Vee and Diana didn’t appear to need his help with their mounts, because Giles had talked them through the basics and a thoroughly immersed Mrs. Landridge had sandwiched herself between the girls’ gentle horses to instruct them on the noble art of riding like a lady. Minerva was yet to arrive. Hugh was about to send a groom to fetch her when she suddenly appeared at the edge of the stable yard, looking so gorgeous his breath caught in his throat.
Good heavens, the woman had a splendid figure! A figure the bold velvet habit clung to in the most magnificent way.
He bounded over a tad too eagerly, before he checked himself and slowed his pace in case Giles was watching. His friend had enough ammunition on him already without learning Hugh found Minerva devilishly attractive and harbored scandalous fantasies involving her that had the annoying habit of coming alive when he slept. “There you are! I was about to send a search party.”
She looked nervous. More nervous than he had ever seen her, those feline green eyes filled with trepidation as they took in the horses. “Which one is mine?”
“The chestnut mare over there.” He pointed to the pretty filly waiting patiently on the cobbles. “Her name is Marigold, and before you ask, no, I didn’t name her. My mother did. Come and meet her.” He took Minerva’s elbow, expecting her to follow, but she remained rooted to the spot.
“Isn’t she a little on the … um … large side?” He watched her eyes wander to the neat gray pony he had assigned Vee, then back to Marigold.
“You are a tall woman, Minerva, anything smaller and your legs will be trailing on the ground.”
Her gaze was rooted to the horse. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a bad thing—for the horse.”
For the first time since her arrival, she finally looked at him. “Are you suggesting I will squash a smaller one?”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Hugh smiled and wrapped her arm around his, tugging her reluctantly forward and trying to ignore how pleasant the seemingly innocuous contact was. “My dear Minerva, it is perfectly natural to be a little wary of a horse when you have never ridden one, but you have my word that Marigold, despite her gargantuan size, is as docile as a horse can be. Why—you could fall asleep in the saddle without a care in the world should you fancy it.”
“If I can stay in the saddle! I have no center of balance and…”
“And you are making this into more of an ordeal than it needs to be. Riding a horse isn’t like dancing. It largely requires you to sit—something I daresay you have done without consciously thinking about for most of your life. Let’s get you seated and you’ll see for yourself.”
They’d had a long conversation about this last night after dinner, although he had thought her more reluctant than scared when she had grabbed him in the hallway and tried to come up with as many reasons as she possibly could as to why she didn’t need to learn to ride. Judging by her pinched features and widened eyes, his intrepid fake fiancée was actually more scared than reluctant. Perhaps more petrified than scared. It was the first time he had ever seen her flounder, and it made him feel … peculiar. “You will amaze yourself at how quickly you get the hang of it. It is simply a case of sitting upright. Just look at your sisters.”
Almost as if he had paid her to perform on cue, Diana nudged her equally tall mare into a trot, her pretty face breaking into a grin as she easily maneuvered a quick circle around the exercise paddock. Then Vee swiftly follow suit. “They have both been riding less than five minutes and look at the pair of them. Honestly, Minerva, there is nothing to it. Think of Marigold as a tall, robust stool if it helps. Once you are in the saddle, you hold on to the reins and use them to direct the horse. All my horses are fully fluent in the subtle language of the reins.” Hugh reached out and stroked Marigold’s muzzle. “Go ahead … pet her. She won’t bite.”
Tremulously, she copied and gave the horse a perfunctory pat. Marigold didn’t so much as blink. “There … you see? As docile as they come.”
A waiting stable boy rushed forward with the block and placed it on the ground. Minerva decisively placed one foot upon it, then the other, and froze. “Aren’t sidesaddles a lot harder to master—what with the rider dangling precariously over the side rather than on top?”
“Not at all. You are not dangling, because your … um … bottom is still atop the horse.” Hugh grabbed the pommel and gave it a hearty shake to demonstrate how sturdy it was as he thought about her bottom. “It is perfectly safe. Trust me.”
“Says the man who has probably never ridden sidesaddle in his life.”
She had him there, so he glossed over it. “Once you are saddled, you also have the reins to help steady you. It’s probably best to demonstrate them once you are up.” He gestured to the saddle with a flick of his head. “So gather your skirts in your right hand and … up you get.”
She bundled up the fullness of her heavy habit in one hand, cocked her leg awkwardly, almost tripping in the process, then spun back to face him, bewildered and more than a little panicked. “Exactly how do I get up?”
“Why don’t we leave mounting the horse for another time and I’ll simply lift you today?” Hugh didn’t wait for an answer, and instead briskly put his hands around her waist. The feel of her womanly curves brought him up short. Her arms suddenly looping around his neck brought him up shorter. She was gripping him so tightly he had no choice but to feel the soft press of her bosom against his neck as it rose and fell in time with her rapid breathing; his eyes were level with her lips, unable to look elsewhere thanks to the bundle of burgundy velvet wedged against his cheek. Not that he paid much attention to the velvet when his big hands nearly spanned her waist and he could smell her sultry perfume where it lingered on the pulse of her throat.
