Vivian Roycroft Read Online Free Page B

Rotten Row was thicker than normal, despite the cool air and the stiff breeze plucking at the gentlemen's hats, the ladies' skirts. Jewel-toned riding habits flashed above bay, chestnut, grey, and black, more than one horse pranced at that breath of spring, and Sassenach, despite the grey hairs scattered across his muzzle, proved he could still passage with the best of them. The aging warhorse insisted upon carrying himself well, a testament to his quality and blood, and His Grace lowered a hand, scratching the warmblood's strong withers with one gloved finger. Impossible not to love the old stallion. As for the rider, well, people could decide as they chose.
    Lady Grantholm trotted by, her grey palfrey flicking her tail at Sassenach in passing and the lady's demure glance his way a closely related expression. He returned her smile — how could he not? — but made no move to hinder her nor entice her near. The sweet, svelte debutante with the winsome blue eyes had married Lord Grantholm, twenty years her senior; if she now found her choice not to her liking, well, that wasn't the sort of game to whet his appetite.
    Besides, ahead of him…
    Three young ladies rode in a line, their horses brushing shoulders and noses as if old friends. Two of the ladies rode their geldings adequately, or at least their saddles, crafting pleasing pictures for beau monde society to admire. But Miss Beryl handled her chestnut mare with a deft, educated sureness that spoke of many hours in the saddle, guided by some patient instructor, and many more on the ground, getting to know her horse in the stable. Her back was straight as a sword blade, her shoulders and head erect, and her hips — oh, indeed — were fluid and supple as they followed the mare's motions, facing their forward direction as squarely as if she rode astride. The slender cane she held on the mare's off side barely moved.
    Her riding habit, of a cerulean blue that matched the sky, only deeper and more passionate, was neither old nor in the latest fashion. Interestingly, it didn't sport any of the militaristic influences that had flourished on Rotten Row since the Spanish victories — no cording, frogging, nor braiding. Not that there was anything wrong with such decorations, and the young ladies riding with her demonstrated how well they could look upon shapely female forms. It merely said something interesting about Miss Beryl's self-confidence that she felt comfortable wearing a riding habit that didn't follow the current trends.
    Just as interesting, judging from the placement of the gentle bump beneath her blue gown on the mare's side, Miss Beryl rode with a short stirrup, her left leg almost as bent as the right. Or actually, her entire outline seemed off, as if her saddle had rolled to the left. And yet her hips pointed straight ahead; he'd watched those long enough for absolute certainty.
    Hoofbeats approached from behind, the steady thud-thud-thud of a good round trot, and Miss Beryl's chestnut mare flicked her ears back and pranced with excitement. The hoofbeats drew nearer; sudden movement to the side, energetic and rhythmic, a flash of black and buff, and Fitzwilliam, riding a liver chestnut hunter, slanted across the sand-covered roadway toward the line of ladies. He glanced aside in passing; their gazes meshed; and Fitzwilliam touched the brim of his tall hat before turning away. Grim ferocity best described his expression; it seemed the young man had taken the bait. Pleasant thought, that, and a score to the good.
    The three ladies twisted in their saddles at the same moment, as the liver hunter settled into a walk on the outside of the line, at Miss Beryl's right elbow. Her two lovely companions greeted Fitzwilliam with due civility. But only Miss Beryl's eyes lit from within, only her smile glowed with the warmth of a truly heart-felt feminine welcome, and only her cheeks tinged a winsome shade of rose. Her companions recognized the right of her prior claim, it