Chapter 13
MARIANNE
Marianne sat on the horse, managing the reins tightly as they went around in circles.
“Holding them like that isn’t going to keep you in the saddle,” Lucien called from the middle of the paddock, where he was holding two ropes; one to lead her horse and one to lead Henry’s.
She had to admit, she sat in the saddle far less securely than her small stepson did. The horse seemed almost to wiggled as they rode in circles, Henry moving easily in the saddle, at one with his pony, while Marianne sat rigidly on her steed’s back, looking most absurd.
“Hold the reins the way I showed you,” Lucien said.
“I can’t,” she called back. “If I do, it feels like I should slide off this horse.”
“You will not. Hold yourself properly, use your posture, not your hands. It is what keeps you on.”
“Squeeze your knees,” Henry called from his horse, continuing to bounce up and down, his blond hair blowing all around his face.
“She is sitting side-saddle,” Lucien explained, but Henry was already focused on his own riding again.
Marianne did as he said, placing the reins between her fingers as he had originally shown her, then continuing to ride in circles.
The more they rode, circle after circle, the more her confidence grew.
This was not so very difficult. Her sisters had long since learned to ride properly, but she had always resisted, too timid to attempt it.
Yet here she sat, bouncing up and down in the saddle without falling off once.
“Shall we try a trot?” Lucien called.
“Trot? Aren’t we already trotting?” Marianne asked.
“No, you are still walking,” he replied with a chuckle, but there was no malice in his tone.
He was simply amused, and it wasn’t really surprising.
Most ladies of her standing knew very well how to ride.
It was just one of those things that her father had been very negligent of.
He hadn’t been interested in them — or in her, for that matter.
She tried to think of a time when she and her sisters had done anything with their father that did not involve calls of duty, but could not think of anything.
They had visited her aunt in Brighton several times and gone to the beach, but that had been at her insistence, and her father had mostly just sat in the corner drinking and staring at his watch until the time to leave had come.
“Well? Trot?” Lucien called again.
“Perhaps a slow trot,” Marianne reluctantly agreed.
He chuckled. “I do not know if there is such a thing as a slow trot, but let us try.” He clicked his tongue, and Henry’s horse fell into a trot. Marianne’s however, continued walking. “She’ll need to go a little bit faster.”
“You must use your legs to prompt her,” Lucien called. “You must tell her what you want to do.”
She did as he commanded, but the horse continued to walk sedately on until Lucien walked over to her and slapped the beast slightly on the back.
That did the trick.
“Heavens,” Marianne called, feeling a little sick.
She wanted to grip the reins again with her fist, but remembered what he had said.
It wasn’t going to help. She held on, willing herself not to slip out of the saddle and directly into the dirt.
In front of her, Henry whooped and hollered as his horse trotted around the paddock, his tiny body rising up and down in time with its steps.
“You really must try to relax a bit,” Lucien said. “She can feel it if you’re nervous. Trust the horse, trust the movement and...”
Marianne had been trying to pay attention to him while also focusing on the horse, which proved to be an utterly fruitless endeavor.
But as she was looking at the reins once more and then back at him, she felt herself start to slide.
Before she knew what was happening, she was slipping out of the saddle.
She dug her heels further into the stirrups, willing herself to stay up, but. ..
“I’m falling,” she called. She saw Lucien drop the lead rein and run towards her as the words were still coming out of her mouth.
She slipped forward, a yelp coming from her lips, as he arrived at her side.
He was there before she landed on the ground, his arms wrapping around her waist as he caught her.
Then he set her down, holding onto her a little bit longer than was necessary.
Marianne’s heart thudded so loudly she was sure he must be able to feel it against his own chest, which she noted was pressed closely against her own.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. There was a thickness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Was he upset? He didn’t sound like it.
“I am quite hopeless. I’m really not made for horses either. I’m not made for the stage, not made for horses, not made for society. I possess a few accomplishments, it seems.”
“Please do not speak of yourself in such a manner,” he said. “It isn’t true. You are kind, you are generous, and you are clever.”
