Chapter Twelve
“I cannot believe Mr. MacLeod did not accompany us today,” Maddie said as she and Mari stepped down from the carriage in front of Wittnower’s Book Emporium the next afternoon. “He always escorts us—I mean, you.”
“He received a post from Ian this morning,” Mari replied.
“His brother is at Cantford and expects to be in London in a few days. I think there was some question about the ledgers. Jamie was going to contact Ian’s solicitor here so whatever it was would be cleared.
Anyhow,” Mari continued as she gestured to the footmen who stood not far away, “Robin and Joseph are now armed to the teeth with all sorts of weapons I assume Jamie thinks they know how to use.” She shook her head.
“Not that there is likely to be danger lurking about a bookstore in the middle of the day.”
Mari pushed open the door and entered the rather musty-smelling shop. A few dust mites floated in the dim shafts of clouded sunshine filtering through narrow windows. She coughed. “I will be ready for an ice once we get your book.”
“I still think it is romantic how protective Mr. MacLeod is.” Maddie clung to her original subject as she followed Mari inside.
“More like controlling,” Mari answered. “Jamie has to be in charge of everything—and everyone, whether we like it or not.” She gestured to Robin and Joseph standing diligently by the outside door. “Case in point.”
“Neither of them seems to mind playing guard,” Maddie said mildly. “If fact, I think they rather like it. I overheard Papa’s footmen grousing the other day that they were not being trained in weaponry.”
“Oh, twiddlepoop. What do house servants need to know about fighting anyway? Just yesterday, Jamie showed them how to slip out of ropes if they are ever bound. Now why would they need to know that? Does Jamie think someone would actually invade our premises and rob us? Mayfair is hardly on the outskirts of any barbarian battlefield. England is not even at war at present.” Mari sighed.
“If it were left to Jamie, he would have all the servants—above stairs and below—wielding weapons to defend the women and children. It seems to be something that is instilled in Highland boys.”
Maddie smiled. “I would take no issue with that.”
Mari smiled back. “You are a hopeless romantic. You do know that?”
“Perhaps—”
“Marissa. Madeline. What brings you two here?” Abigail asked as she emerged from between two tall shelves of books.
Mari turned, not surprised to see the Earl of Sherrington’s daughter with an armload of books. Everyone knew she was a bluestocking.
“I came to get the new book by the author of Sense and Sensibility.” Maddie said.
“Oh. I think you will find it over there.” Abigail tilted her head toward a table not far away. “I have already read it.”
That was surprising. Mari had never imagined Abigail to have any romantic inklings at all.
She always dressed in drab colors, the gowns high-necked and long-sleeved, and wore her hair pulled severely back—although that might have been her mother’s doing, rest her tainted soul.
Jillian had mentioned once that Abigail’s mother, Delia, could not abide competition, not even from her daughter.
Mari tilted her head to study Abigail as she launched into an animated conversation with Maddie about the mysterious author’s works.
That the works excited her was obvious. Abigail’s brown eyes sparkled behind her spectacles, her voice well modulated and expressive as she described details of a particular scene having to do with Mr. Darcy.
Strange that Mari had never noticed how musical her voice sounded.
But then, how often had she heard Abigail speak?
At the soirees and routs, she tended to shy away from conversation.
Even last night, she had remained on the sidelines, save for the one dance Mari had insisted Jamie request.
Hmmm. Perhaps something could be done to improve the odds for dances with other men. Abigail’s hair was a warm, nutmeg brown. If she curled it…
“I have a splendid idea, Abigail,” Mari said, interrupting the conversation. “Once Maddie has finished the novel, why don’t the two of you come for tea and discuss it? I am expecting a copy of La Belle Assemblèe to arrive any day now. We can look over the latest fashions together.”
“That would be fun,” Maddie said.
Abigail shook her head. “I know very little about fashion—”
“All the more reason to look at the magazine,” Mari answered. “We can make an afternoon of deciding our gowns for the Almack’s ball.”
“I do not think I will be going to that.”
“Nonsense. The patronesses would never cut you like that, and your father will certainly insist on it.”
Abigail’s expression fell. “I suppose he will. I just am not comfortable with all the tedious, proper conversation about mundane things.”
“I dare say the conversation will not be mundane once the gentlemen see you with your hair down wearing a beautiful gown cut low enough to be enticing.”
