that you say, but according to Craven-well, the mother is the problem. She scares them away, trying to flirt with them herself. She also got into some sort of scandal last year. The whole family had to go and rusticate in the country until everything blew over."
"Despicable. No wonder Miss Beauchamp is quiet as a mouse. She is probably ashamed of her mother's antics."
"Yes, well, you leave the mother to me. I have accepted the mother's invitation for both of us to go for a drive along Rotten Row this afternoon."
"Us? I don't want to be anywhere near that woman! She frightened me half to death last night!"
"Yes, I could see it in your eyes. I would have laughed, but I was too busy ingratiating myself with the dreadful woman. Don't worry. I'll be doing the same thing this afternoon. All you have to do is talk to Miss Beauchamp and tell her what a capital chap I am, how much I admire her, and so on. You can handle that, can you not?"
"I suppose so, but I would much rather be forced to ride that stallion of yours than to spend five minutes trapped in a carriage with that pushy female."
"Whew, you really were put off by her! I have never heard you say you would rather be on horseback."
"Exactly," said Tristram, turning back to his manuscript, picking up his pen, and dipping it in the pot of ink.
"But you'll be ready to go at half past four, will you not?" said Max.
"I'll be ready," grumbled his brother.
Max grinned and went out the back door, whistling softly as he traversed the garden and sat down on the small bench near the wall. Feeling rather foolish, he nevertheless called quietly, "Iseult! Iseult!"
"Stoopid," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes.
It had felt great to be up on Thunderlight again. He was glad he had taught him to answer that whistle. Otherwise, the girl might have ridden away, and he would never have seen the big stallion again—or the girl.
Max frowned. He was obviously very taken by that girl to have mentioned her to Tristram in such glowing terms and then to think of her again. She was only the daughter of an Irish horse breeder, and she was hardly a great beauty.
Oh, but on horseback, she was magnificent. If he were the poetic sort—which he most certainly was not—he might even say that the girl and Thunderlight were like a work of art or bit of poetry. They moved so well together. At least Thunderlight's new owner would take care of him. The stallion loved to run so. He needed someone who would appreciate that, appreciate him, and he rather thought Miss O'Connor would do so.
There he was again, thinking of the girl instead of the horse. The daughter of an Irish horse breeder. He wondered if she would enjoy a bit of dalliance?
"No, no, no!" he muttered. He was supposed to be concentrating on the beautiful, sweet Miss Beauchamp. He would have to forget all about Miss O'Connor.
"Sir Milton? Is that you?" The furtive whisper brought him to his feet.
"Yes, it is I, fair Iseult. I had lost hope of hearing your voice again."
"I ... I cannot stay long, but I wanted to tell you that we should meet. Not more than an hour ago I ... I met your brother in the park."
Max frowned. His brother? What the devil. . . Tristram hadn't been in the park. He had been the one ...
He began to laugh, the sound growing until she began
to shush him. "Sh! Someone will hear and wonder why I am talking to a wall, a laughing wall."
"I am sorry, fair Iseult. I had no idea ..."
"No, of course you did not. It was your brother I met, but I think we should meet, too, face to face."
"Oh, I heartily agree, fair maiden," said Max, his amusement threatening to burst forth again. How ironic that he had spent the past week searching London for the mysterious Irish horse breeder and all the while he and his intriguing daughter lived right next door.
"Good. Your brother Max is to meet me tomorrow morning in Green Park. He knows where. Will you accompany him?"
"I shall count the hours, my dear Iseult."
"Until
"Despicable. No wonder Miss Beauchamp is quiet as a mouse. She is probably ashamed of her mother's antics."
"Yes, well, you leave the mother to me. I have accepted the mother's invitation for both of us to go for a drive along Rotten Row this afternoon."
"Us? I don't want to be anywhere near that woman! She frightened me half to death last night!"
"Yes, I could see it in your eyes. I would have laughed, but I was too busy ingratiating myself with the dreadful woman. Don't worry. I'll be doing the same thing this afternoon. All you have to do is talk to Miss Beauchamp and tell her what a capital chap I am, how much I admire her, and so on. You can handle that, can you not?"
"I suppose so, but I would much rather be forced to ride that stallion of yours than to spend five minutes trapped in a carriage with that pushy female."
"Whew, you really were put off by her! I have never heard you say you would rather be on horseback."
"Exactly," said Tristram, turning back to his manuscript, picking up his pen, and dipping it in the pot of ink.
"But you'll be ready to go at half past four, will you not?" said Max.
"I'll be ready," grumbled his brother.
Max grinned and went out the back door, whistling softly as he traversed the garden and sat down on the small bench near the wall. Feeling rather foolish, he nevertheless called quietly, "Iseult! Iseult!"
"Stoopid," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes.
It had felt great to be up on Thunderlight again. He was glad he had taught him to answer that whistle. Otherwise, the girl might have ridden away, and he would never have seen the big stallion again—or the girl.
Max frowned. He was obviously very taken by that girl to have mentioned her to Tristram in such glowing terms and then to think of her again. She was only the daughter of an Irish horse breeder, and she was hardly a great beauty.
Oh, but on horseback, she was magnificent. If he were the poetic sort—which he most certainly was not—he might even say that the girl and Thunderlight were like a work of art or bit of poetry. They moved so well together. At least Thunderlight's new owner would take care of him. The stallion loved to run so. He needed someone who would appreciate that, appreciate him, and he rather thought Miss O'Connor would do so.
There he was again, thinking of the girl instead of the horse. The daughter of an Irish horse breeder. He wondered if she would enjoy a bit of dalliance?
"No, no, no!" he muttered. He was supposed to be concentrating on the beautiful, sweet Miss Beauchamp. He would have to forget all about Miss O'Connor.
"Sir Milton? Is that you?" The furtive whisper brought him to his feet.
"Yes, it is I, fair Iseult. I had lost hope of hearing your voice again."
"I ... I cannot stay long, but I wanted to tell you that we should meet. Not more than an hour ago I ... I met your brother in the park."
Max frowned. His brother? What the devil. . . Tristram hadn't been in the park. He had been the one ...
He began to laugh, the sound growing until she began
to shush him. "Sh! Someone will hear and wonder why I am talking to a wall, a laughing wall."
"I am sorry, fair Iseult. I had no idea ..."
"No, of course you did not. It was your brother I met, but I think we should meet, too, face to face."
"Oh, I heartily agree, fair maiden," said Max, his amusement threatening to burst forth again. How ironic that he had spent the past week searching London for the mysterious Irish horse breeder and all the while he and his intriguing daughter lived right next door.
"Good. Your brother Max is to meet me tomorrow morning in Green Park. He knows where. Will you accompany him?"
"I shall count the hours, my dear Iseult."
"Until
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