Marianne looked up at him, her lips parting slightly. He was complimenting her. And he meant it.
“You need not flatter me just for the sake of it,” she said.
“I do not. I do not pay Spanish coins. That is something you need to know about me. I never have and I never will. Likewise, I meant everything I said when we dined at Rhys’s home. You have a mind of your own. I appreciate that.”
“Thank you,” she said. She felt warmth creeping up the back of her neck and willed it not to show on her face.
She didn’t want him to see how his words touched her.
Compliments had never been something she easily accepted; perhaps because she so rarely ever received them.
Her sisters were so outgoing, so friendly.
They never had any shortage of admirers, but Marianne had always been the wallflower, so to speak—not because she was shyer than any others, just because she enjoyed her own company more.
She didn’t like to make herself conspicuous.
And the truth was, her father, if he ever complimented anybody, would compliment her sisters more than her.
Why was she thinking of her father so often of late? Was it because she saw how Lucien was with Henry?
“Look,” Henry called excitedly. One of the grooms had gone and picked up the lead and was now leading the horse around the circle. Lucien let go of her and turned to his son.
“Very good,” he said. “Do you want to gallop?”
“I do,” Henry called.
“Is that not dangerous?” Marianne whispered.
“No, he has done it before. Besides, he will not do it alone,” the earl replied.
Marianne drew her eyebrows together and watched as he spoke to the groom, who took off the lead from the horse, allowing Lucien to swing himself with ease into the saddle behind his son.
He took over the reins, clicked his tongue again, and then dug his heel into the horse’s flank.
The horse took off at a gallop. Its black mane flew, and Henry laughed—full belly laughs—while Lucien sat there behind him grinning, completely in control of the animal.
He was having the time of his life. She could easily tell that. They both were.
She watched them, and a most peculiar sensation took hold of her.
She felt contented, warm, at peace, the same way she had felt while sitting in the chapel at the convent.
However, this feeling was slightly different.
What was it? It wasn’t Lucien. Or not only Lucien.
It was something between father and son; the way that they were so contented with one another — the way they chuckled and seemed to delight in just being together.
And the way she was included, even if it was only temporarily.
“What a picturesque scene,” said Juliet from behind her, and Marianne turned to see her friend walking towards her with Mrs. Greaves.
“He is such a good father,” the housekeeper marveled. “Although I confess I wish he would hire a proper riding instructor. His father had hired somebody. Someone who would train horses for the races.”
“His Grace seems to be doing very well,” Juliet said.
“His lordship,” Marianne corrected. “He is an earl, therefore he is his lordship. Only dukes are your grace.”
“That’s right. Who is it that I should address as such? I know there is someone within the family.”
“His new brothers-in-law, the Duke of Wells and the Duke of Ravenscar.”
“Oh, your sisters’ husbands. I knew there was a duke or two somewhere around in your family tree,” Juliet said with a smile. “Now, how did the riding go?”
“I fell,” Marianne admitted, shaking her head.
“Oh goodness, are you hurt?” Mrs. Greaves asked.
“No, no, nothing as dramatic as that. Lucien was able to rush over and catch me before I fell.”
“I see,” Mrs. Greaves said. “He is quite chivalrous like that,” she added with a smile.
The housekeeper beamed at Marianne, and Marianne was at once aware of what she meant. Was it chivalrous to protect somebody who was falling off a horse, or was it mere courtesy?
“Well, I am going into town to the market,” Mrs. Greaves said. “I simply wished to stop by and see how the riding lessons were going. It seems young master Henry is doing very well.”
“He is. Far better than me,” Marianne admitted.
“Well, you will get better,” Mrs. Greaves replied, before bidding them farewell. Juliet, however, remained at Marianne’s side.
“So he caught you as you fell off the horse. I will say that is most romantic.”
“It was not romantic,” Marianne replied, quite vexed now. “You have already spent too much time with Mrs. Greaves. She also has fanciful notions about Lucien and me that will never come to fruition.”
