Chapter 9 #3
“I believe this lad here will suit her,” Stephen was saying to the stable master, “but I will defer to your opinion, Andrews. Her Grace, the lady Raphaela, spoke very highly of your judgment.”
Andrews looked as though Stephen had offered him the chance to go on a quest and be at the head of the procession.
He seemed to be fighting a very pleased smile as he nodded.
“Gunther is a perfect choice, my lord Haulton. He’s a fine, old fellow, but always eager for a bit of exercise. I’ll have him saddled immediately.”
And immediately was just how fast he was saddled. Peaches found herself standing next to Stephen, shaking, as a saddle that looked wholly inadequate to giving her anywhere to sit was brought and applied to the back of a horse that had to have been a gazillion feet tall.
“He’s big,” Peaches said, her mouth dry. “Bigger than the other one.”
“Aye, miss,” Andrews said, looking at her seriously, “but he’s the gentlest one here. He’s schooled scores of riders without losing a one.”
“Schooled them?” she squeaked.
The groom only winked at her and walked off to see to his charge. Peaches looked up at Stephen.
“How did you know to pick this one?”
“Nobility school.”
She decided what made her want to punch him the hardest was that she was never quite sure when he was teasing and when he wasn’t. She scowled at him. “Not galloping down the stairs of your father’s hall on a stick horse, waving a sword over your head and bellowing like a banshee?”
“The de Piagets do not bellow,” he said calmly. “We express our emotions in measured tones.” He started to walk away, then looked over his shoulder. “And it wasn’t a stick horse, it was a rocking horse named Dante that scraped my mother’s floors to bits.”
Before she could comment on that, she was swept up into intrigues and looks of alarm and disdain. And that was just her interactions with the horse.
“A leg up, miss?” the head groom asked.
Why not?
By the time she had bathed, dressed for dinner, then managed to choke most of it down, she had had it.
Country house parties were just not for her.
No matter how gentle her horse had been rumored to be, she’d been convinced the entire morning she was a heartbeat away from landing on her face.
She had prayed she would simply survive the ride after which she would have gone straight to bed with visions of fairy tales still dancing in her head.
Only then she would have missed the current, singular experience of having the Duke of Kenneworth seat her next to him in a chair closest to the fire and flirt with her.
As he was currently doing.
She hadn’t been born yesterday, so she knew he was hitting on her. And she had to admit she was utterly, completely, thoroughly flattered and all aflutter. He was just so … just right.
She glanced across the salon not because she needed to, but because she always wanted to know where Stephen was so she could avoid him. He, unlike David, was just wrong. That morning had been a perfect example of just how wrong he was.
He had gone out of his way to ride next to her, no doubt so he could mock her later when he had time to do a proper job of it.
So what if he’d carried on a conversation that she could easily hear about his first lessons on the back of a horse, which he of course could hardly remember because he’d been at it so long?
If he had bored those around him with a droning discussion of beginning-rider technique, apparently he just hadn’t cared.
No matter what his mother might have thought, she was convinced his manners definitely needed a polish.
Unlike David Preston who probably taught advanced studies in manners at Stephen de Piaget’s nobility school.
“I’ll be back in a flash, love,” David said, smiling just for her as he rose. “Off to refill the glass, of course.”
Peaches nodded and smiled, though she couldn’t understand why his numerous servants couldn’t have seen to his glass. Maybe he was trying to show her what an ordinary guy he was.
Unfortunately, that left his seat open. Irene Preston flopped down into it, grumbling loudly.
“All Haulton wants to talk about is his ridiculous charities,” she snapped. “This is a bloody party, not a selection of potential donors.”
“Language, Irene,” Raphaela said mildly. “And I don’t think Lord Stephen views your friends as potential donors. He’s simply looking for something to add to the conversation besides his views on footballers and their scandals.”
“Oh, Mother, you’re so naive.”
Peaches didn’t think Raphaela was naive at all, but decided it was best not to offer her opinion. It was instructive enough to simply listen to the conversation around her and try to look as if she were interested.