The incendiary effect on his body was instant, and despite the chilly winter morning, his skin burned. “You might need to let go for me to lift you.”
She released her grip only slightly.
“Perhaps put your hands on my shoulders?” His voice came out strangled, not because she was strangling him but more because their intimate position was suddenly giving his body inappropriate ideas. Her long legs were plastered against his torso. If he didn’t act swiftly, something of his would be inadvertently and mortifyingly plastered against her thighs.
“I’m sorry. I’ve never been lifted before. As you rightly pointed out, I’m hardly slight. Do you promise you won’t drop me?”
“My dear Miss Merriwell, while the Standish male is untrustworthy in nearly all things and should never be trusted as a general rule of thumb, we would absolutely never drop a lady. Even a less-than-slight one. Please trust me in this.”
Finally she put a little distance between them, placing her palms flat on his collarbones and staring deeply into his eyes, making him yearn to kiss her anxious frown away. “This is all very new to me.”
This was all very new to him, too, and it certainly wasn’t fun. His heated skin didn’t feel like it fit his skeleton any longer, his heart was hammering a fevered tattoo against his ribs, and his hands wanted to go roaming on an extensive journey of discovery. For the sake of his own sanity, and in case he forgot to be noble, Hugh didn’t linger over the task and practically threw her up into the air in his haste to release her.
She gave a little squeak as she landed on the saddle, then nearly fell off the damn thing in her hurry to grab the reins, forcing him to use his body to hold her upright as she fought for balance. As she had said, she wasn’t slight. She was a tempting armful he was only too aware of. He didn’t bother trying to explain how to hook her leg around the pommel and arranged the limb himself as dispassionately as he could with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers, trying to imagine it was any other leg than her ridiculously long and shapely one and failing miserably. Since when had he been drawn to legs? Or perfume? Or silly little hats?
“Now shove your other foot in the stirrup.”
The spare leg flayed about ineffectually in the air, displaying the merest glimpse of silk-clad calf. He lunged and gripped the offending thing firmly around its booted ankle and stuffed it unceremoniously where it needed to be before jumping back, more than a little flustered and confused as to what exactly was going on.
They were just legs, for pity’s sake. Hardly warranting such an effusive reaction when he saw legs every single day. Most people owned two of them. Nor was he some green youth who had never touched a woman before! He had touched dozens of them, all over the place, seen copious pairs of naked female limbs and never once experienced a reaction like this to any of them.
Perhaps he was ill?
That had to be it.
All the stress of his mother’s impending visit and this complicated damned charade was obviously taking its toll. Either that, or the circumstances had unsettled him. For so many reasons, she was forbidden fruit; ergo, it stood to reason the wayward, womanizing Standish blood flowing through his veins wanted to take a bite. It was all heredity. That had to be it if even the bloody woman’s calves were alluring!
It was best to just accept it and move on without too much inner scrutiny. “Fetch me my horse!” And best to do something swiftly to take his mind off it all.
The groom brought Galileo around, and Hugh heaved himself onto the animal’s back while Minerva sat stiffly atop Marigold with unnecessarily widened eyes. “Allow me to demonstrate the reins…”
When she had said she lacked a talent for anything physical, she hadn’t lied. Hugh had never seen such an ungainly, cack-handed attempt at horseback riding in his life. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so crucial. His mother was a vehement horsewoman. He’d told his blasted mother that Minerva was also a keen horsewoman. And there wasn’t a hope in hell his mother wouldn’t suggest a daily ride to get the blood pumping.
That Minerva had not fallen from poor Marigold was a miracle in itself—but at least she was upright.
Almost.
And at least her general demeanor had moved from terrified to simply startled. For a woman who normally moved with an achingly hypnotic economy of motion, who could bring to life the rejuvenating qualities of Pinkerton’s Patented Liver Tonic with nothing but a brush and some ink in her talented, graceful hand, this Minerva might as well be a hat stand in comparison. Her posture was so rigid, all four of her limbs were locked at odd right angles as the group plodded laboriously toward the village. Worse, she still didn’t understand the concept of bouncing in time to the horse’s gait. Instead, she bounced intermittently but stiffly, her lush bottom jarring with each apparently alien motion.
Giles and the others were long gone—at Hugh’s insistence. His friend was enjoying the bizarre spectacle of Minerva in the saddle much too much for his liking while Hugh had patiently walked her in circles around the exercise yard, hoping against hope she might eventually get the hang of it. But alas—a ramrod straight, slightly panicked hat stand was all she was capable of.
Now they were blessedly alone but picking their way cautiously down the lane to the village. With any luck, they would arrive before the shops closed, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath.