Abigail gasped, one of her books sliding off the pile and landing on the floor. “I do not think Papa would allow something like that.”
So maybe it was her father who was keeping her from looking attractive, Mari thought as she bent down to pick up the fallen book.
That would make sense, given it was a known fact his wife had cuckolded him.
Surely there was some mid-ground between fading into the wallpaper and looking like a hoyden from Covent Garden.
The book had splayed open, upside down, and Mari glanced at the binding. A History of Greek Art. No wonder Abigail had difficulty with conversation. Who in the world would want to discuss Greek history? Mari turned the book over, intending to close it, and felt her eyes widen in shock.
The book contained pages of sculpted male statues—all of whom were naked.
“Are you sure I am ready for a different horse?” Mari asked as she eyed the large roan gelding the groom led from the stable. “The little mare and I were getting along just fine on the last two rides.”
“Aye, ye were. Ye may just make a fine horsewoman yet.”
“I will never ride like Jillian.”
“Ye dinnae have to, lass. From what Ian says, horses are second nature to yer sister. Still, ’tis good for ye to be able to handle the wee beastie should ye need to.”
“Wee? There is nothing small about any horse, but this one is huge.”
“Have nae fear. He’s a docile mount.” Jamie put his hands around Mari’s waist, lifting her up to the saddle before she could issue a protest. The horse shifted his weight, causing her to grasp his mane with both hands.
“Easy,” Jamie said.
Mari was not sure if he was speaking to her or the horse, and then the thought was lost as he slid his hand up her calf, lifting her right leg to fit over the horn of the side-saddle like he had the last time.
Jamie smoothed her riding habit down to cover her half-boots as though it was the most natural gesture in the world.
That mere brush sent heat racing up her thigh to that little tingly spot that she hadn’t even known could tingle until recently.
The familiarities the man took. She could see the groomsman was smiling, even though he was walking away. “Really. This is most improper—”
“Ye have an odd idea of what is improper, Mari.” Jamie grinned up at her, his dimple showing. “Would ye like me to show ye the difference?”
“You are incorrigible, sirrah.” The gelding shifted again, this time pawing the ground and distracting her. “Are you sure this horse is gentle?”
“He will be fine. Dinnae show fear.” Jamie vaulted on to Nero’s back and gave her another grin. “Beggin’ yer delicate ears from improper talk, ’tis nae a good idea to take the mare out when I am riding a stallion. If ye understand what I am saying.”
“I believe I do. Apparently male horses are not that different from their human counterparts. Picking on a sweet, little mare—”
“The mare wouldna mind, if she were inclined to accept him.”
For a moment, Mari stared at Jamie. “Are we discussing…breeding? In the middle of the day in a courtyard? This is hardly acceptable conversation.”
Jamie remained affably unaffected by her admonishment. “’Tis nae wrong to discuss what comes naturally to man and beast. ’Tis nae wrong to do what comes—”
“Stop!” Mari covered her ears and then quickly grabbed for the reins as the roan moved forward. “Will you maintain a civil tongue in your head, please?”
“For now.” Jamie winked and turned Nero toward the front road.
Mari was left to view his broad shoulders, well-defined under the close fit of his riding coat, the tails of which did little to hide the way his posterior fit his saddle—or how all those muscles in his back moved in rhythm with the horse’s gait.
Jamie’s breeches fit tightly too, Mari noticed as the gelding caught up with Nero. A thought from nowhere struck her. Where did his male appendage fit when he was in the saddle?
Lud! Mari felt her face flame. Why was she thinking about Jamie’s private parts? First, a totally inappropriate conversation with him, and now—completely on her own without any risqué comments from Jamie—a totally indecent thought. Where had it come from anyway?
It must have been the pictures in that book Abigail had dropped.
On the short ride over to Hyde Park, Jamie had to admit Mari was handling her mount better than he expected. The gelding was a good hand-and-a-half taller than the mare had been and his gait much looser.
“Ye are doing fine,” Jamie said as they ambled along Serpentine Road around the small lake.
Mari smiled tentatively. “I think I am beginning to see why Jillian likes riding so much—not that I will ever be that good.”
“Ye might. It takes practice and being familiar with your horse.” Jamie ran a hand along Nero’s silken neck and the stallion nickered softly. “Ye need to think of the animal as yer friend. He depends on ye for food and care, and ye can depend on him for the good sense God gave horses.”
“Good sense?”