Chapter Seventeen
Hugo gripped the handlebar of his pedestrian curricle and lined the front tire up at the makeshift start line beside Arthur’s.
He adjusted his stance, making sure the seat was comfortable under his bottom.
His feet were planted firmly on either side of the thin frame.
Balance steady—a necessary precaution when riding a contraption with one wheel in front and back.
He couldn’t believe he’d actually let his brother talk him into this, but a challenge was a challenge.
“This is childish,” he said, glancing at Arthur, who was rocking back and forth on his own wooden mount, the metal wheels scraping up the dust on the path beneath their feet.
“It is not childish,” Arthur insisted, “but it is an excellent form of exercise. Or so I’ve been told.”
Hugo shook his head with a smile. Exercise it might be.
And great fun, truth be told, to be able to fly across the ground on the contraption’s two wheels.
But the new rage of the Season seemed to have two distinct frames of mind.
Those who enjoyed the intriguing new contraption, and those who despised them for the havoc they were wreaking on the streets and pathways of London.
He both enjoyed the sheer exhilaration that came with flying over the road and sympathized with those whose peace was being ruined by the hobby horses. Then again, he was part of the group causing the chaos (as he often was). Still, he did feel guilty about it (as he often did).
Several other gentlemen lined up beside them, booted feet wedging into the ground to gain them some leverage when they pushed off.
A few of their more astute peers attempting to promenade on this fine afternoon saw what was about to happen and prudently got out of the way.
Hopefully, the others would follow suit.
They’d chosen a less popular path, but they did need a lane with level enough terrain to accommodate their cumbersome machines.
“Watch for the signal,” called Arthur.
Young Lord McKinley stood by the wayside, handkerchief in hand, ready to wave them all forward. A pistol to signal their start had been suggested, but discarded, as too dangerous a tool to use in the presence of so many bystanders.
McKinley raised his arm, and everyone leaned forward, gripping their handles tightly, both feet planted firmly on the ground, ready to push off.
“Go!” McKinley shouted, waving the handkerchief like a madman.
They pushed off, their legs flying over the path, the wheeled contraptions upon which they sat supporting their weight and allowing them to fly down the path.
A paved road would have been preferable.
The dirt path they were on rattled his bones as he flew down it, running faster as Arthur pulled alongside him.
Had they been going down a hill, he would have propped his feet up on the wheel axles and enjoyed the sheer euphoria of speeding down the lane without the necessity of a horse or carriage as one would usually require.
Several walkers in their path gasped and jumped out of their way.
He shouted apologies as they flew by, thankful he couldn’t hear their grumbled curses.
Viscount Finley shouted as the front wheel of his hobby horse hit a stone and sent him flying over the handlebars.
Hugo risked a glance back to ensure himself that the man was unharmed.
Physically, at least. He sat on the side of the path, his face red though he was smiling.
Arthur took advantage of his distraction to gain a few feet, and Hugo pushed harder, propelling himself faster. Lord Braeswater peeled off with a shouted laugh, the front wheel of his hobby horse wobbling uncontrollably beneath him.
Now only he, Arthur, and Mr. Mortimer remained. And Mr. Mortimer was gaining on them.
He and Arthur glanced at each other, grinned, and sped up until his legs burned. A slight bend loomed before them in the path, and Hugo turned his wheel to make the turn. Only instead of slowing down, as did Arthur and Mr. Mortimer, he propped his feet up and tried to coast through the curve.
And it would have worked, too. If it hadn’t been for the small white dog that ran into his path.
He jerked his wheel to avoid the little animal amid a series of feminine screams, angry male shouts, and a possible whimper of his own, and slammed his feet into the ground, though he was unfortunately going too quickly to immediately stop.
He tried to dig in his heels, but ended up with them dragging, kicking up an enormous amount of dust until he abandoned that plan and lifted his feet again.
His curricle careened around the bend and straight into a hedge of bushes that lined the path.
The bushes at least stopped his runaway machine, which lodged itself firmly in their midst.
He, however, was not so lucky.
Instead, he flew ass over end and landed with a pained grunt on the other side of the hedge.
Right at the feet of a perturbed and disturbingly unsurprised Miss Girard. And her vastly more surprised maid.
