Max’s grinned widened. The man’s plans likely included his wife. And privacy.
Lucky bastard. “What are you doing here, my gigantic friend?”
The strongman cracked his knuckles. “I need to talk to you about Freddy.”
Hell. He steeled himself for the bone snapping. “Freddy?” He held his breath, said goodbye to his unbruised skin.
“Riding lessons for the girls. Sarah visited this morning, and I heard her talking to Nora about some conversation you had with Freddy? I didn’t catch the whole of it, but I did hear something about Freddy having asked you to teach the girls to ride and you refusing to help.” Max stood and slapped Grant’s back, his lips twisted into a menacing scowl. “Surely I heard wrong. Or she heard wrong. Or both.”
Grant coughed but started breathing again. “Yes. Well. I—”
“I think it’s a perfect idea. No one better to teach them, if you ask me.”
“Of course not. I’m the best, but—”
“Why the hell you’d refuse is beyond me. Freddy said to let it be. Said she had her reasons. She’s a deep one. Knows everything, says little. But in this, I’m ready to pry.”
He couldn’t teach Freddy’s daughters to ride because that meant being around Freddy. Resisting her before the kiss had felt like starving in the face of the most delicious strawberry tarts, holding back when eating just one might save your life and make it, too.
Now? After the kiss? How could he resist?
And then there was the girls—tiny little sprites he liked to make laugh, who made a man think about family and—no. No riding lessons. Bad idea. Perfectly disastrous.
Couldn’t tell Max that, so he threw himself down on the settee and covered his face with his hands. What could he tell Max?
“I’m busy.” Same thing he’d told Freddy.
“Tupping the curious ladies of the ton? Surely they can spare you for a few hours a few days a week.”
There was another excuse he could use. Garrison had just provided him with one. All he had to say was that he had accepted greater responsibility running Garrison’s. Problem solved. No riding lessons. No temptation.
If he could just say the words, he’d be free.
He couldn’t. Because they were impossible. Garrison had it wrong. Surely he knew he couldn’t trust his business to a man who’d likely be dead in five years.
So he said, “I’m the premier trick rider in London. Teaching girls how to ride sidesaddle is a bit beneath me.” Bloody hell, he sounded like a prime arse.
Max’s usual warm brown eyes turned to steel, and he prowled toward Grant, towered above him. “Is that the kind of man you are, then? The kind who can’t help a friend? I want those girls to know their way about horseflesh better than most men. Sidesaddle? Ha. Nora would shoot me straight through the gut if I even suggested it.”
“What’s Freddy want? She’s their mother, and she’s a lady. Last I heard, ladies rode sidesaddle. And don’t take that to mean I don’t think Nora’s a lady. ’Course I do. I’m fond of my teeth where they are, thank you.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Yes, Freddy’s a lady. A damn fine one who deserves the best. So do her daughters.”
And Grant was the best. No way of escaping this without damage of one sort or another. If he refused, his friendship would take a knockout hit. If he agreed, he might kiss Freddy again, and then his face would be the one to feel the punch. Either way, he was doomed.
Might as well face his fate.
“Tell her I’ll be in Hyde Park tomorrow at ten,” he said. “We can start there. Bring a pony tame enough for the girls.”
The steel in Max’s gaze melted, his shoulders relaxed, and Grant almost let out an audible sigh of relief. His bones were safe another day.
Max clapped Grant on the shoulder and strode to the door in two long steps. “Excellent. I’ll tell her.” When he closed the door behind him, the whole wall shook. The door popped open, and Max stuck his head back in. “Apologies. Didn’t mean to bring the walls down.” Then he disappeared again, settling the door softly into its frame.
“Damn nuisance you are, Max.” And it was a hell of a mess Grant found himself in. He lurched to his feet. He’d have to see Freddy tomorrow. And do his best not to flirt. Or smile. Or seduce. Because nothing could come of it. Ladies didn’t marry circus performers unless they were secret viscounts. Not that he cared about that. He was the best trick rider in London, not a title that came with acres of land or entrance into ton ballrooms, but a more valuable one by his standards. And despite his status as the most easily seduced man in London, he was a gentleman in other ways. If he weren’t, he’d have taken what he wanted from Freddy and left her a widow twice over.
That, not any contrived social rank, stopped him cold. At six and thirty, he didn’t have many more years left on this earth, not in his trade. His father had died at one and forty—a skittery horse, a loss of balance, a death no son should have to witness. But when Grant closed his eyes sometimes at night, he still saw splashes of body-warmed red, still heard the screams.
Grant wouldn’t survive much longer than his father had. He’d been the best, after all, in his prime much past the usual age. The body gave out even as the will to do more, to push the boundaries of the possible and impossible, remained strong. A determined mind coupled with an aging body made for danger. He accepted that. But he’d never let a woman close enough to get hurt by the bright but short flame of his life.