Chapter Six
What the hell had he just done?
Blaine awoke the following morning with those words tripping through his sleepy brain. He’d gone and thought up a stupidly foolish way of giving Geraldine Foster her dream. Why? Because he wanted to see that light in her eyes, that joy that radiated from her when she spoke of the things she loved.
Like her horse. And by God, that was one hell of a horse.
Riding her had seduced Blaine completely; her stride, her responsiveness, the pleasure they both received from a good gallop.
She was indeed born for giving her rider the complete experience.
And he’d loved every single minute he’d spent astride her.
If she’d been for sale, he’d have bought her in an instant, no matter the price, but he knew that even a hint of such thing might well bring Miss Geraldine down on him with all the fires of hell at her fingertips.
No, he’d have to find his own Andalusian.
And with that thought uppermost, he left the warmth of his bed reluctantly and began his day.
Anticipating the rendezvous with woman and groom, he managed to eat breakfast, deal with his messages, send out several important letters, and squeeze in a meeting with his estate manager.
After which, he indulged in a light lunch and a brief conference with his housekeeper, before shrugging into his warmest riding jacket, wrapping a thick muffler around his neck, and heading to the stables.
The air was crisp, cold, and scented with snow, making Blaine glad of his winter clothing. But it was also bracing, and his cheeks stung a little as the busy wind snapped at them.
Slowing his pace, he paused next to the first paddock where the Mistletoe Cup would both start and finish. Already it was empty of animals, and there were several large boxes in one corner. Presumably they held the trappings of the race, banners, flags and so on.
He tried to remember it, dredging up glimpses of brightly coloured triangles waving in the breeze.
He’d had an apple, he was sure. But then again, the children had almost never been here for Christmas.
They were bundled up to London, to their aunt and uncle, where they were treated to all the seasonal sights of the Metropolis.
His parents used to join them for a week or two, but even that had stopped after their mother had died.
For some reason, Blaine suddenly wondered if his mother would have liked Geraldine.
And almost instantly, he knew she would have approved.
She had that same streak of independence and intelligence.
And he guessed they were both stubborn women as well.
Life, he mused, was quite strange. He’d spent many years here at Kendall Manor, but so much of that time he couldn’t recall.
Nor did he want to. Ten years in London with Millicent; ten years he’d spent learning from his aunt and uncle exactly what the word family really meant.
He’d had no inclination to return to the country at all, and as time passed even the mention of the place brought no particular response from him.
His father had taken care of that.
“Mornin’, sir.”
The polite greeting made him jump and recalled him to his surroundings.
“Good morning. And a brisk one it is.” He grinned at the stable lad walking toward him. “I hope that’s a warm jacket.”
“’Tis indeed, sir, and me ma’s knitted jumper beneath ‘elps too.”
“Excellent.”
“Will yer be a’wantin’ Thunder, then, sir?”
Blaine nodded. “I will.” He glanced at the field. “I take it that setting up for the Cup has begun here?”
“Aye. Them boxes is full o’ the flags and stuff. Biggest one says FINISH on it, in big letters, like.”
“Ah. The most important one to a rider,” laughed Blaine. “How many horses usually enter?”
The young man paused in thought. “I’d say ‘bout a dozen or so? It changes from year to year.” He glanced at his master. “I ‘eard that since yer back, sir, there’s gonna be a few more running.”
“Really?”
“Oh, aye. ’Tis the prize, yer see.”
“The Mistletoe Cup?”
“Well, that ’n the money.”
“Money?” Blaine blinked. “What money?”
The lad fidgeted a little. “’Tis usual for the Lord o’ Kendall Manor to give the winner some money along with the Cup, yer see.”
“Ahhh.” Blaine sighed inwardly. “And how much does the lucky rider receive?”
“Well now, that’s up to the Lord, sir.” He cleared his through. “Old Sir Robert, well, ‘e weren’t the most generous of men, sir. With all respect.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly.
“How much?”
“Ten bob, sir.”
Blaine blinked. “Ah. Ten shillings.” He bit his lip against the words of anger that itched to make their way out of his throat.
“Well, lad, you can do me a favour, if you would. Pass the word that this year, the Lord of Kendall Manor will be passing out a much more appropriate amount of prize money.”