“Lord Hugo,” Adaline said, arching an eyebrow as she surveyed the carnage. “If your intent was to upend yourself at my feet, you have succeeded most spectacularly.”
Hugo, whose pride was more bruised than any portion of his person, disentangled himself from the bush with as much dignity as one could muster when one’s face was covered in dirt. He attempted a bow, though he feared the effect was more of a lopsided bob.
“Miss Girard, if I had known I would end up at your feet, I would have chosen softer ground.”
Adaline’s lips twitched, but her eyes betrayed both exasperation and concern. “You are fortunate not to have broken your neck. Nor anyone else’s.” She knelt beside him, her manner brisk. Her maid held out a handkerchief.
“Thank you, Thompson,” she said, her attention fully on him as her maid stepped back, giving them privacy while keeping a watchful eye. “Let me see your hands. And do not argue. You are bleeding.”
“Am I?” He glanced down in surprise, then grimaced at the blood oozing from a shallow scrape along his palm. “It isn’t fatal,” he said, though he surrendered his hands anyway. He winced as she dabbed at it—more gently than he likely deserved…or expected from her.
“It’s a wonder you and your ilk have not managed to maim half of London,” Adaline muttered. She removed her handkerchief from her reticule, shoved the soiled one inside, and carefully wrapped his hand.
He raised a brow. “Am I to believe that you would not readily join us if you were able? I thought you were far more adventurous than that.”
Her lips twitched again, and she tugged the knot a little tighter than necessary on his binding. He smiled through his slight wince.
“I would not join you, no.” Before he could voice his skepticism, she continued.
“But I have already enjoyed several rides on the Duchess of Beaubrooke’s Ladies Walking Machine.
And surprisingly managed to thoroughly enjoy myself without disrupting the peace or injuring innocent shrubbery or passersby. Or myself.”
She gave a final tug on his bandage and stood.
He chuckled and shook his head. “My apologies for such an erroneous assumption, Miss Girard. Though I must say, of all the perils I have faced, none compares to your most formidable attentions.” He held up his tightly wrapped hand with a half-smile.
She flushed and brushed at her skirts, patting away any remaining dust before looking back at him with a huff. “Come on then,” she said, holding out a hand. “If you are restored enough to jest, you are restored enough to stand. Let us ensure you haven’t broken anything more than your dignity.”
He laughed again and took her proffered hand, though he was perfectly capable of rising on his own.
Once on his feet, he found himself strangely reluctant to release her hand.
She glanced at him, then softly tugged her hand away, only to lift it, wiping away a remaining bit of dust from his cheek, letting her thumb linger.
He reached up and took her hand in his, lightly holding it so she could pull away at any time should she so desire.
She did not. Their eyes met, and for a moment, all the usual japes and sparring faded, leaving just them, bare and exposed. Vulnerable.
Hugo swallowed hard, his pulse thundering in his chest.
“Thank you,” he said.
She blinked, breaking the strange spell between them.
“It is nothing,” she said, pulling her hand away and stepping back.
She gazed at him a moment longer and then looked down, clearing her throat.
“Well then, if you are quite certain you are recovered, I shall resume my walk. I’m sure Mother is wondering where I have gotten off to. ”
Hugo hesitated and then regathered his wits about him—and his battered dignity. “May I accompany you, Miss Girard? Provided, of course, you do not find my company too disagreeable.”
Adaline blinked again, her surprise evident. Of all the invitations she had ever received, a request to promenade in the park was likely not one she’d ever expected. Nor was it one he’d ever expected to offer. But he found he did not want to quit her company just yet.
“Very well,” she finally said. “On the condition that you do so on your own two legs and not on that horrid dandy horse.”
He gaped in mock outrage. “Pedestrian curricle.”
“Nuisance.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
Adaline’s lips pinched together, though her shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Whatever term you prefer, you obviously need a few more lessons at Mr. Johnson’s school on the Strand.”
Hugo chuckled. “That is entirely possible. You, I suppose, mastered the skill on your first try.”
“Naturally.” She beamed at him, a sight that momentarily stole his breath.
“Then, perhaps you would care to ride it with me?”
“With you?” She glanced at the walking machine that very obviously had only one seat. “I do not see how that is possible.”