Chapter Thirty-Three
Mr. Brydges—Hugh, as he’d instructed her to call him—had kept his promise. Despite teasing her a little during dinner, he hadn’t revealed Charlotte’s activities to anyone in the family. Thus Charlotte was honor bound to keep her own promise as well, and the following afternoon, found herself in her riding habit for a second time in one week, walking to the stables for a riding lesson. This time, accompanied by Mr. Brydges.
She could smell the stable before they reached it. It smelled of dirty horses and sweaty leather. She was frightened. She’d made virtually no progress in her first lesson with Emma, a circumstance which was, admittedly, her own fault. She was deathly afraid of the ridiculously large animals. Whoever first saw a horse and thought to himself, I must climb atop that animal, she had no earthly idea. She’d done it, though, in her first lesson…climbed atop the horse. That had been about the extent of it, thankfully. She had been so frozen with fear just mounting the horse that the duchess hadn’t pushed for more. She had simply used a tether to lead the horse around the stable yard while Charlotte sat in the saddle, willing herself not to fall.
As a kindness, the duchess had sent the stable hands away, and led the horse around the yard herself, so others would not bear witness to Charlotte’s very severe fright and embarrassment. It would be revealed for certain this afternoon, however.
“You are very quiet,” Mr. Brydges observed. “Are you very nervous?” He appeared to ask the question out of genuine concern. Still, she disliked him knowing that she found this a considerable challenge when most everyone else in this country seemed to have no hesitation in hopping onto the backs of oversized animals within months of their birth.
“I shall be fine, Mr. Brydges. You have kept your promise and I shall keep mine.”
Charlotte did not look to take in his expression, but she could feel him looking down at her as they walked. She stiffened her shoulders and willed herself to be brave in front of him.
When they reached the stable, they were met by one of the stable hands, an earnest looking boy with unkempt hair who looked younger than Charlotte and probably rode better than she ever would.
“She’s all ready for you, Mr. Brydges,” the boy said, indicating a large horse of dappled gray who snorted and shook its mane at the two of them.
Where was the docile horse she had ridden with Emma? This horse was larger and seemed…unruly.
Mr. Brydges walked directly to the horse and stroked his hand down its mane. “Why don’t you come here and meet Comtessa, Charlotte? She is a magnificent animal.”
Charlotte took one step forward but made no farther motion toward the beast. It was lowering to reveal the extent of her fear to anyone, but here was a man who made his living from horses—spent all day with them. He would think her an absolute ninny if he understood how violently she quaked inside.
“I…” She failed to concoct a reasonable excuse for cancellation of their plans. “What about the horse I rode the other day?” She turned to the stable hand. “The…smaller one.”
“Mr. Brydges hand selected this mount especially for you, my lady.” The stable hand was beaming. “She just arrived three days ago.”
Three days ago? She’d only agreed to the riding lesson yesterday. She looked up accusingly.
“I see,” she answered. She looked uncertainly at the horse.
“Thank you for your help,” Mr. Brydges said to the stable hand. “I think I can help Lady Charlotte from here.”
The stable boy nodded and disappeared inside the stable, leaving them alone.
“Why don’t you come closer and get to know Comtessa first?” Mr. Brydges suggested. He walked to Charlotte and, tucking her arm into his, walked her slowly toward the horse.
By the time they reached the animal, Charlotte was certain she was shaking strongly enough for Mr. Brydges to feel. They stood closely enough to the horse that Charlotte could feel its warmth.
“Come now,” Mr. Brydges whispered as his head bent toward hers. “I thought you already had a lesson with the duchess.”
Charlotte shot him what she hoped was a baleful glance, but feared it was more likely a pitiful plea for rescue.
His brows knitted together in concern. “Let’s start slowly,” he said, with an unusual softness in his voice. His hand slid down her arm until he held her hand in his. He gently removed her glove then pulled her bare hand forward to lay her trembling fingers onto the soft hide of the horse. It was warm and tight. The horse blew, but remained still.
“Comtessa,” Charlotte said, as though by saying the name she might know the animal better.
Mr. Brydges pushed in closer behind her and she stiffened. She swallowed.
“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered, laying his gloved hand fully over her bare one.
She felt she rather did, though she was no longer sure the threat originated with the animal in front of her. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered, lying on both counts. She turned her head to the side and would have tried her best to look defiant, but the gentleness of his expression halted her. Something about him felt safe in a way that prompted her to admit softly, “I am terrified.”
He smiled crookedly at her and whispered, “I have never encountered another person with more pluck than you, my dear. You can ride this horse. We shall go slowly.”
“What if I fall?” she asked, turning back to the animal in front of her.
“You won’t fall,” he said.
Charlotte looked up at the saddle, the seat of which was higher than the top of her head. “How will you prevent it?” she asked.
“We could have the sidesaddle changed. You could ride with me.”
She pivoted to face him. She didn’t want to ride that animal by herself, but she didn’t want to ride with him holding her either.
“It wouldn’t be much use in teaching you to ride on your own,” he said, his voice soft and cajoling, “but if it would help you to relax your fear, it’s a good start.”
She looked up at him. She swallowed. Why was he looking at her that way—as though he could devour her like a treat? She couldn’t think when he did that.
He stepped forward.
She stepped backward…into the solid bulk of the horse. It shied and blew. She was trapped between him and the horse. Tears stung in her eyes and she blinked, hating that they were there.
His hand closed around her upper arm. “Shh,” he said softly. “Calm down.”
His head bent toward hers. She froze. She couldn’t shriek and push him away without being trampled by the horse. Contrary to every instinct, she accepted his kiss without resistance. She stood, still as a stone, until it was over.
He lifted his head as quickly as he had lowered it, and she stared up at him, wanting to ask why, waiting for the smug arrogance to settle into his features.
