nevertheless, I hoped for her heart, and in the time that I had her hand, I was the happiest man in England.”

“Lady Ada and you…you two were betrothed?” Lord Wrotham was squinting, as if this would slow the flow of unexpected information.

“No, we weren’t,” Ada said. “Mr. Goddard never asked for my hand.” She looked murder at Colin.

But he was oblivious. Whatever part he was playing, he was well into it now. “I would have if I had any prayer of success. I should not have implied otherwise. You would never be so dishonorable, Lady Ada, as to jilt someone to whom you’d made a promise.”

Lady Wrotham drank her tea, the cup hiding her features. Ada would have given ten guineas to read the other woman’s expression.

“You are embarrassing me,” she whispered to Colin behind the shield of her own cup. Impossible that the Wrothams would not hear, but she didn’t altogether mind that. “Stop. Talking.”

“I’ll see myself out,” Colin cried. “If Lady Ada will but come with me, so I might have a few more minutes in the light of her presence.”

Wrotham had gone pale, but he had self-possession enough to reply, “That’s not seeing yourself out, then.”

Colin sprang to his feet. “What are you playing at, sir? What do you—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—let’s be on with it.” Ada stood, cutting him off. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, my lord, my lady, I will see Mr. Goddard to the door.”

Fuming, she marched him out of the drawing room and into the entry hall of the stately home. “What are you doing?” she whispered furiously.

“Did you like that?” he murmured, an eye toward the open door of the drawing room a few yards away. “Rather good, wasn’t it? I’ve been wanting to get in a few licks at Wrotham since I first met him. He deserves it, you know.”

“It’s ungracious to try to embarrass a guest. Especially in front of his wife, who is a fine woman who did nothing wrong.” And it was ungracious, Ada did not add, to toy with her finer feelings by implying that his were fully engaged.

“I did it for you, so you could get a bit of your own back. Triumph over him.”

“By triumphing over you?” She shook her head. “It wasn’t necessary. I don’t care about Lord Wrotham anymore.”

He folded his arms, leaning against the wall. “Right. Which is why you arranged for me to be your devoted slave for two weeks.”

Was he bitter? Maybe he was just annoyed. She certainly was. “If you’d read the note, you’d know I don’t want that from you anymore.” She drew in a deep breath, clenching her hands into fists for courage. “I want more.”

“You want more.” He bumped his head against the wall a few times. When he spoke, he sounded tired. “And what do you think I can give you, Lady Ada Ellis? I work for every penny. I’ve nothing to my name but nerve and a glib tongue.”

“You can’t think so. You’ve much more to offer than that.”

“Compared to your fortune? It’s nothing.”

She tried for lightness. “Well, if I already have a fortune, I don’t need another one, do I?”

He raised a brow. “Strange logic. What do you need, then?”

“I was beginning to think”—she swallowed—“that I needed you. But you didn’t read my note. Did it—couldn’t you tell that it mattered to me?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “I guessed that it did. In my hurry to reach you, I’m afraid I left it behind at the inn. Won’t you tell me about it now?”

Oh, he was good. So calm and sincere, he almost had her placated. “I wanted to cancel our bargain. I wanted you to stay as a guest. A friend. And… so, I said in the note, I wanted to know what you thought of that. If you were interested in anything more than a series of pieces on how someone might wed for wealth.”

He pushed upright again, folded arms unlocking. He drummed his fingers on a glossy console table that showed every finger mark. “You put me in a difficult position. If I say that I am interested, am I not making myself the beneficiary of my own articles? But if I am not interested, do you not have the right to throw me out of your house?”

“I do,” she said. “But I won’t. You’ve won, you see. I can’t make it through the two weeks. I never imagined that would be the case, but so it is.”

“Why?” He looked mystified.

“I’m tired of pretense. I want something real. And if you want the same, let’s be on with it. And if you don’t, better that I know now than that I let myself fall too far.” Her voice quavered on the final words. Damnation.

“How far is too far? I ask only because I think I’ve done it already.”

“Do you really?” She searched his face. She’d thought, once, that she was skilled at catching out lies. Now she was desperate for signs of truth in his lineaments.

What she saw there was pain. Did it come from him, or was she seeing her own heart?

“What do you want from me, Colin Goddard?”

He looked away, made a slashing motion with his hand. “Nothing at all. You’re right, we should cancel the bargain. I won’t even state that I won, because then you’d have to write the articles for me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are hot and cold at once. What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing at all,” he said again.

“Impossible.”

He smiled, though it wasn’t the confident grin she was accustomed to seeing. This one rang false. “I promised to lie to you. You promised to catch me out. That was the deal from the beginning.”

For the first time since he’d sat across from her in the study a week ago, she had the creeping feeling that they could easily become adversaries.

“Didn’t we move beyond that? All our time together, and the kisses, and…” She pressed her lips together. She would not beg. A heart could not be moved unless it wanted to be.

“What am I hiding from you?” He sighed. “Let me reveal all, then. I am hiding my envy. Not at your position, but at the fact that you live near a village where you can buy caramel candies from a confectioner who’s known you your whole life. At the fact that you have the confidence to seat a man on a horse and trust that you’ll be able to talk him—and the horse—safely through. Or even at your resourcefulness, to turn one who could have been a foe into an ally with a single proposed bargain.”

The words were admiring, but the tone was not. He sounded angry, the laughter that so often edged his voice turned jagged and raw.

“Well.” He made a fist, bumped it against the wall. “I guess I’m not hiding any of that anymore.”

“I’m glad you were honest with me.” Sort of. She still felt unsettled. A figurative sword hung overhead; she could feel it swinging, the movement of air making her skin prickle.

“No. No, I’m not. I’m many things, Lady Ada, but honest isn’t one of them. I’m not the sort of man you want. It would be dishonorable of me to pretend I am.”

In these words, there was the ring of truth. Honest though he claimed he was not, there was everything genuine in these parting words.

So there was nothing more to say. And she let him go.

When the great front door closed behind him, she braced herself against the wall with a flat palm. The bones of Theale Hall held her up. They always would. She was no worse off now than before she had met Colin Goddard, with his glib tongue and his frank eyes and his Londonish energy. She was no worse off than she’d been before she talked with him, laughed with him, kissed him. Told him truths she had hardly dared admit to herself.

All of this was over, and she had been fine before, and she would be fine again.

She would paste the bits of her heart together, a heart she’d never meant to lend. Somehow, she’d said the word besotted enough that it had sunk in, and she’d thought it was to apply to her.

She really ought to have confined herself to numbers rather than words.

Slowly, trailing her fingers along the wall, she walked back to the drawing room. Outside of the doorway, she took a deep breath. Let her hands fall to her sides. Raised her chin.

“My apologies for the interruption,” she told Lord and Lady Wrotham. Her guests sat still and tentative. Uncertain. She smiled her reassurance. “All is well. Shall I ring for a fresh pot of tea?”