Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“You didn’t bring the contessa a serpent, did you?” asked Archie.
Nestor would be the sort to take a serpent for a soft, cuddly pet.
Nestor tried again, this time his hand emerging from the interior pocket with a hissing gray ball of fur. Wide, milky blue eyes flying frantically about, the kitten showed its tiny, sharp teeth. This kitten meant business.
Nestor thrust the animal toward Valentina.
With a faltering smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she accepted the little beast gingerly, oooing and ahhing and pretending to be delighted.
One could only thank the heavens for kidskin gloves, though Valentina’s would be tatters by the time they returned home.
Really, though, the kitten was adorable with its little, pushed-in face, even if it wouldn’t stop hissing.
Valentina flicked Archie a thoroughly irritated glance. Barely able to suppress the laugh that wanted out, he couldn’t have asked for this morning to go any better. Valentina, however, didn’t appear to share his optimism as she held the kitten safely away from her.
The air picked up the sound of hooves thundering in the distance.
Archie pivoted in the saddle to find Rory riding toward them.
Right on time. First thing this morning, Archie had sent his friend a note, asking him to meet them in Hyde Park.
He’d figured after a night to think it over, Nestor might have some doubts.
A little competition should bring him back in line.
Valentina’s question from yesterday nagged at him. Why was he dragging this out?
Justice, yes. In the end, Valentina’s family would get theirs, and Nestor would get his. A tidy outcome.
But that wasn’t the only reason why.
That woman, who sat her horse badly and was presently wrestling a tiny kitten who might be winning, was inspiration. Last night, at the piano… He hadn’t felt that inspired in years.
And the kiss…
It had inspired, too.
His gaze settled on her mouth. It couldn’t help itself.
He shouldn’t kiss that mouth again.
Truly, what had he been thinking?
It wasn’t that he didn’t kiss women. He’d, in fact, kissed quite a few.
But he didn’t kiss virtuous women.
Not women like Valentina.
Right.
“Nestor, I believe you’re acquainted with Lord Kilmuir?”
Nestor nodded, curt. Rory gave the same back. Archie cleared his throat. Now was the time for Rory to speak his line. The one that would light a fire beneath Nestor.
Rory snapped to. “The Arabian,” burst from him. “Is it here?”
He might rival Valentina with his acting skills.
Nestor sat taller in his saddle. “What is this?”
“I don’t really see the harm in cutting Kilmuir in,” said Archie easily.
Nestor shook his head. He wasn’t having it. “Just you and me, Archer. No Kilmuir.”
Archie lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness, and Rory’s chest puffed out in indignation. “What fresh perfidy is this?” he bellowed.
Archie had to keep from rolling his eyes. Delilah and Juliet were stifling snickers behind him. But, really, Rory was laying it on a bit thick. Nestor didn’t seem to notice. “There’s only room for two investors in this deal, Kilmuir. Find yourself another horse.”
Archie shrugged, as if helpless. “You heard the man.”
Rory lifted a hand into the air and shouted, “This shall not be the last ye’ve heard of me!” And he charged away on his mount.
Archie resisted the urge to clap for his friend’s performance. But truly, when one involved a man’s ego, what swindles couldn’t be perpetrated? Had he not been born a lord, he’d have enjoyed a satisfying career in the hustling of aristocrats.
“Tomorrow night,” said Archie. It was time to bring the meeting to a conclusion. He’d gotten what he wanted out of it.
“What is tomorrow night?” asked Nestor. He’d begun watching Valentina carefully. Too carefully.
“You’ll have your answer at my sister Amelia’s musicale tomorrow night.” An invitation to the Duke and Duchess of Ripon’s soirée was one of the most highly sought-after invitations in Town.
And Archie knew Nestor wouldn’t have received one.
Nestor cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I shall not be attending.”
Archie waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, your invitation must’ve been lost in the post. I’ll have my sister send another by messenger today.”
Archie sensed a subtle puffing of the other man’s chest. He’d just given Nestor what he truly wanted—a road back into the top tier of society after all the scandals of his family.
Archie hoped Nestor enjoyed the trip. It would be a short one.
Archie went suddenly serious. “And be on the lookout for The Nod.”
“The Nod?”
“If she gives me The Nod tomorrow night, you’re in.”
Again, Nestor’s gaze settled on Valentina, and his eyes narrowed. Archie understood what had caught Nestor’s attention. Valentina was having a devil of a time settling the kitten, and every time she moved she overcorrected. In the last thirty seconds, the woman had nearly unhorsed herself twice.
“Why is the contessa such a poor horsewoman?” asked Nestor, an understatement of the obvious. “I’ve never seen a lady sit a horse at such an awkward angle.”
“I’ve learned to never question the Italian way,” said Archie. “Besides, she has a bad bottom.”
A choking sound erupted from Valentina. Archie didn’t dare look. “Some sort of woman issue,” he finished on a shrug. It was all that ever needed to be said to relieve a man of his curiosity regarding the opposite sex. Woman issue.
“Oh!” Valentina exclaimed. She looked poised to say more when Delilah cut in and began firing Italian at her.
Archie glanced over in time to watch the kitten’s tail disappear beneath Miss Muffet’s mane. The kitten had escaped. It was definitely time to conclude this meeting, for Archie sensed havoc careening their way. He had a nose for it.
Then all hell broke loose. The horse sprang forward on a lurch and set off across the grass, racing away with Valentina hanging on for dear life. The kitten’s razor-sharp claws must have dug beneath Miss Muffet’s fur and found skin.
Oh, Lord.
“It’s a race!” Archie called over his shoulder as he gave chase.
Of course, it wasn’t a race, but Valentina needed saving as Miss Muffet was making straight for the Serpentine. Surely, she would stop before—
And Miss Muffet did stop before reaching the water.
