Chapter 6
“Miss Thorne is the most interesting woman who has crossed your threshold in years,” Honoria said over dinner the next night, chasing her comment with a sip of red wine.
“I have never heard someone speak to you with such fortitude—aside from myself, perhaps—and even I would have given up if you approached me with your arms crossed in such an imposing fashion.”
“Did nobody teach you that lurking at doors was impolite?” Adrian said with a laugh. “How much of the argument did you hear?”
“Enough,” she said, winking at Oliver, who blushed immediately.
“Why did you not walk into the room and introduce yourself?” Adrian pressed. “It would have civilized the discussion immediately.”
“That is why I did not interrupt,” Honoria said quickly, “because I wanted to hear you go toe-to-toe with her, and I was not disappointed. You are elevated by the woman, Adrian. I declare it.”
“Well,” he said, taking a sip of his soup, “if you declare it then it must be so.”
“The only other person I have seen you argue so forthrightly with was our own mother,” Honoria went on. “Not even poor Miss Everett with her practiced smiles and her endless curtsies could stand up to you.”
Adrian winced at the mention of his former betrothed. “She is Mrs. Vane now,” he said coldly. He thought, but did not add aloud, that she had fangs Honoria had never seen. She would not have argued with him as Miss Thorne had, but she had always known how to wound him without seeming to try.
Honoria’s face paled, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. “I am sorry, dear brother. I did not mean to bring her up so suddenly—”
“Let us speak of something else,” he said quickly.
“Yes,” Oliver interjected expansively. “Let us return to the matter of Miss Thorne, the boy, and the cob. On no account are you to discourage whatever is developing there.”
“I do not remember asking for your opinion,” Adrian countered sourly.
“Yes,” Oliver said with mock gravity. “And I have been meaning to speak to you on that subject. You ask for my opinion far too little… in my opinion.”
Honoria crowed with laughter.
***
It was four days before Rosalind wrote.
Honoria had agreed to go back to London, perhaps because nothing of import had developed with the flaxen-haired neighbor. Aunt Brearley had written to ask why she was delayed, and it seemed London was clamoring for the return of their favorite little lady.
For this reason, the letter found Honoria outside in a travelling cloak, while a valet loaded her trunks and her brother and Oliver stood speaking comfortably nearby.
A groom rode up on horseback, deposited the missive in Adrian’s hand, and rode away as quickly as he had come.
“Is that from Thornefield Hall?” Honoria asked, pulling on her gloves.
Adrian glanced at the letter, but did not open it. “It appears to be,” he said casually.
Honoria’s eyes widened. “Open it,” she said.
Adrian shrugged, hoping his sister and friend did not see the way the letter filled him with interest. He broke the seal and read the two plain lines scrawled inside.
If you are free tomorrow afternoon, I shall bring Harry over for his first lesson.
I hope you understand how deeply it pains me to admit that I am wrong.
He laughed out loud, and flipped it around for the other two to read. Oliver laughed too, but not Honoria. Her eyes were on Adrian’s face, and when he saw the sober expression on her face he asked, “Is everything well?”
“Yes,” she said, mist gathering in the corners of her eyes. “It is just that… I have not heard you laugh with such abandon in a long time.”
He swallowed hard, and nodded, tucking the letter away. “Travel safely, sister,” he said.
“You must write me every day and tell me of the developments with Miss Thorne,” she commanded, brushing away the tears.
Adrian shook his head, smiling. “There will be nothing to tell, and so I shall do nothing of the sort.”
Oliver winked at Honoria. “I shall be here for a few more days at least, and I will write you any changes in his condition.”
“Do not speak like you are a spy reporting on a grave illness in my life,” Adrian scoffed. “I should turn you both out into the street.”
“Well, I am turning myself out,” Honoria said, curtsying first to Adrian, then Oliver, before stepping lightly into the carriage to wave goodbye. “Come see me in London, both of you!” she exclaimed, as the carriage pulled away.
Adrian turned to look at Oliver and saw the man’s gaze was set, with a look of longing, on the window where Honoria’s profile was still barely visible.
***
The next afternoon, Rosalind and Harry arrived in a gig pulled by a peaceful mare. Harry climbed down quickly, still bruised but visibly better in every other way. His eyes were bright, and Adrian noted that he moved with the easy balance of a healthy child.
“You are looking well,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand in the sober greeting of a man to a man.
“Can we look at the bay hunter?” he asked, looking past Adrian and into the paddock behind.
“We will look at nothing but the cob,” Adrian said firmly.
He turned to help Rosalind down from the gig, but she was already firmly planted on the ground, close at hand.
She had put something soft and yellow on that made her hair look like summer wheat.
Around her slim shoulders she wore a white shawl, and her hair was pinned back with only a few wisps free about her face.
Harry climbed the paddock fence and began chatting easily with the groom about the nearby cob. Rosalind cleared her throat, halting Adrian’s progress to join the boy.
“I have a few conditions, first,” she said in a low whisper.
“By all means, my lady,” he said, gesturing for her to continue.
“I will be present at every lesson,” she said, rattling off the list as though it was evidence in a court of law.
