Perceptive blighter. Jack was a buffoon, but he wasn’t stupid.
“She is bonnie.” Gavin refused to be bullied into a confession.
“You and I, old pip, have encountered many beautiful women in our day. You’ve never watched any of them when the Mooring Standard was to hand.”
Gavin passed over the paper with an amiable curse. “You take it, then.”
“Serious, is it?” Jack took the newspaper. “Stronger men than you have tried and failed with that one. Or tried, succeeded, and died. I know you court danger, soldier and all, but don’t you think that’s a bit much? Man wants something in his arms, I understand that. And she is quite something. But could you sleep at night? Put your slipper wrong and you might not wake up.”
“It’d take a more serious offense than slippers.”
Jack snapped open the paper, indicating that he’d said his piece.
Gavin took the point. Were he interested, truly interested, in becoming husband number five, it would be well to know exactly how (and why) the other four had died, first.
* * *
The weather held, and the company being restless, it was decided they should go riding that afternoon. Preshea did not like the scheme, as it would put the duke in danger, but she’d no ready excuse to keep him indoors.
Lady Blingchester, a renowned horsewoman, had brought her own mount. Her husband developed a headache and decided to nap, but she and Miss Pagril were eager to ride.
“No Lady Flo?” Gavin inquired politely as they walked to the stables.
Now that Preshea knew his name, she’d a difficult time not using it. It suited him and she liked it. It was softer than Ruthven, which sounded as it if might belong to a sinister vampire in one of Radcliffe’s Gothic tales.
Miss Pagril shook her head. “We are not attached at the hip, Captain. Although it may sometimes seem thus. She doesn’t ride. Whereas I, particularly at my uncle’s estate, find riding a great comfort.”
Gavin nodded sympathetically. Preshea suppressed an odd affection for the nape of his neck, exposed with his head bent listening to the girl.
I’m going mad.
Preshea did not keep a horse and was no great rider, but she’d learned the basics. She asked the groomsman if he might bring her something staid from Snodgrove’s stable. A docile bay gelding was led out. He was enormous but (the man assured her) sweet as a lamb.
Mr Jackson proved to be even more useless on horseback than she, but not so inclined to admit it. Rather spitefully, Preshea thought, the duke ordered up one of his son’s mounts. His middle son, mind you, the one in the cavalry. The horse was a high-spirited chestnut stallion with a fine sleek neck and fire in his eyes. Mr Jackson seemed more struck by the fineness than the fire.
“Jack, my lad, you dinna want somewhat calmer?”
“I can handle him, Ruthven! He is a first-rate bit of flesh, isn’t he?”
“Aye.” Gavin did not roll his eyes. Preshea thought that quite noble of him.
The captain’s mount was a huge, rangy gelding, ugly as sin and common as muck. But Preshea was not so ignorant she couldn’t see that the beast had the bone structure of a god and the affectionate temper of a lapdog. That horse would trot for days, never stumble, and put on speed without whip simply for the joy of it. Gavin must win many wagers against foolish gentlemen who could not see past the shaggy exterior to the smooth gait and perked ears of a goer. She lowered her eyes to hide the glow of approval. How like Gavin to choose a horse for temperament and ability rather than appearance. The stable lads patted the beast with real pleasure. She noticed Gavin tipped them generously for their affection as well as their care.
Preshea allowed two groomsmen to assist her into the saddle. She’d no pride over skills she’d taken no pains to perfect. Frankly, those skills she’d perfected must be kept secret, so she rarely got to glory in them. Yet there was Mr Jackson, lousy with self-satisfaction, trying to master a horse beyond his capacities.
Said horse reared. Mr Jackson’s normally cheerful face was grim with determination.
Lady Violet, mounted on a pretty dun mare, observed her lover’s antics with ill-disguised horror. “Oh, Mr Jackson, really! Formerly Connie’s mare could use the exercise – why don’t you ride her?”
“Listen to the lass, Jack.” Gavin swung himself up with ease.
Mr Jackson ignored them both.
How foolish men are! To insist on being experts when they have no truth to draw upon, and risk their necks besides. Perhaps that is why Gavin is drawn to me – I’m like his horse, only ugly on the inside.
To lighten the mood, and because she was kind, Miss Pagril took pains to draw Lady Violet’s and Gavin’s attention away from the spectacle of Mr Jackson. The unfortunate chap was now making an ass of himself trying to mount unaided. The chestnut kept sidling.
Miss Pagril said, “Captain, why do you call Mr Jackson by his Christian name? Isn’t that unseemly?”
Gavin obliged her by drawing his horse alongside. “You’re thinking he’s Mr Jack Jackson? What cruel parents would name a bairn so? Nay, his given name is Clydeward, if you would believe. Jack is a wee version of his family name. He much prefers it.”
Miss Pagril did not try to hide her smile. “I can see why.”
Finally, Mr Jackson was mounted and they headed out. The Duke of Snodgrove and Lady Blingchester led. Lord Lionel, Miss Pagril, and Captain Ruthven followed with Lady Violet, and Mr Jackson at the rear.