Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
S itting tall and relaxed in the saddle, Simon closed his eyes, enjoying the gentle caress of the September breeze through his thick, sandy brown hair. A moment later, his eyes popped open again as his horse shied violently beneath him.
“Whoa, boy.” Simon tightened his hands on the reins, drawing them up short and forcing the stallion to turn, cutting off his ability to bolt. Belshazzar arched his thick neck, snorting noisily, his hooves prancing in place and his eyes rolling as he tried to look again toward the wooded area they had just been passing.
Still balanced easily in the saddle, Simon chuckled. “Oh, no, don’t think you can convince me there was a bear in there, old boy. I know your tricks. Somehow, you figured out I was distracted. Well, don’t worry. I’m paying attention now.”
When the horse had calmed down sufficiently to look away from the offending wood, Simon turned him back toward the estate, keeping a firm hand on the reins. He loved giving the horse his head and letting him run full out—few horses were faster—but today was not the day for that. Simon was expecting an important caller in less than an hour, and it wouldn’t do to meet him winded and flushed from galloping.
They cantered down the long, sweeping drive of Thorne Manor and turned in front of the pillared front piazza toward the extensive stables behind the big house. Randolph, the stable master, met them in front of the building. The burly man smiled, stepping forward to take Belshazzar’s reins as Simon swung down from the saddle.
“Did he give you a good ride today, Sir?”
“He wanted to do a lot more than I was asking of him,” Simon admitted. “Would you mind cooling him for me today, Rand? I’m expecting a caller.”
“Of course, Sir. It’s my pleasure.”
As the stableman moved off, leading the light-footed stallion behind him, Simon turned back toward the manor. He pulled off his riding gloves, slapping the dust from them on his riding breeches. Would he have time to change before Lord Fiording arrived? They were going to talk horses, but it didn’t necessarily follow that Simon should smell like the animals when he met the Baron.
He took the steps to the broad front doors two at a time and reached for the door handle, but his butler, Thomas, beat him to it, swinging the door inward before Simon could lay a hand on it. Apparently, the man had been watching for his arrival.
“Ho, Tom,” Simon exclaimed. “You startled me.”
“My deepest apologies, Your Grace,” the tall, narrow-faced man said formally. He stepped to one side to allow Simon to enter the big, echoing front hall of the manor. “You have received a missive from the Baron of Fiording that I thought you would wish to see immediately.”
“Oh.” This was unexpected. Not knowing what else to say, Simon moved to lean his riding crop against the wall and accept the letter Thomas was offering on his silver letter tray. The butler reached out deftly and snagged the crop before it could touch the floor, continuing to offer the letter at the same time.
Unfolding the stiff paper bearing the Fiording seal, Simon scanned its contents. A wave of heat rose through his chest to his face as he read.
To His Grace, the Duke of Thorne:
I regret to inform you I will not be able to make our appointment this afternoon, the 6 th of September. After speaking to the Baroness concerning your invitation, it seemed wise to reconsider its validity. I have been out of the racing business a good many years at this point and must consider the improbability that you are truly interested in obtaining my advice.
If your interest instead lies in my daughter, Felicity—as the Baroness has suggested—I must inform you that she is too young to enter into any engagement, and that is the only situation in which we would consider allowing such an association.
I would also humbly remind you that taking advantage of the trust of an old man who has long been out of certain circles of society is ungentlemanly to say the least.
Honorably yours,
Lord Fiording
“The devil does he mean saying all that about—” Simon broke off, suddenly conscious of the butler’s attentive ears. His hand tightened around the note until it crumpled in his grip. Thomas was discreet, but Simon didn’t need even the loyal butler to know that his reputation had once again ruined everything.
For a moment, he struggled to regain his composure, feeling waves of anger and embarrassment crash through him.
Interested in the Baron’s daughter? Simon wasn’t sure he could even pick the girl out of a crowded room. On the other hand, he genuinely craved a conversation with Lord Fiording, who had once run the most respected stud farms in the county. That the man couldn’t take him seriously enough to believe this was a slap in the face.
Thrusting the crumpled note into the pocket of his waistcoat, Simon reached for the riding crop he had just surrendered to Thomas, running his other hand through his hair at the same time.
“Unfortunately, the Baron won’t be able to visit this afternoon after all, Tom,” he unclenched his teeth long enough to say. “I’m going back out. It’s unlikely that I’ll be back for dinner, so tell Mrs. Grimes, would you?”