“No fences. No galloping. No mount above twelve hands—that much should be intuitive, I am certain. I reserve the right to end our arrangement at any time without reason. I shall be the final word on the content of your lessons, and the duration. That is agreeable, I presume?”
Adrian smiled despite himself. It was something about the way she carried herself as she spoke—earnest blue eyes fixed on his face, soft blonde hair curling around her high cheekbones…
If a person were to see her without speaking to her they would be forgiven for thinking she was a fragile porcelain doll.
Then she opened her mouth. And she was a war general.
“Your demands are reasonable,” he said evenly. “I also desire your brother’s safety above all. I see no reason for us to be leaping fences or riding enormous war horses, but there may be some galloping as he comes along.
Furthermore, ending without reason is exactly the sort of thing a boy of thirteen views with bitterness. I think some notice, and some reasons, should be agreed upon before terminating our lessons.”
“And what do you know of it?” she asked.
“Well,” he said with a grin. “I, at least, have been a boy of thirteen.”
He saw the smile twist her lips, even though she tried to hide it. A gust of wind lifted her shawl off her shoulders, and before he had time to think about the propriety of the whole affair he reached up and slipped it back into place.
Rosalind looked at his hand, ever so briefly on her shoulder, with clear surprise, but she did not pull away. Instead, she turned those sapphire eyes to him, a question lurking in their depths.
He pulled away, and walked to the paddock, leaning against it as the groom saddled the cob.
“Harry,” he called out. “I would like to see you astride the horse first, walking only in a circle. I need to see your balance before we put the animal through its paces. Miller here will lead you.”
“I do not need to be led,” the boy protested. “I can ride without assistance.”
“This is not riding,” Adrian said quietly.
“This is balancing. I want to see the way you work with the animal before we begin our lessons.” He climbed up on the fence, leaning forwards to meet the boy’s eyes.
“We are going to get to the things you love about horses, but we will begin with the things that are necessary. Do you trust me to teach you?”
Harry looked a little sullen. “I trust the owner of the bay hunter.”
“Good,” Adrian said, waving to the groom to help the boy up. “Then you trust me.”
He turned with surprise to see Rosalind had climbed up on the fence at his side. She was not sitting atop it, but her feet were perched on the bottom rail and she was balancing on the top to better see into the paddock.
“I can find you a more comfortable seat,” he ventured.
She looked at him as though he had offered her a viper, then her forehead wrinkled as she looked more intently at his jaw. “You have a scar,” she said quietly.
“And you have a knack for casual conversation,” he said drily.
She looked out at the paddock, and away from his wound. “If you do not wish to talk about it, I will not pry.”
He observed her, enjoying the way a wisp of hair brushed against her ear, and found that he did not think her question was prying after all. “A saber strike,” he said simply. “Waterloo.”
She looked back at him. “I imagine it is not the only wound you brought back with you from the Continent, and not all so visible?”
She had a way of cutting to the heart of things that made him feel suddenly laid bare before her. “No,” he said quietly, “not all so visible.”
“Did you at least get the better of the man who swung at you?” she asked.
“I did,” he said quietly, “but not before he got the better of my long-time friend.”
He was surprised to feel the true story slipping out of him unbidden. “We were in hand-to-hand combat—past the spray of the cannons—and Fredrick, my friend, was battling with a man twice his size. I saw it happen from across the field. I tried to reach him…” he trailed off.
Rosalind continued to watch him quietly. She made no move to interrupt, urge him on, or comment on his silence. It was comforting, and it drew the rest of the story out of him.
“When I was young and hot-headed, I thought of revenge as a beautiful and valiant thing that would take away the pain of the original wound.” He shook his head. “It is not that way, Miss Thorne.”
“You made it across the field after all.” She spoke it not as a question, but as a statement, reading the truth in his eyes. “You killed the man who killed your friend.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But when it was all done, there was just more blood and more bodies lying before me. The wound was wider, not healed.” He shook his head. “Revenge never works out as we think it will.”
She nodded, and looked out at the paddock again, quietly. He studied her for a long moment, unable to read the thoughts moving behind her eyes.
“Have I shocked you with my honesty, Miss Thorne?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I was just thinking how different you are from the young man I knew so long ago. I think that young man was the vengeful type.”
“He was foolish, and idealistic, and free-spirited,” the viscount said drily. “And I miss him sometimes.”
He raised a hand, noting something in the cob’s stride and waving the groom over.
“You have pried some delicate information from me today, Miss Thorne. I trust it will remain safely in your stewardship?”
She gave a light laugh. “I have nobody to tell, even if I wished to, my lord.” Then, seeming to sense the fear that rushed through him, she added kindly, “Your confidence is appreciated, and I would not betray your trust for the sake of idle gossip.”
The groom drew up to the gate, and Harry looked eagerly at Adrian. “May I ride now?”
“Yes,” Adrian said, swinging a leg over the paddock and giving one last quick smile to Rosalind. “But not alone. We are going to ride, and I am going to show you a trick of the reins that will help you keep control in the future.”
He climbed up on the horse with the boy sitting in front of him and looped the reins through his hands before urging the cob forwards into a walk. As they pulled away from the paddock gate he glanced back. Rosalind was still watching him, shading her eyes so that he could not read her thoughts.