“I will, sir. I will be ‘appy to.” A huge smile spread over his face, and his eyes lit up. “Me brother is racin’ this year. ‘E’ll be ‘appy as a pig in clover to ‘ear that, ‘e will.” He did a tiny little skip and turned away. “I’ll ‘ave Thunder saddled in a trice, sir.”
“Excellent. I’ll be right along.”
Watching the lad head back to the stables, a spring in his step, told a story of its own.
God, his father had been a parsimonious prick. Blaine felt no guilt at the phrase, because it perfectly described his sire. Ten shillings wasn’t to be sneezed at, certainly, but he could have afforded so much more, thus gaining the affection of those around him.
Was he ill, as so many had assumed? Quite possibly. And yes, he’d taken a bad fall that several doctors believed had injured his brain. Those were the doctors his father had promptly thrown out of the house.
But injuries aside, Blaine couldn’t remember a time when Robert Kendall demonstrated any kind of true gentleness or kindness toward his son or anyone, now he came to think of it.
It seemed that the man was deficient in such things, preferring strength and determination to any expressions of sentiment.
He finally turned away from the empty field and headed for the stables himself. Along the way, he vowed that if it was possible, he would undo some of the damage done by his father, and make the name Kendall stand for kindness, honesty, and consideration.
It was certainly about time.
Miss Geraldine Foster had no idea that Sir Blaine Kendall was making such promises to himself in the cold winter air near his paddocks.
She would have applauded them wholeheartedly, had she known, but at that moment she was dithering in her room, uncertain of whether to go downstairs or not.
One of the maids had informed her a few minutes ago that Mr Francis Rovington had arrived, and her Mama wished for her to join them in the parlour.
What her mother wished and what she wished were, at this particular instant, completely opposite. She wished she could magically transport herself somewhere far away, far enough from Mr Rovington that she’d never have to see his face again.
Guiltily, she glanced in the mirror. Her hair was neatly styled, pulled into a topknot, ornamented with a small pink ribbon, and no frivolous curls dusted her cheeks.
It was a style her Mama approved, and since she knew today would be difficult for the woman, she did her best to at least appear to be a dutiful daughter.
Her gown was appropriate, with a high neckline, featuring a small brooch and a ruffle of soft lace. She was, she thought to herself, the picture of a proper young lady.
Which certainly didn’t reflect the woman inside the gown.
She yearned to tear it all off, shed hairpins, loosen the tight knot, and slip into her breeches.
A warm shirt, a woollen vest, her beloved riding jacket…
and her boots, of course. She’d be out of the house and onto Flora in next to no time, having a far more enjoyable morning than the one she knew she was about to endure.
But she loved her parents, and they loved her.
Best to get it over and done with.
Gathering her skirts in her hand, Geraldine descended the staircase and walked to the parlour, hearing the sound of laughter from within. Yes, Mr Rovington was indeed inside. Swallowing down a lump of nerves, she straightened her shoulders and entered.
“Ah, here you are, dear.” Her Mama beamed at her. “Come and say good morning to Mr Rovington.”
Geraldine stepped toward the two of them, stopping as far away as she politely could. “Good morning, sir.” She dipped a quick curtsey.
“Miss Foster.” The gentleman walked to her, took her hand and bowed, kissing it as he did so. “As always, you are a ray of sunshine on this cold and gloomy day. Won’t you join us by the fire?”
She managed a smile as she removed her hand from his fingers before they could cling. Fighting down the urge to wipe it on her skirt, she simply nodded. “It is indeed quite chilly this morning.”
“I’m glad to see you availing yourself of your warm fireplace,” he smiled. “’Tis no time to be out and about, wouldn’t you agree?”
No, you milksop. There’s no better day for a brisk ride. “One might say so, indeed.”
Mrs Foster shook her head. “Sadly, our Geraldine has little fear of the weather, Mr Rovington. She enjoys being outdoors no matter the temperature.”
“Ah, yes. An appreciation of the countryside is always to be applauded. As long as it doesn’t put one’s person at risk. Excessive exposure to cold temperatures can be dangerous to the physique, I’m told.”
Having no response to that idiotic comment, Geraldine simply moved to the chair by the fire and sat quietly, folding her hands in her lap.
“You were telling me of your plans for Christmas, Ma’am.
” Mr Rovington turned back to Mrs Foster.
“I have received my invitation to the party you’re planning here at the Grange.
I believe it’s traditional, although I regret missing it last year.
My uncle, Sir Addison Rovington, required my presence in town, you will recall. ”