Chapter 12
Graeme fastened the last button of his waistcoat, the fine wool snapping into neat alignment beneath his fingers.
The garment fit well, disconcertingly well.
Tailored before he had left London, the riding kit had struck him then as an unnecessary extravagance.
Now, as the morning light washed over the mirror, he hardly recognized the man in the reflection.
The tailoring had been a wise choice, he decided.
The cut of the frock coat broadened his shoulders. The crisp linen at his throat framed his jaw rather than concealing it. Even the dark hue of the breeches seemed designed to lengthen his stride, to give him the look of a man with purpose, not a clerk hoping to blend into woodwork and wallpaper.
He exhaled slowly.
No one sees a drab clerk, he reminded himself. No one questions a forgettable man. That anonymity had made his disguise easy.
But this? This was something else entirely.
He pulled on his riding gloves, tightening each finger with deliberate precision.
The weight of the leather felt like a decision, like an inevitability finally stepping into its own shape.
Three weeks ago, he had feared failure so acutely he could hardly look the housekeeper in the eye.
Three weeks ago, he had told himself he needed time to learn, to observe, to hide until he had matured into a man capable of the task before him.
But something had changed. Yesterday’s laughter in the study. The brush of Miss Whittington’s shoulder. The way she had looked at him as if he were more than a clerk, more than a wary pretender.
He squared his shoulders, studying the man in the glass again.
Imposter, whispered the part of him that still trembled.
Not for long, answered something steadier, something startlingly close to confidence.
He dragged a thumb across each waistcoat button, one at a time, half-amused, half-unsettled.
He had accused her of being an imposter, of weaving falsehoods for advantage…
but she had been the one to tell the truth.
And he… he had been the one hiding behind a borrowed name, a borrowed role, a borrowed life until he could muster the courage to claim his own.
He gave his gloves a final tug and stepped away from the mirror. The air felt clearer, his pulse calmer. Yes. He could carry this presence. He could step into it fully when the time came.
Let today mark a beginning.
Even if it was only the beginning of a morning ride. All the rest of what that beginning entailed would keep for a while longer.
And if Miss Whittington looked at him twice… well, who could fault a man for taking pleasure where he found it? He desired to be a man worth her notice.
With a quiet breath of resolve, Graeme strode into the corridor, boots striking the polished floor with a confidence he had never quite allowed himself before.
He took the circuitous route today, through the gallery and past the portraits of the stony-faced ancestors of the Earl of Collumby.
This time, he did not flinch under their gaze.
Down the stairs, at last, he reached the study door and paused, noting the thin glow of morning sunlight shimmering beneath it. He was late. She would be inside already.
He allowed himself a private smile.
Good.
Let her see him on his own terms.
He pushed open the door.
Phoebe looked up from the journal, expecting to see Mr. Ellison in the doorway.
She did not expect… this.
She nearly dropped the book. For one wild heartbeat, she feared the Earl of Collumby had arrived at last, sweeping into his study unannounced, catching her surrounded by his late great-uncle’s possessions, his solicitor nowhere in sight to present her properly.
But her second thought, louder, breathier, far less proper, was simply, good heavens.
The man in the doorway was a vision carved from every forbidden daydream she had ever denied herself.
Tailored riding raiment hugged broad shoulders and long lines.
Sunlight glinted off dark hair swept forward in the fashionable London style.
Confidence rolled off him in a lazy, masculine wave.
He carried his beaver hat and riding crop with the casual authority of a man who owned the world and expected it to applaud his arrival.
Her pulse fluttered. Her thoughts tangled.
Too soon for the earl to arrive. Far too soon!
And yet… this was the sort of man for whom the heart—not the polite, well-behaved kind, but the reckless one—dared beat.
He stepped closer, and she drew a sharp breath. Taller than Mr. Ellison. Broader. Smiling a slow, devastating smile that curved across his mouth like sin.
Then he spoke, and her stomach dropped.
“The morning is far too fine to waste inside, don’t you think? Let all tedious matters go hang. We’re riding today, Miss Whittington.”
She stared.
She blinked.
She made a noise that sounded dangerously like meep.
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I… you… Mr. Ellison?”
His brows lifted in mock injury. “Were you expecting someone else? Pray, name him, and I shall know whom to challenge.”
