Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride. Elizabeth Rolls

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СКАЧАТЬ she was led around to the saddle. Balanced against Merlin’s side, clutching the stirrup, she lifted a foot. His hands grasped her waist and lifted her. She gasped, and found herself perched on the saddle. For a moment his hands stayed at her waist, then dropped to her hip, steadying her. That was all. Wasn’t it? Her body hummed, as if…as if he had caressed her. Nonsense! He was making sure she was safely in place. She sat up as straight as possible, and the disturbing hands released her. She sighed in relief, thinking her ordeal over.

      Wrong. His lordship was busy arranging her right leg safely over the pommel, long fingers gripping her knee as he pushed it into position. She froze, desperately trying to ignore the intimacy of his touch. Ridiculous. He was merely showing her how to sit. There was nothing intimate about it. Then his hands were on her left ankle as he adjusted her foot in the stirrup. She had to remind herself that she was wearing a boot. That he was not really touching her ankle. More accidental touches as he shortened the stirrup leather. Then he caught her foot again.

      ‘Keep your heel pushed down, Miss Daventry,’ he instructed, doing it for her. ‘That helps to keep your, er, seat, firmly in the saddle.’

      That was a relief to know. She felt like a bug perched up there. Merlin seemed a great deal taller than he had from the ground.

      ‘Now—your reins.’

      Christy looked down at the reins. She had picked them up. She knew that much. But what should she do with them?

      His lordship showed her. ‘Just hold them lightly,’ he said, long fingers guiding hers to the right position, and showing her how to shorten the reins. ‘They are not to help you balance. Only to guide him. You must only feel his mouth. A light contact. And keep your thumbs on top.’

      Her hands were gloved, but his touch felt just as shockingly intimate as it had on her legs. He stepped back and looked her over. She blushed.

      ‘Very well. At least you don’t have to be told to keep your back straight,’ he commented. He walked around to his own horse and mounted with fluid grace.

      Ridiculous to glow at such off-hand praise. Determinedly she sat even straighter in the saddle.

      Merlin snorted and took a couple of steps. Stifling a gasp, as her balance shifted, Christy clutched at the saddle, but Merlin came up against the end of the leading rein and stopped. She straightened at once and glanced across at his lordship, but he seemed not to have noticed.

      Any more than he had noticed how scared she was. Stupid. It was years since she had fallen off that horse of Harry’s, and Merlin was much quieter, but still…she forced herself to breathe deeply.

      All women had waists, Julian reminded himself. Discovering Miss Daventry’s waist under the slightly-too-large habit might have been a surprise, but not one that should have had his hands lingering, marvelling at the suppleness of the curve, and then drifting to her hip.

      With a swift glance at Miss Daventry to assure himself that she was secure in the saddle, he tugged gently at the leading rein and put his own mount into a walk. Miss Daventry’s face blanked as Merlin moved, but she gave no other sign, beyond sitting very straight and still.

      He had been trying to believe that Miss Daventry must be as shapeless as her gowns. But she wasn’t. She disguised her body as effectively as she hid her true nature. Under the dowdy clothes she was slender and lissom as a willow. She would be sweet, warm…sweet? Hell’s teeth! If she knew what he was thinking now, and as he settled her in the saddle, she’d be a virago!

      Miss Daventry might have an elegant figure and a neatly turned ankle, but she was a bundle of prickles. For which, he admitted, she could not be blamed. A wise woman in her position avoided drawing mens’ attention, unless she wished for a career in the demi-monde. Governesses and companions always held themselves slightly apart.

      A lonely existence…

      ‘Where shall we go,’ asked Lissy, bringing her mare up beside them. ‘Miss Daventry, you choose.’

      Julian noted that Miss Daventry looked somewhat startled at being consulted. She demurred.

      ‘Oh. That’s very kind, Miss Trentham, but I do not know this part of the country at all, so—’

      ‘I like the river,’ said Davy, hopefully.

      Lissy sighed theatrically. ‘Not the river again, Davy!’

      ‘No, Davy!’ said Emma. ‘Not everyone likes waiting while you watch for trout that never appear.’

      Davy scowled.

      About to vote for the river and bring down a deluge of fury on his head, Julian was forestalled by Miss Daventry.

      ‘A river? With trout? Real trout?’

      Davy’s scowl vanished as hope rekindled. ‘And salmon. Really big ones,’ he said, dropping his reins to demonstrate. He shot a glare at his sisters as he caught up the reins again. ‘And they do appear. Julian owns them.’ This last with great pride.

      Miss Daventry’s mouth barely twitched. ‘Then of all things, that is what I should most like to see,’ she said firmly. ‘I had no idea his lordship was important enough to own fish and make them appear.’

      Emma giggled, and Matthew shouted with laughter.

      ‘There you are, Julian. When do you try holding back the tide?’

      ‘As I recall,’ said Julian, trying not to laugh, ‘that wasn’t King Canute’s idea! The river then. Come along all of you.’

      They rode towards the river, all thought of quarrelling forgotten.

      He had to hand it to Miss Daventry. She had averted a quarrel very neatly. Lissy was far too well brought-up to argue with her. He was amused to see that Lissy’s attitude to Miss Daventry was just what he had hoped it would be. Sympathetic affection laced with pity. Which should be enough to have Lissy entertaining second thoughts about her infatuation for the dashing Mr Daventry. In his experience pity was a death knell to passion.

      As for Miss Daventry, he listened with deepening respect as she took shameless advantage of Davy’s momentary gratitude.

      ‘Davy, what is the French word—’ beyond a faint smile she ignored a groan ‘—for “fish”?’

      His littlest brother stared, and wrinkled his brow. ‘Pou… poussin?’

      ‘Nearly,’ said Miss Daventry. ‘That is a chicken, but it does sound similar. Poisson.’

      They rode on towards the river and Julian listened in utter disbelief as Miss Daventry proceeded effortlessly to enlarge not only Davy’s French vocabulary, but Matthew, Emma and Lissy’s as well.

      Talking about fish.

      By the time they reached the woods, Christy felt a great deal safer on horseback. Lord Braybrook had insisted on keeping to a walk, but now permitted the younger members of the party to ride ahead.

      ‘Very neat, Miss Daventry,’ he said, as the youngsters raced off whooping. ‘I had no idea Davy knew that much French.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