through the narrow lane. Arthur tossed his head, sending tendrils of his mane flying.
“Easy, boy. I know you’re eager to have your head, but that’ll have to wait until we find a place with more room to run.”
They would not find it in London. Once he’d taken care of his business, he could retreat to his estate in Kent where Arthur might gallop for miles before they encountered another soul. In the meantime, they were stuck in Town. It was almost enough to make Benedictwish he hadn’t sold his commission several months after Waterloo.
At the sight of the carriage standing in front of the St. Claires’ address, he tightened his hands on the reins. He could guess easily enough to whom the conveyance belonged.
“Ludlowe.”
Like the devil himself appearing at the sound of his name, Ludlowe emerged from the town house. Benedict reined Arthur to a halt. Something about the future Earl of Clivesden’s gait told Benedict all he needed to know. The man walked with the stiff-legged stride of someone who had been refused.
And Ludlowe was not used to refusals. Most especially from a lady.
If Benedict had known with any assurance that Julia could see him, he’d have tipped his hat to her. With a grim smile, he wheeled his mount about, urging him into a sprightly trot. Thank God, last night’s warning had been sufficient. As things stood, he was late for an interview with a potential replacement for his delinquent estate manager. No time now for social calls.
The rumble of heavy wheels to his rear caused him to spur Arthur to one side. Four blood bays, perfectly matched down to the socks on their off hind legs and the stars on their faces, clattered past, their coats glossy in the watery sunlight. Apparently, Ludlowe had an eye for flashy horseflesh.
Benedict pressed his lips together. He didn’t want a reason to admire someone who had so arrogantly wagered on Julia and put her reputation at stake. Not when Benedict had experienced at Eton the sort of man Ludlowe really was.
He chirruped to Arthur and set off down the row, his mount’s hooves clacking in sharp rhythm against the cobblestones, as if he could outrun the memories of hisfirst year at school. Thank God for an older brother who had shielded him from the worst. To either side, houses pressed in, all but obliterating the sky and blocking any hint of a breeze, until the air in Town became stifling.
For the hundredth time, he questioned the wisdom of selling his commission. The war with Boney might be over, but the cavalry offered other opportunities to a young officer. Those opportunities would have taken him far from London, but they would also remove him from the wild pasturelands of the Kentish countryside.
On his return to Kent, he’d discovered his estate manager gone and the property nearly derelict. After seeing to the most pressing repairs, he’d put the stables in order and acquired a stud. Only a stud needed broodmares, and the best place to acquire good bloodstock was Tattersall’s. He could have bought locally, but if he hadn’t come back to Town, he might never have learned of Ludlowe’s intentions in time to warn Julia.
He tightened his thighs on Arthur’s flanks at the thought. The horse darted forward, into the wider thoroughfares of Mayfair, dodging carriages and passersby. A shout or two trailed after him, but he ignored the outraged protests.
This city was too crowded by half, but he might have to delay his departure to the estate his mother had bequeathed him, all because of Julia. Months ago, he’d returned from Belgium fully expecting to learn of her marriage or at the very least her betrothal. Yet at her age, she was still not only eligible but, according to gossip, firmly resisting any offers. After all these seasons. And why should he experience satisfaction at the notion?
He shook himself and spurred Arthur toward St. James Street. Her marital status was none of his affair. As long as she did not accept Ludlowe’s
“Easy, boy. I know you’re eager to have your head, but that’ll have to wait until we find a place with more room to run.”
They would not find it in London. Once he’d taken care of his business, he could retreat to his estate in Kent where Arthur might gallop for miles before they encountered another soul. In the meantime, they were stuck in Town. It was almost enough to make Benedictwish he hadn’t sold his commission several months after Waterloo.
At the sight of the carriage standing in front of the St. Claires’ address, he tightened his hands on the reins. He could guess easily enough to whom the conveyance belonged.
“Ludlowe.”
Like the devil himself appearing at the sound of his name, Ludlowe emerged from the town house. Benedict reined Arthur to a halt. Something about the future Earl of Clivesden’s gait told Benedict all he needed to know. The man walked with the stiff-legged stride of someone who had been refused.
And Ludlowe was not used to refusals. Most especially from a lady.
If Benedict had known with any assurance that Julia could see him, he’d have tipped his hat to her. With a grim smile, he wheeled his mount about, urging him into a sprightly trot. Thank God, last night’s warning had been sufficient. As things stood, he was late for an interview with a potential replacement for his delinquent estate manager. No time now for social calls.
The rumble of heavy wheels to his rear caused him to spur Arthur to one side. Four blood bays, perfectly matched down to the socks on their off hind legs and the stars on their faces, clattered past, their coats glossy in the watery sunlight. Apparently, Ludlowe had an eye for flashy horseflesh.
Benedict pressed his lips together. He didn’t want a reason to admire someone who had so arrogantly wagered on Julia and put her reputation at stake. Not when Benedict had experienced at Eton the sort of man Ludlowe really was.
He chirruped to Arthur and set off down the row, his mount’s hooves clacking in sharp rhythm against the cobblestones, as if he could outrun the memories of hisfirst year at school. Thank God for an older brother who had shielded him from the worst. To either side, houses pressed in, all but obliterating the sky and blocking any hint of a breeze, until the air in Town became stifling.
For the hundredth time, he questioned the wisdom of selling his commission. The war with Boney might be over, but the cavalry offered other opportunities to a young officer. Those opportunities would have taken him far from London, but they would also remove him from the wild pasturelands of the Kentish countryside.
On his return to Kent, he’d discovered his estate manager gone and the property nearly derelict. After seeing to the most pressing repairs, he’d put the stables in order and acquired a stud. Only a stud needed broodmares, and the best place to acquire good bloodstock was Tattersall’s. He could have bought locally, but if he hadn’t come back to Town, he might never have learned of Ludlowe’s intentions in time to warn Julia.
He tightened his thighs on Arthur’s flanks at the thought. The horse darted forward, into the wider thoroughfares of Mayfair, dodging carriages and passersby. A shout or two trailed after him, but he ignored the outraged protests.
This city was too crowded by half, but he might have to delay his departure to the estate his mother had bequeathed him, all because of Julia. Months ago, he’d returned from Belgium fully expecting to learn of her marriage or at the very least her betrothal. Yet at her age, she was still not only eligible but, according to gossip, firmly resisting any offers. After all these seasons. And why should he experience satisfaction at the notion?
He shook himself and spurred Arthur toward St. James Street. Her marital status was none of his affair. As long as she did not accept Ludlowe’s
Similar Books
