But when she finally looked over, he didn’t have that sarcastic sneer any longer. “You’re not a bad rider,” he said. “That’s something. I had no idea that Bess had it in her.”
She glared at him.
He was looking pleased with himself. “We’ll go back now—but we shouldn’t gallop again, I’m afraid. It’s too cold out here for the horses to be sweating this much.”
Thank God, Harriet thought.
He talked all the way back to the house about manly things like fencing moves and boxing matches. She ignored him and thought about whether she had suffered irrevocable damage to her most tender parts, her female parts. She was very fond of that part of her body and didn’t want it battered to pieces. She couldn’t feel anything between her legs at the moment. It was all numb.
By the time they arrived home, she was regaining sensation—and those sensations were not pleasant.
Strange jumped off his horse and threw the reins to the groomsman. “I’ll see you in the portrait gallery in ten minutes, Cope,” he bellowed.
“No, you won’t,” she said.
He frowned at her. His plan seemed to involve keeping her in motion for the next twelve hours.
“I want breakfast.”
His face cleared. “Right. Beef and beer, that’ll do the trick.” He went into the house without waiting for an answer.
Beer? Beer for breakfast? He must be insane.
The freckled stableboy was standing at her side. He had a nice face, so she gave up her attempts at dignity. “I’m not sure I can get off of this animal,” she told him.
He looked around, but the other groomsman had led Strange’s horse away and there was no one to be seen but a footman huddled just inside the front door, waiting for her.
“Swing your right leg over, miss,” he said quietly.
“What?”
He grinned at her. “I won’t tell anyone.”
She swung her right leg over and squealed. “Ouch!” And: “How did you know?”
“Lord Strange must not have looked closely at your riding,” he said. “You ride just the way my sisters do. The trick is to grip your knees and keep yourself a little above the saddle. Brace your boots in the stirrups.”
He reached up and pulled her off the horse. Harriet looked around hastily, but the footman at the door had retreated indoors and there was no one to see.
“Thank you!” she said breathlessly. “I’d give you a tip, but I couldn’t figure out where to put my money since I can’t carry a knotting bag.”
He laughed. “Gentleman have pockets sewn into their garments. You’ll find them. I’m just happy you didn’t sail into the air and land on your rump.” He looked a bit uneasy. “If you’ll forgive the familiarity, miss.”
“Believe me,” she said, smiling at him, “I’ll forgive a great deal from the man who just told me how to avoid such a bone-jarring ride. What’s your name?”
“Nick. I’ll make sure that I come tomorrow morning as well.”
“Thank you!” she whispered fervently, and started to limp toward the house.
Though tomorrow was a moot point. She’d be lucky to walk again.
And if she ever did ride again—no more padding in front! She surreptitiously adjusted her breeches.
Ouch!
Chapter Thirteen
A Chapter in Which the Delights of Swordplay and Manhood are Confused
J em waited in the entry until Cope finally walked back into the house. Probably Villiers’s protegé was out there caressing his mount’s nose or some such frippery. Cope finally entered and handed over his greatcoat to Povy. He seemed to be a little stiff.
Good. He needed muscle. If Cope had more muscle, he would lose that effeminate look.
“Beef,” he said, striding off to the breakfast room. “Come on, Cope.”
The butler stopped him. “Lord Strange, if you cared to eat in your private dining room, Miss Eugenia would be very pleased to join you.”
Jem allowed very few of his male guests to meet Eugenia—but Cope was far from a rakehell. He was practically the girlish playmate he thought of finding for his daughter.
“All right,” he said, reversing direction and heading up the stairs. He stopped halfway when Cope hadn’t followed him. “What are you waiting for?”
Cope glanced up at him. “Did you say something, my lord?”
“We’re having breakfast in my private dining room.”
The man had the impudence to grin at him. “That must have been my invitation. So sorry I didn’t hear it before.”
Jem ground his teeth. Cope practically coo’ed his little retort.
He should go upstairs right now and tell Villiers that there was no way he could turn a moon-calf into a bull. But Cope was walking up the stairs. And the odd thing was that Jem actually liked him.
He liked the stickler way that Cope made it through that ride, even though he was obviously one of the least experienced riders ever put on the surface of the earth. He didn’t complain, though. And he didn’t look too sissy in a riding jacket. He looked delicate in some lights, but he had a good strong chin. The real problem was his eyes. What man had eyes of burned velvet brown?
Swallowing an oath, he turned around and went back up the stairs.
Just when had he ever wasted time thinking about a man’s eyes? He was truly losing his mind.
“I’ll wash my face and hands in my chamber,” Cope said. “Where shall I join you?”
Jem rolled his eyes. Washing. “End of the corridor to your right,” he barked.
In the end he went to his own chamber and washed his face too, though he was plagued by the idea that his guest’s overfastidious habits would be contagious in more than one sense. He strode into his private dining room to find Eugenia there.
She ran over to give him a hug. It was pure Sally, that hug. His wife used to think that if people would just be kinder and nicer to each other, all problems could be solved.
“Remember when you used to carry me around on your shoulders, Papa?” Eugenia asked, scooting into her chair.
“Yes. We’re going to be joined by a gentleman named Mr. Cope.”
“I hardly ever get to meet a gentleman,” Eugenia said, her eyes shining. “There was that Oxford professor, the one who was an expert in water rats. Is Mr. Cope a scientist?”
“Not that I know of,” Jem said. A footman offered a huge slab of red meat, so rare it practically quivered. He gestured toward the empty spot. “Our guest is starving. Give him a large piece.” He himself took just a sliver. He didn’t need red blood, the way Cope did, and he preferred eggs.
“So what does he do?” Eugenia asked.
“Nothing,” Jem said. “Most men don’t do anything.”
Her brows knit. “I’m glad I’m not a man, then.”
“Most women do less than nothing.”
“It’s impossible to do less than nothing,” she observed, accurate as always.
“I mean that they create busywork for themselves.”
“You are very cynical, Papa. From what I have observed, many women work hard, all day long. For example, my chambermaid’s name is Hannah. She works from the very moment of dawn until after dark. Did you know that there are nine separate stages to washing lace, Papa? Imagine how long that takes. A great many of my dresses are edged in lace. And your shirts too.”