“Never? Are you quite certain?” said Juliet, raising an eyebrow. He is very handsome and dashing. And there are many an arranged marriage that has turned into something more.”
“And many who have not,” Marianne replied tartly. “My parents were scarcely content. And theirs was an arranged marriage. I am certain my mother would have liked it if she had known that she could be freed from the match at some point.”
“But then you would not be alive.”
“Perhaps not,” she said. “Perhaps I would’ve simply had a different father, a better one. Someone who cared...”
“You have never spoken of your father before. Why the sudden change?”
Marianne sighed. “I dare say these last few days I have been left to think a lot. Seeing Lucien with Henry has made me realize what I lacked as a child. Parental affection, at least from my father. My mother was lovely, but she died when I was young.”
“I imagine if Lucien’s wife had not died, perhaps his connection to the little boy would be different. How did she die, if it’s not impertinent to ask? I do not think you ever mentioned it.”
Marianne looked at her friend and then at Lucien, who was still riding in circles with Henry.
“I do not know. He never told me. In fact, he hardly ever speaks of her at all. I wonder if he doesn’t speak of her because he misses her.”
“Or because he was happy to have them part ways,” Juliet said in a tone that was more plain-spoken than sympathetic.
“‘It is not as if they divorced,” said Marianne thoughtfully. “She died. I imagine it must’ve been very painful for him. Perhaps that is why he does not wish to have a wife again. A true wife, that is—because of the pain that would cause if he loved someone and lost them.”
“Perhaps. You should ask him. When you have a chance, ask him about her, see what he will say, and I will make inquiries of my own,” Juliet offered.
“You do not need to make inquiries on my behalf,” Marianne replied.
“Well, I shall make inquiries on my account then, for I am curious. And if you like, I will share with you my findings.”
Marianne paused. The more time she spent with Lucien, the more interested she was becoming in his history: in what he wanted, what he thought, what he dreamed of, what made him the man he was today.
And yes, she wondered about his wife. So she nodded.
“Very well, if you do find out anything of consequence, by all means, tell me.”
The horse had come to a stop at last, and Lucien lifted Henry down onto the ground.
The boy ran forward but then tripped, falling forward into a puddle.
Marianne turned, wondering if she should assist him, but instead of crying as she had thought, the boy got up.
He chuckled, and Lucien knelt beside him.
The little boy whispered something to his father.
Lucien looked up at Marianne and then replied to Henry, who suddenly turned around and raced across the paddock.
He climbed underneath the fence and then focused on Marianne.
She stood, unsure of what to do, remaining in place.
Then, before anything else could be said or done, Henry wrapped his arms around her, patting his hands across her skirt.
“Henry,” she called, seeing that his hands were covered in mud, which had now transferred to her gown. Lucien walked across the paddock, bent down, and snuck out through the fence.
“Do not fret,” he said with a chuckle. “I told you, our staff is very good at removing mud and any manner of stains.”
Marianne stood there feeling foolish. Henry had stepped back and laughed as though this were the greatest jest ever played upon anybody.
She looked down at her gown, one of the nice ones her aunt had bought her.
It was a cream color, except now, the area around her knees and thighs where Henry had hugged her was covered in mud.
“That... That was not very kind,” she said.
“No, indeed, it was not,” Juliet said. “Not kind at all, my lord.”
Marianne looked up, confused, as Juliet stared at Lucien, her arms pressed to her hips.
Lucien looked quite pale.
“Pray allow me to explain,” Juliet said.
“It was merely in jest,” Lucien said defensively, which gave Marianne pause at once.
“What was? What was?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Juliet said. “Come, let us get you changed. Besides, it is going to rain soon.” She wrapped an arm around Marianne, and the two of them walked away together.
But when Marianne looked back, she saw Juliet was glaring over her shoulder at Lucien.
What had just happened? What had he said? Why was she so angry at him?
Juliet did not leave her any time to ponder the matter, for they were already passing the stable, having left father and son behind.