Only it wasn’t there. He looked…confused.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. When he opened them again, he said, “My apologies. That was…wrong of me.”
“I—I think we should be finished with the lesson for today,” she said.
“Perhaps so.” Mr. Brydges stepped back. “You should return to the house. I will see to the horse.”
* * *
By the time Charlotte had nearly reached the house, she decided she should forget everything that had happened in her very brief riding lesson. She could not make sense of Mr. Brydges. It didn’t seem as though he was teasing her again, but surely he wouldn’t be attracted to her. Was he trying to comfort her? Was it pity? She hated that thought. Pity was worse than teasing.
“Hello, Lottie.”
Charlotte froze. Feline alertness suffused her. She recognized the voice. She hated that voice.
Slowly, she pivoted on her heal. “Mr. Pritchard. You are a long way from home.”
“I could say the same for you.” He looked unkempt, with a days-grown beard and rumpled clothes. She suspected he might be intoxicated, as in her experience, he often was.
She gave a silent, unladylike curse. Where was the man her brother had sent to keep Mr. Pritchard away? She hastily looked around. When she had confirmed no one had seen them, she grabbed the man by his sleeve and dragged him into the relative privacy of one of the arched stone alcoves on the manor’s ground level.
She glared at him and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “This is my home. And you are not welcome in it.”
“Yes it is, isn’t it?” he drawled, choosing to ignore the latter portion of her statement. He stepped in for a closer inspection. “Look at you now, Lottie, in such fine clothing and such grand circumstances. You won’t be grand for long, I don’t think.”
She stiffened. She didn’t answer to his family anymore. She didn’t have to listen to him. “Why have you come, Mr. Pritchard? What do you want?”
“I’ve come for you,” he told her with a head cocked to one side and a smirk that threatened to release alcohol-laden breath..
“What could you possibly want from me?” she asked, though she already knew the answer
“Why, marriage of course.” He swayed slightly but righted himself, grinning all the while.
“No.”
“You will marry me. You may look dressed up and dignified now, but who will want you when they know you were nothing but my kitchen maid?”
“I was never your maid. I was employed by your father and mother. They, at least, are good, decent people.”
“Good people or no, you were a common laborer.” He leaned against the arch, posing as the lord of the manor. His grin widened. “There was even some suspicion you may have engaged in an inappropriate relationship with the young man of the house.”
“That’s a lie and if you try anything again, you’ll feel the blade of a knife just the same as before.”
“Threaten all you want, Lottie, but you’ll be a laughingstock.” He shook his head in mock consternation. “Think of the shame you’ll bring on your family. Wouldn’t it be so much better to have your brother introduce you as the sister who went abroad and married the son of a respectable Boston family?”
“You have never been respectable no matter who your family is,” she spat.
His expression quickly transitioned from a taunting smirk to one of grave warning. “I’m sure the duke and duchess will see the merits of this solution if you do not. I’ve spoken to your brother already.” The smirk returned. “I think he’s warming to the idea. I’m sure he and his new wife will want to avoid a scandal at all costs.”
She glared at him. “They would never let me marry you. You will leave England, or they will chase you out.” Even as she vowed it to him, a fist seemed to clench around her insides. Everyone was so fixated on her reputation and acceptance into high society.
He pushed himself forward. No longer supported by the solid stones of the archway, he stumbled, gained his footing, then smiled up at her. “Don’t be so certain, my pet. Besides,” he said, lifting a hand to touch her, “I think you and I could get on very well together.”
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t you touch me.”
His look became foul. Violence threatened in his eyes and she wished for a knife, riding crop, anything she could use to fend him off without shouting and bringing the entire household out to witness her shame. She was mentally assessing whether his drunkenness would be more harm or help, when a shadow dimmed the alcove.
“I would apologize for interrupting,” Mr. Brydges said aridly, “but I’m not at all sorry.”
Shame chased quickly behind the relief that had coursed through Charlotte upon hearing his voice. Unsure what he had assumed, but unwilling to stammer explanations, Charlotte looked up at him, but he did not see her. His eyes were daggers that should have flayed Mr. Pritchard where he stood.
Mr. Pritchard was too drunk or too foolhardy to be cowed by the presence of a man who was angry, sober, and substantially larger than he was. He leered toward Charlotte. “We’ll have to finish our talk later, sweetheart.”
At the word “sweetheart,” Mr. Pritchard was summarily yanked from the alcove by Mr. Brydges. He yelped as his backside landed hard on the crushed stone.
Charlotte had no time to take pleasure in his indignity, as she was pulled from the alcove next. She was not allowed to fall, however, as Mr. Brydges large hand remained firmly closed around her arm.
“I will be accompanying the lady to the house. I will send men to search for you. If you have enough sense to run now, you may escape their worst.” He walked away, dragging Charlotte with him, before Mr. Pritchard could even respond.
As they rounded the corner, Charlotte glared back over her shoulder for good measure, but Mr. Pritchard did not see her. He was occupied levering himself up from the ground and inspecting the scrapes on the palms of this hands.
Struggling to keep up with Mr. Brydges’s purposeful strides, Charlotte hurried along beside him. “How much of that did you hear?” she asked.
“Enough to know you were reckless for even speaking with him. You should have run to the house the moment he appeared.”
“Will you tell anyone?” she asked.
He stopped abruptly and spun her. She nearly pitched forward into him from the force of it. “You will tell them. I will not be staying for conversation.” He glanced toward the corner around which they had just come. “Part of me hopes he has taken his time.”
He began walking again, still dragging Charlotte with him. He didn’t release her until they had reached the main entryway.
She stopped on the threshold and looked back at him as he stood, like a guard, waiting to see her safely inside. “Thank you,” she said softly.
He nodded and she hurried inside.