Four
The sun had descended from the heavens to stand in the middle of an uncrowded path in Hyde Park. Explained why the sky hung gray and forlorn, missing its brilliant companion and threatening tears of sorrow. The sun, meanwhile, appeared to be enjoying it sojourn on earth. It grinned and laughed and surrounded in its light a pony named Penelope and Freddy’s eldest daughter, Bridget. The sun also, suspiciously, wore the form of London’s greatest trick rider.
Or perhaps the trick rider shone as bright as the sun. Blinding, handsome, infuriating man. A veritable Apollo.
And she was too aggravated to speak to him. It wasn’t his fault she and he and the girls were in the exact position she’d determined not to find herself in. Neither, truly, was it Sarah’s fault. Nor Nora’s. They had merely joined her in further conversation concerning last night’s disastrous events. Max could be shouldered with the brunt of the blame. He’d done the eavesdropping. He’d taken it upon himself to wrangle Mr. Webster into riding lessons. And Mr. Webster had caved.
And here they were—her embarrassed, him gorgeous, her daughters fascinated, and …
And why didn’t he want to kiss her? Not a productive thought, but it was the loudest.
At least he seemed amenable to teaching the girls this morning, and no rules said she had to use these lessons for seduction. She simply … would not do so.
Bridget, perched in absolute terror on the top of the pony they’d borrowed from the Cavendish family, clutched Mr. Webster’s hand, and Mr. Webster held on tight, spoke to her like a skittish colt and the most beautiful girl in the world all wrapped into one.
Bridget gasped at something. Likely the wind. Poor girl was too much like her mother.
“Mr. Webster, I cannot! Do not let go. Please.”
“Ah, darling, I’ll never let go. You’re the best thing I’ve ever seen. You won’t make me let go, will you? I’ll wither away if you do.”
Freddy rolled her eyes. Reminded her of the first time they’d met. He’d flirted without end, called her flawless, and looked at her as if she were a very fine dessert crafted by a master in the kitchen of the finest restaurant in the world.
Or like a naked woman. He may just have looked at her like she was entirely nude and laid open for his observation. His very keen observation.
Her heart gave up its cheerful pitter-patter for a faster rhythm, a racing rhythm that boiled her blood.
Bridget laughed, a small chuckle thrown to the sky, and it did a bit to slow Freddy’s desire. Not here. Not now with her daughters about.
“Would you look at that!”
Freddy looked. How could she not?
Mr. Webster beamed with pride. “Perfect posture. Absolutely perfect posture, Miss Bridget.” He held his arms wide in deference, one presumed, to Bridget’s perfection.
“You let go!” Bridget stiffened, but she kept hold of the reins and kept hold of her composure, too.
Good girl. Freddy beamed with pride. If her timid daughter could overcome her fear, Freddy could, too, then. She would.
“Mama, look!” Bridget called, her posture remaining poker straight, but her face and muscles relaxing a bit. “I’m doing it! See! Mr. Webster taught me!”
“Delightful, darling. I’m so proud of you!”
“Me next, Mama! Me next!” Izzy pulled on Freddy’s skirts, hopping from foot to foot as Bridget and Mr. Webster led the pony back to them.
Mr. Webster lifted one girl down and the other one up. “Now, Miss Izzy. I know you are a prodigy, but you mustn’t make the Corinthians here in the park feel bad about their horsemanship. Hold back a little and go easy on them.”
Izzy did indeed settle into the saddle like a prodigy, taking the reins as naturally as if she’d been born on a horse’s back. “Why should I?” she chirped, chin raised.
Mr. Webster whistled. “Excellent question. Look at you, putting an old rascal like myself in my place. Consider me chastened, Miss Isobel. Entirely and utterly chastened.” He chucked her under the chin. “Don’t hide a bit of yourself, little one.”
Izzy lifted her chin and proceeded to do, or not do, just that.
Freddy’s chest could not handle much more pride. Her daughters were blooming in London. It was good they’d followed Max out of their crumbling Norfolk abbey home and into the teeming city.
The girls had playmates now and an entire city of new experiences.
Izzy did not need Mr. Webster as much as Bridget had, but when the girls switched places once again, Bridget did not need him as much as before. He’d built up her confidence like layers of bricks and mortar that would not soon be displaced.