Stephen? Charities? She could hardly believe it.
She looked up into the mirror and saw David talking to Stephen, looking as if he were trying to talk him into something.
Perhaps David had his own list of charities he contributed to.
Stephen continued to say no in very calm, measured tones—he was a de Piaget, after all—which eventually left David saying something even she could see was very foul before he turned and stalked away.
She tried to concentrate on the ensuing discussion of Paris Fashion Week being carried on between Raphaela and Andrea, but she found that she was very distracted by the memory of the missing Duke of Kenneworth, who had flattered and flirted with her so deliciously that she was still feeling very weak in the knees.
She patted her knees for good measure, just to be sure.
Yes, very weak. In fact, it was probably for the best that she was still sitting just so she could recover.
When it came to David Preston, it was best to stay put so her limbs weren’t put under undue strain.
Not like that horrible heir to Artane and no doubt numerous other titles who didn’t make her knees weak; he made her feet want to carry her off in another direction, quickly.
She was slightly surprised to find that others weren’t making tracks for the door. As she watched Stephen in the mirror she had to admit, very grudgingly, that the man could certainly work a room. She’d seen it the day before, but she had thought it was a fluke.
She studied him a bit longer in the mirror and had to concede that at least he didn’t seem to be boring anyone with obscure details about medieval battle strategies. David had given up on him, but other men actually seemed to be talking to him about, well, football from what she could hear.
The women, that trio of debutantes plus a fair number of other guests, seemed to be keeping themselves from brawling to get near him only out of respect for the antiques in the room.
“Dukes’ daughters.”
Peaches looked at Raphaela. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Those three glaring daggers at you are dukes’ daughters, chérie,” Raphaela said, in French. “Perhaps we’ll have a walk in the garden tomorrow where I might tell you about their families.”
“Or we could talk about compost.”
Raphaela laughed lightly. “Are you not interested at all in Lord Haulton?”
“Not at all.”
“Are you interested in my son?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Peaches asked honestly. “He’s perfect.”
Raphaela only lifted one eyebrow briefly, then turned to Irene and English again.
Peaches had no idea what to make of that exchange, so she decided it would be wisest to make nothing of it at all.
She couldn’t deny that she was rather glad when the evening wound down and she was able to say good night. David was still nowhere to be found, but Peaches saw several other men were missing as well, so perhaps there had been some late-night football on the telly.
She was slightly surprised to have Raphaela walk her to her room, with Stephen and his gentleman’s personal gentleman following fifty feet behind them.
Raphaela seemed not to notice as she deposited Peaches in her room with a gracious good night and retreated back up the way.
Peaches wasn’t sure what to make of Stephen leaning against the wall, watching her instead of his host’s mother. Maybe he wanted his overcoat back.
She looked for it inside, but it was gone, perhaps returned to its owner. What was left, however, was Edwina sitting on her stool, quite obviously still in charge. Edwina rose majestically and gestured to one of the hooks.
“Something,” she said gravely, “has arrived.”
Peaches’s first thought was that it was an eviction notice, but since there wasn’t all that much to be evicted from, she wasn’t going to stress over it.
She watched as Edwina reached for a garment bag that was excessively long and excessively expensive-looking and thought she should probably just sit down.
So she sat down on the end of her bed and looked at her maid expectantly.
“Are you prepared, miss?”
Peaches thought about tossing off some remark that she hadn’t seen a wheatgrass juicer in the kitchen so she was less prepared than she might otherwise have been, but the moment seemed to call for seriousness. She sat up straight and looked at Edwina.
“I think I am as prepared as I’ll manage to be,” she said honestly.
Edwina frowned, as if she’d just taken measure of the state of the queen’s armada and found it not quite up to snuff, but good enough for the battle at hand. She reached for the zipper of the garment bag, then looked at Peaches.
“Your gown, miss.”
Peaches gasped. It was better than fainting, which was her first inclination.
It looked as if her fairy tale might be coming true after all.