Grace? Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the proper lacing of a lady’s boot.”
“Oh no,” he said. “Quite familiar. I was only hoping for a glimpse of your stocking, but I see such privileges are allowed only for my fortunate friend Burke.”
She heard Mr. Burke grumble something, under his breath. “The other one, if you please,” she said to Abigail, fuming inwardly at Wallingford, the ass. She spoke without thinking. “I don’t allow such privileges to anyone. Least of all Mr. Burke.”
An icy silence descended. Alexandra glanced up in time to see Mr. Burke turn away, walking back to his horse. He had apparently tossed the reins in haste to the driver of the cart, and he retrieved them now, swinging aboard the animal with a single lithe movement, not scholarly at all.
“That is to say,” she said helplessly, “since we have only just met.”
“Excellent,” drawled Wallingford. “For I should hate to see you lose our wager so easily. No sport in it at all.”
“I have no intention of losing the wager, Wallingford,” Alexandra snapped. “And certainly not in
that
manner.”
Mr. Burke’s horse shifted about impatiently, its hooves making deep sucking noises in the mud.
Lord Roland cleared his throat. “I say,” he chirped out, “that’s hard luck, about your cart. How exactly are you expecting to go on?”
Alexandra rose. “We’re unloading the baggage,” she said, with dignity, “in order to push the cart out of the mud.”
Wallingford gave a low whistle. “Do you know, I should almost like to see you do it.”
“You’re a beast, Wallingford.” Lord Roland swung from his horse, looped the reins about one of the slats on the cart, and reached inside for a trunk.
“Oh, I say,” Alexandra said gratefully, “that’s awfully kind of you.” She picked a path back to the cart between the stickier patches of mud and fell in beside Lord Roland. “Come along, then, Abigail,” she called, over her shoulder.
“Oh, bugger it,” Wallingford muttered, and dismounted in resignation.
* * *
F our hours later, trudging along a winding narrow track into a fogbank, his left boot rubbing a blister the size of a guinea on the knuckle of his fourth toe, Finn found himself cursing the name of Alexandra, Lady Morley.
“Just how far along is this inn of hers?” he grumbled to Wallingford.
“My dear man,” sighed Wallingford, “you don’t suppose it actually
exists
, do you?”
Finn drew in his breath. “She wouldn’t!”
“The thing is, she used to be a nice sort of girl,” Wallingford said, kicking viciously at a stone, until it tumbled over the ledge and fell in long dramatic plunges to the switchback below. “I believe I first met her in Lady Pembroke’s ballroom, directly after she came out. Fetching creature. Round cheeks, glossy hair, fresh from the country. Bit of a sharp wit, of course, but charming enough, all told. If I’m not mistaken, I kissed her once, on someone’s terrace, moonlight and all that. And then . . .” He paused to kick another stone.
“And then?” Finn prodded, a little too eagerly.
“What’s that? Oh, I suppose I got distracted. I was chasing after Diana at the time, and . . . oh, gad, yes. Now I remember. Diana caught me at it, you see, on the terrace, and . . . well, Burke, old fellow, if you ever want to get a particular woman in bed—which I daresay even
you
must, from time to time—the thing to do is to get caught kissing another one.” He chortled mirthlessly and sent another stone flying off the ledge. “Bloody hell, yes. The desk in the library, it was. I had to borrow her handkerchief, as my own was . . .”
“Look here,” Finn broke in, “about that inn. Do you really think she made that up?” He narrowed his eyes to peer some twenty or so yards ahead, where the graceful figure of Lady Morley floated along the road atop his own horse, her black skirts gathered cunningly to accommodate the saddle. In the shrouding
“Oh no,” he said. “Quite familiar. I was only hoping for a glimpse of your stocking, but I see such privileges are allowed only for my fortunate friend Burke.”
She heard Mr. Burke grumble something, under his breath. “The other one, if you please,” she said to Abigail, fuming inwardly at Wallingford, the ass. She spoke without thinking. “I don’t allow such privileges to anyone. Least of all Mr. Burke.”
An icy silence descended. Alexandra glanced up in time to see Mr. Burke turn away, walking back to his horse. He had apparently tossed the reins in haste to the driver of the cart, and he retrieved them now, swinging aboard the animal with a single lithe movement, not scholarly at all.
“That is to say,” she said helplessly, “since we have only just met.”
“Excellent,” drawled Wallingford. “For I should hate to see you lose our wager so easily. No sport in it at all.”
“I have no intention of losing the wager, Wallingford,” Alexandra snapped. “And certainly not in
that
manner.”
Mr. Burke’s horse shifted about impatiently, its hooves making deep sucking noises in the mud.
Lord Roland cleared his throat. “I say,” he chirped out, “that’s hard luck, about your cart. How exactly are you expecting to go on?”
Alexandra rose. “We’re unloading the baggage,” she said, with dignity, “in order to push the cart out of the mud.”
Wallingford gave a low whistle. “Do you know, I should almost like to see you do it.”
“You’re a beast, Wallingford.” Lord Roland swung from his horse, looped the reins about one of the slats on the cart, and reached inside for a trunk.
“Oh, I say,” Alexandra said gratefully, “that’s awfully kind of you.” She picked a path back to the cart between the stickier patches of mud and fell in beside Lord Roland. “Come along, then, Abigail,” she called, over her shoulder.
“Oh, bugger it,” Wallingford muttered, and dismounted in resignation.
* * *
F our hours later, trudging along a winding narrow track into a fogbank, his left boot rubbing a blister the size of a guinea on the knuckle of his fourth toe, Finn found himself cursing the name of Alexandra, Lady Morley.
“Just how far along is this inn of hers?” he grumbled to Wallingford.
“My dear man,” sighed Wallingford, “you don’t suppose it actually
exists
, do you?”
Finn drew in his breath. “She wouldn’t!”
“The thing is, she used to be a nice sort of girl,” Wallingford said, kicking viciously at a stone, until it tumbled over the ledge and fell in long dramatic plunges to the switchback below. “I believe I first met her in Lady Pembroke’s ballroom, directly after she came out. Fetching creature. Round cheeks, glossy hair, fresh from the country. Bit of a sharp wit, of course, but charming enough, all told. If I’m not mistaken, I kissed her once, on someone’s terrace, moonlight and all that. And then . . .” He paused to kick another stone.
“And then?” Finn prodded, a little too eagerly.
“What’s that? Oh, I suppose I got distracted. I was chasing after Diana at the time, and . . . oh, gad, yes. Now I remember. Diana caught me at it, you see, on the terrace, and . . . well, Burke, old fellow, if you ever want to get a particular woman in bed—which I daresay even
you
must, from time to time—the thing to do is to get caught kissing another one.” He chortled mirthlessly and sent another stone flying off the ledge. “Bloody hell, yes. The desk in the library, it was. I had to borrow her handkerchief, as my own was . . .”
“Look here,” Finn broke in, “about that inn. Do you really think she made that up?” He narrowed his eyes to peer some twenty or so yards ahead, where the graceful figure of Lady Morley floated along the road atop his own horse, her black skirts gathered cunningly to accommodate the saddle. In the shrouding
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