“I told you I was useless at things like this.” Her voice was despondent and apologetic. “We should probably just turn back.”
“Nonsense. You are doing splendidly.” He smiled encouragingly. “Perhaps if you concentrated less, you would relax more.”
“If I relax, I’ll fall off.” Marigold swished her tail impatiently, and Minerva wobbled precariously for a moment, then looked so miserable he felt dreadful. Who knew something as simple as riding a horse would defeat her? “This horse clearly hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. The thing is…” Hugh took in her granite posture and sighed. “Horses are sensitive creatures who take their lead from us. You need to relax for Marigold to relax, too.”
“And how, exactly, does one relax on the back of a skittish horse!” The snippy tone made Marigold snort and chomp on the bit.
“For a start, you could think about loosening your arms. Look at me.” Hugh made sure he was practically lounging in his saddle. “As you can see—I have a firm hold of the reins should I need to quickly take command.” He shook them for effect. “But the muscles in my arms and wrists are soft. Galileo doesn’t need to feel the bit tight at the back of his mouth to know I am in control, because we trust each other.” To prove his point, he used his left hand to tug gently, and his mount instantly responded by moving a little farther away from Minerva on the narrow lane. “Relax your arms, Minerva.”
She took a deep breath. “Is this better?”
Not even slightly. “A little—however, you do still resemble a woman with a couple of sturdy broomsticks shoved up her sleeves.”
She looked down at her arms, ruler straight and raised almost horizontal from her body, and made a conscious effort to bend them. “Will the terror lessen, do you suppose?”
Maybe it would if he took her mind off what she was doing?
“It occurs to me I have been very remiss in my attentions. I’ve been so wrapped up in teaching you how to be my Minerva, I’ve hardly learned anything about the real one. All I know is your parents are no longer alive and your father was a scholar.”
She frowned, her eyes never leaving the road ahead as she concentrated too hard at relaxing. “I said he was gone, not dead.” She risked flicking him a quick glance. “And I saw no evidence of him actually being a scholar, although he frequently claimed to be one. But then my father often claims to be a lot of things.”
“He’s alive?”
“Who knows?” She shrugged, then wobbled some more. “He wrote us a letter one day saying he was going away for a little while and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.”
Hugh was appalled. “He never came back! Even after your mother died?”
“My mother died when I was nine. My father abandoned us promptly after my nineteenth birthday. He left no forwarding address.” She said it so matter-of-factly. “I cannot say I miss his presence much. He was more hindrance than parent, especially in the later years.”
“That is outrageous!” For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to turn his horse toward London, hunt the wastrel down, and then beat the bounder to a pulp. “What sort of a gentleman behaves like that?”
“I never said he was a real gentleman either.” She looked troubled. “Again—he claimed to be. He was an engraver—like me. Oh dear … Is that why you asked me to pose as your fiancée? You assumed I am a proper gentleman’s daughter?”
“It was an easy assumption to make. You are well educated, well spoken. You have a genteel bearing.”
“Those come from my mother, who also claimed to be a gentleman’s daughter.” She winced. “But again, I have no proof of that either. They were estranged from their respective families.”
“It makes no difference to me in the grand scheme of things.” He liked her exactly as she was. “So long as you can convince my mother you are a tiny bit genteel…”
“There may be some tenuous link somewhere—although I sincerely doubt from my father’s line.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “He was as convincing a liar as anyone I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have made it all up.” She risked another quick glance sideways and offered a pained half smile. “He was quite clever that way.”
“But he lacked the moral fiber to do his duty by his family?” Such a thing seemed unbelievable to Hugh. A chap did not shirk his responsibilities!
“He was a terminal wastrel with questionable morals who preferred an easy life to hard work. He managed to make the minimal effort while we were younger—or at least I assumed he did because he just about managed to keep a roof over our heads. He was a woodcutter, too. A reasonably good one. He taught me, actually. Which ironically freed him to spend more time socializing in the local public houses or with his lady friends as I got older—until he abdicated all his parental responsibilities entirely.”
“And left it all to you.” She nodded. “That’s unconscionable.”
“Yes, it is—but that was Papa. He ran with a very bad crowd by then, and in the final days, and the weeks after, several unsavory characters and more than one Bow Street Runner came looking for him. Clearly he was running away from more than just his familial responsibilities.” She shrugged, resigned, and barely wobbled at all. “The Standish male does not have the monopoly on untrustworthiness, Hugh. In my experience, most men are untrustworthy. It’s in their nature, but my father was in a league all his own. In fact, I would go as far as to say that whatever misdeeds any man in your family has done in the past, I’ll wager my dear papa probably did worse.”
Not a wager he was prepared to risk. “For all their copious faults, a Standish would never leave his family in the lurch.” They would lie, cause enormous heartbreak unrepentantly to said family, do exactly as they wished, betray all trust, and ultimately disappoint, but they never ignored their responsibilities. Even the most scandalous ones.