His Lordship's Filly by Nina Coombs Pykare Page B

could a man like Andrew occupy himself with feminine frivolities? He’d soon tire of this shopping business and then she’d be free to do as she pleased. And when she was free, she’d jump into her old clothes and have a good ride on Waterloo—a good long ride.
    “Very well,” she said, trying to smile pleasantly. “But you will send for Waterloo, won’t you? Like you promised? And for my boxes?”
    “Of course,” he said. “They should be here by the time we return.”
    * * * *
    Shopping with Bridget had turned out to be much more than he’d bargained for, Andrew thought some hours later as they emerged from a shop on Bond Street. He looked around for the carriage: it was time to go home. Bridget was polite enough—none of those icy freezing looks she’d given him that first day at the stables—but she seemed almost not to be there with him, her mind miles away—with the stallion, no doubt. He would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself, but the chit actually didn’t care about clothes. She was the first female he’d ever known who would rather talk about horseflesh than about fashion.
    Still, he had persisted in his efforts—she was his wife, after all, and if he meant to take her about in society, she would have to be properly dressed—and he was confident she now had everything she would need, even to half a dozen fine linen nightdresses embroidered with Belgian lace. He smiled, remembering the flush that had crossed her cheeks when they were purchasing them. In some things she was such an innocent. He would have much to teach her. And he meant to start tonight.
    “Andrew,” she said, tugging on his arm. “Do you know those ladies there—the ones across the street? I believe they’re waving at you.”
    “Across the— Damnation! Your pardon, Bridget.”Hehadn’t meant to use such harsh language in front of her, but the word had just slipped out. Still, he could certainly be pardoned for it, as it was the Lindens that stood across the street—Lady Linden in a puce gown of vast proportions that still barely managed to cover her more than ample charms, and her daughter Martine, straight as the mother was round. But it wasn’t their looks that made him exclaim in exasperation, though they made quite a peculiar pair, but their reputations.
    Scandalmongers par excellence, the Lindens were known over all of London. Any hint of scandal, any on-dit, was grist for their gossip mill, bruited about the city by mother and daughter, as fast as their carriage could convey their bodies and their tongues could wag the tales out.
    Well, it was too late to avoid them now, too late to pretend he hadn’t seen them over there. Lady Linden was already hurrying the stickish daughter toward him, both of them grinning like carnivorous beasts about to dine on unsuspecting prey. Poor Bridget, she’d have little chance against those two.
    “Lord Haverly,” Lady Linden cooed, grabbing his arm in a ferocious grip as though he meant to run off.
    “Lady Linden,” he muttered, easing his arm free, though with difficulty, and wishing himself somewhere else, anywhere else. “And Miss Linden. Good day to you both.”
    Lady Linden didn’t bother with the amenities. “Who is this lovely young thing?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed curiosity.
    “This,” he said, wishing momentarily that there were witnesses present to see the Lindens’ expressions when he imparted his shocking news, “this is my lady wife, Bridget, the Marchioness of Haverly.”
    Lady Linden actually swayed and clutched at her daughter. “Wife! Lord Haverly, you say wife?”
    “Indeed, I do,” he replied, smiling grimly. “My wife. And now if you’ll excuse us . . .”
    “I know you!” Miss Linden shrilled, her voice calculated to draw all eyes in their direction. Her thin nose quivered ecstatically, the gossip hound hot on the scent. “I saw you at the race several days past. You’re that Durabian girl,