Turning on his heel, Simon ignored the butler’s murmured reply. All he wanted was to be on a galloping horse, riding as fast and as far from all of this as he could. He could also use someone to talk to, he realized dimly. Someone who could advise him on what to do.
He felt like Belshazzar as he stomped toward the stable, chafing at the bit and bridle of societal opinion that confined him. There was only one man who truly knew Simon and would speak for him, and Simon decided halfway across the stable yard that this was who he would go to see.
“Sir?” A young groomsman looked up as Simon strode into the barn. “Is everything all right?”
“I’ve decided to go out again,” Simon said. He held up a brusque hand as the groomsman scrambled to put aside the harnesses he’d been polishing. “No, don’t bother yourself. I know how to saddle a horse.”
It was highly unusual for a duke to saddle his own mount, of course, but this was Simon’s stable. He should be able to do what he wanted there.
A horse whickered at him over the stall door, and he looked over to find Marlin, a piebald gelding that had been one of his first horses, peering curiously out at him. The old fellow was getting on in years, but his easy temperament was probably exactly what Simon needed in his present state of mind.
Leading the gelding to the tie rail, Simon tacked him up with practiced efficiency and swung into the saddle. Marlin was eager to trot, and they left the manor drive at a good clip. The wind was once again blowing through Simon’s hair, and he realized belatedly that he should have worn a hat to go calling. Oh, well. Aaron wouldn’t care.
A short while later, Simon reached the Munro estate. He handed his horse off to one of his best friend’s groomsmen and stormed into the large manor.
“Is Lord Munro in?” he quizzed the butler who met him at the door.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the man answered. “He’s in the drawing room. If I may?—”
“Never mind, Mr. Curtis,” Simon interjected, waving an impatient hand at the man’s formality. “Aaron and I used to climb in each other’s windows back in the day. I’ll show myself in.”
Only after he’d strode on down the hall did he realize his mistake and wince in regret. He wasn’t doing himself any favors continuing to spread around tales like that, even to the servants.
“Dash it all, Aaron,” he exclaimed, pushing through the heavy oak door into his friend’s well-appointed sitting room. “When you hear how I’ve just been disrespected…” His voice trailed off as the four people seated about the cozy tea table by the window looked up at him in wide-eyed surprise. Aaron had company.
Irritation mixed with a twinge of embarrassment stopped Simon in his tracks, and he struggled to keep a scowl from overtaking his face. His eyes flicked from one of the women seated at the table to the other. The sweet-faced, chestnut-haired girl was Lady Jane Weston, Aaron’s betrothed. And the dark-haired beauty who sat across from her, looking at him with obvious distaste, was her older sister, Lady Lilian Weston.
Their elderly father, the Earl of Vonn, was seated to Lady Lilian’s right. He squinted at Simon in bewilderment, a spoonful of rice pudding still hovering in his veined hand.
Recalling his manners, Simon managed a stiff bow in the ladies’ direction. It would probably be proper for him to also apologize for interrupting, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “I’ll come back later,” he muttered instead, catching Aaron’s eye.
“Not at all, Thorne,” Aaron exclaimed, rising from the table with a charming smile. “You must join us for tea. I’ve been anxious for the family of my betrothed to become more familiar with my closest friend.” He raised one dark eyebrow as he spoke, his expression clear. This is your chance to make a good impression, it said. And then, as his lips pulled tight, Don’t let me down.
Truly, Simon thought, it was ironic that things should happen this way. He’d been on his way here to regale his friend with exactly how bad his reputation apparently was, and Aaron wanted him to cozy up with a respected, if fading, earl and two women who had probably heard everything there was to hear about him. He showed his teeth in a poor attempt at a smile, determined to give his regrets and bow out as quickly as possible.
But then, his eye caught Lilian Weston’s, and he hesitated. The lady was as anxious as he was for him to make his exit. Her hazel eyes were hard, and her lovely lips were set in a firm line. She leaned toward her sister slightly, as if to shield her from his horrific presence.
Simon’s ire at the insult he’d received already that day returned in a searing wave, and he lifted his chin, fairly glaring in her direction. Challenge accepted , he thought.
“Very well, Lord Munro,” he said, copying his friend’s carefully formal tone. “I’d be honored to join you all.”