She tried to laugh. What escaped was a squeak better suited to a frightened dormouse.
“You brought a riding habit,” he went on smoothly. “I trust?”
She nodded. Or rather, her entire head bobbed like a carriage on a broken axle.
“Excellent. Hurry.” He tipped his hat towards her. “I’ll have the horses brought around.”
Phoebe realized only after he left that she was still clutching the journal to her chest like a shield.
With a strangled sound, she flung it onto the table and dashed out the door.
She made it halfway up the stairs before remembering, with dawning horror, that she had left her poor lady’s maid sitting alone in the study, watching all of this unfold.
Breathless, Phoebe hurried down the stairs, curls askew from speed rather than vanity, rehearsing, desperately, one clever quip after another. Anything to prove she was not undone by whatever transformation Mr. Ellison had wrought upon himself.
At the last step before the door, she forced herself to stop.
Smooth your skirts. Chin up. Shoulders back. Do not burst out this door like an overeager green girl.
Only when her breath steadied did she walk through the open front door.
Sunlight spilled across the gravel drive and across him.
Mr. Ellison stood beside two saddled horses, crop resting with unstudied ease against his shoulder. The grooms lingered discreetly, but Phoebe scarcely noticed them. All her attention was arrested by the man who turned at the sound of her steps.
He smiled, slowly, knowingly, devastatingly.
She sucked in a breath.
Her knees, the traitors, trembled.
Do not make a cake of yourself, Phoebe Whittington! This is still Mr. Ellison, even if he appears quite something more today.
“Ah, perfect timing,” he greeted. “I was beginning to fear the morning would grow jealous of your absence.”
All five of her cleverly rehearsed replies flew through the nearest window.
“You… look… very…” She flailed. “Very presentable… for a morning of clerical correspondences.”
In true Mr. Ellison fashion, his tone remained perfectly, mercilessly deadpan.
“A dreadful meeting was expected with one of the gentleman tenants. I felt obliged to appear as though I knew what I was doing.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “But he is delayed. Seemed a sin to waste such a morning indoors.”
Sin. Appropriate choice, for her thoughts were nearly indecent.
A gesture towards the horses. “Come. We are ready to ride, Miss Whittington.”
Phoebe blinked and echoed faintly, “We… are?”
“You did change into your riding habit.” His gaze glinted with amusement.
“Well… yes, I did,” she said, lifting her chin with manufactured confidence, her words half bravado, half terror.
She stepped towards the nearest horse—one monstrously too large.
The horse snorted.
Phoebe tripped backwards.
Do not embarrass yourself.
She narrowed her eyes at the horse and, purely on impulse, snorted back.
Mr. Ellison’s shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.
With the haughtiest toss of her curls she could manage, she reached for the side saddle’s pommel, or what she hoped was the pommel, and lifted her foot towards the stirrup, realizing, too late, that this was entirely the wrong angle, and far too high besides.
A low voice intervened. “Allow me.”
He stepped closer, cupping his hands to form a supportive step.
She attempted to locate his hands with her boot, slipped, and lurched backwards. His arm shot out, steadying her with confident strength.
“I assure you,” she said, breathless, “I know perfectly well how to mount a horse.”
His mouth quirked, delight unmistakable. “I will applaud you once you are successfully on the horse.”
She glared.
He did not repent.
With infuriating competence, he set his hands gently, but firmly, at her waist, lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all, and settled her onto the saddle before she could marshal a single objection.
Her breath caught.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her pulse fluttered.
He adjusted her stirrup, guiding her foot into place, then stepped close enough for his voice to tickle warmly against her skin.
“I believe,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet hers, “the horse approves.” Rather than await her response, Mr. Ellison mounted his horse with fluid and infuriating ease, the movement so simple, so elegant, and so masculine. “Ready?”
“Entirely,” she lied.
With regal bravado, as though confidence alone could compensate for the fact she had no earthly idea what came next, she nudged her heel into the horse’s side, just as she had read fashionable heroines do in novels.
The horse blew indignantly from its nostrils and stood absolutely still.
She nudged again, more firmly.
The horse took several leisurely steps. Sideways. Straight towards a shrub on the edge of the drive. Startled, Phoebe jerked the reins.