By about a foot.
Momentum lifted Valentina off her sidesaddle and into the air, causing her to launch over Miss Muffet’s head and land directly on her tuffet, before sinking.
Archie’s horse was still in motion as he dismounted and jumped into the river after her.
The water, however, wasn’t very deep, and Valentina was standing by the time he reached her.
“Are you harmed?” he asked, only resisting taking her in his arms to check for himself.
She’d transformed into a sopping wet, sputtering mess of a woman, clumps of hair and pond muck streaming down her face, her hands held away from her body. He met disbelief and perplexity in wide, unblinking eyes.
On the riverbank, Miss Muffet whinnied, and between her ears poked a furry, little gray face, milky blue eyes glaring down at them. “Meow.”
A long beat of time stretched before Archie and Valentina burst into laughter at the exact same instant.
Nestor reined in his horse well away from the riverbank, watching them as if they’d lost what few wits they’d possessed in the first place.
“Join us?” asked Archie. “It’s an Italian custom when deals are being made.”
Nestor’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “To jump into a river?”
“Julius Caesar refused and look where that got him,” said Archie.
Nestor gave his head a slow shake. “I’ll see you at the Duke and Duchess of Ripon’s musicale tomorrow, Archer.”
And with that, Nestor was gone.
Good riddance.
Archie glanced over to find Valentina scowling at him. “What have I done wrong?” No use beating around the bush.
“Julius Caesar was Italian,” she stated. She would look quite formidable if it weren’t for the long, thin blade of pond grass hanging from her chin, giving her, quite frankly, the appearance of a billy goat.
“And?”
“You must stop speaking of Italians as if they are naught but brainless buffoons.”
“Of course, I don’t believe that,” said Archie. “But English society thinks anyone not them is a savage. I’m simply playing to Nestor’s preconceived notions.”
“Well, stop,” she blasted at him. “My mother is Italian, and she’s the most intelligent and reasonable woman I’ve ever known.
” She exhaled a frustrated sigh. “The Italians gave the world the Renaissance. They gave the world culture when the only people populating this island of yours were, indeed, savages.”
A rare sheepishness overcame Archie. She was in the right. “I sincerely apologize, Miss Hart. It was wrongly done of me.”
Her gaze searched his, and at last, she nodded her acceptance of his apology. His spirits lifted.
He clambered up the riverbank, then turned and held out his hand to her. She hesitated. She was still annoyed with him, and rightfully so. But with her wool riding habit thoroughly soaked, she needed his help. Finally, she took his hand, and he gave a great heave, pulling her onto dry land.
Panting with the combined effort, they stood not six inches apart. Her hand, cold and wet, remained in his, but her cheeks were bright and flushed. And in her eyes shone something other than annoyance.
Knowledge.
Knowledge that only existed between them.
Knowledge of last night.
“If it isn’t the family Windermere!” came a voice from the not-too-far distance.
Valentina snatched her hand back and stepped away from Archie. He felt the loss, even as he understood its necessity.
Delilah groaned, and Juliet giggled.
Approaching them with his too-high top hat and solid brass cane was none other than the tall, sharpishly thin figure of Mr. Oliver Quincy, the man who two years ago had fallen in love with Delilah at first sight and proposed marriage at second during a social assembly in the village of Bumpstead Hollow.
Delilah had laughed for a solid minute before soundly rejecting him.
Quincy, however, hadn’t been in the least embarrassed.
He hadn’t enough sense to experience embarrassment.
“What have we here?” the man asked, taking in their motley little grouping.
“A trifling mishap is all,” said Archie. He’d noticed that Valentina had begun shivering. “She needs something warm and dry,” he said to anyone who would listen. His own overcoat was soaked.
Quincy didn’t take the hint. It was Delilah who played gallant as she shed her spencer and handed it down to Valentina.
“Archie,” said Juliet, “help her up onto my saddle. She can ride home with me.”
“Um,” began Valentina, clearly adding up the steps it would take to get her off the ground and onto Juliet’s mount.
Archie met Valentina’s eye. “Nothing to it.”
Still, she didn’t move.
“Trust me,” he said, only to her.
She swallowed before finally surrendering to the idea. She must’ve reached the conclusion that she was outnumbered by Windermeres. Resistance would be futile.
“Where do you want me?” she asked, and instantly froze.
Given last night’s kiss, it was a question laden with possibility.
No.
“Erm,” began Archie, attempting to correct the direction of his thoughts. “Stand here.” He indicated a place at the side of the horse. Once she’d done as instructed, he continued, “Now, when I say hop, you jump with all your might.”
Wary eyebrows crinkled together.
He stepped forward and placed his hands on her waist.
“What—”
“It’s necessary.”
Her waist was tiny. Her presence loomed so large for him that he could forget what a small woman she was.
“Now, one…two…three…hop.”
In unison, she hopped and he lifted and she was perched onto the saddle, staring down at him. Again, knowledge shone in her eyes.
Juliet clicked her tongue, and her mount jolted into a walk.
As he watched Valentina ride away with Delilah and Juliet, he thought she must be wondering what she’d gotten herself into.
He might be wondering the same.
The initial goal remained unchanged. He would secure justice and recompense for her and her family. He was determined.
But, first, he needed to stop touching her.
Then he needed to stop sharing heated looks with her.
And he absolutely needed to stop kissing her.
He mounted his horse and glanced down at Oliver Quincy who looked lost for words for the first time in his life. Archie gave the man a silent farewell tip of the hat and set out for a cooling ride.
He may have been soaked and drenched in river muck, but he wasn’t cold in the least.
In fact, he was hot.
Too hot.
Summoning his sense of self-preservation, he rode in the opposite direction of its source.