She nipped around him as neatly as water sluices past a boulder in a stream bed. “Have we been introduced, sir?” Her tone made it clear she hoped not.
“That was magnificent. You governessed a pair of grown men into exercising sense. I’ve never seen the like.”
Her steps slowed. “Magnificent?” Her green eyes were wary, also fringed with long, dark lashes.
“They will be fast friends for life because of how you handled that. Neither will go to Tatt’s without the other, they’ll swap conveyances when needs must, and their grooms will become drinking companions.”
“All that from a few words?”
Her smile was soft and a touch shy. Ferns bending over a woodland path made the way seem more inviting, and her smile had the same quality—a little mysterious, very quiet, entirely beautiful.
“Instead of a drawn cork, Dersham got a budding friendship. Might I walk you to your destination?” Annis would despair of him. He was to be in the park, parading himself fashionably, and catching a first glimpse of Falmouth’s blossoms. The groom could see to his horse, but Annis would not keep silent about this deviation from strategy.
“I’m not on foot,” the woman said. “The day was too pretty to remain cooped up in a sewing room all afternoon, so I’ve tended to some errands. Thank you for not interfering. Men will accept guidance from a woman that they’d never allow from another man.”
She was no seamstress, if she had her own conveyance, and her clothes were first quality for all they were not the latest fashions.
“That’s your mare?” Clonmere asked, nodding at a plain gig by the side of the road.
A grim-faced older woman sat staring straight ahead on the bench, a reticule clutched in her lap with both hands. A groom held the horse’s bridle, though that precaution was unneeded. The beast was serviceable—solidly muscled, good size, lovely calm eye—but had a coarse hair coat and the start of feathers about its sizeable feet.
Not a horse chosen to make an impression, but rather, a creature suited to its task.
“That is my Rosinante,” the woman said. “She is getting on, but likes the occasional ramble about Town on a fine day.”
The horse’s name was a literary allusion to Don Quixote, a half-mad romantic figure in an all-mad, unromantic world.
The lady repositioned her hat again, tugged up her gloves, and sketched a curtsey. “I’ll wish you good day, sir, and thank you for exercising restraint when restraint was needed.”
Before Clonmere could reciprocate with a bow, the lady was off across the street. She had a purposeful walk, one that set her hems swishing and covered ground at a good clip.
The notion was outlandish, and yet, it arrived in Clonmere’s brain accompanied by a warmth in his chest, a sense of joy and hope he hadn’t felt in ages. Perhaps what his mind was telling him was that he needed a woman
Her ascent to the bench was nimble, her driving posture regal. When she tooled past Clonmere, he lifted his hat and offered her the bow she was due. She made no sign that she’d seen him. Her gaze was fixed on the traffic—and in London on a fine day, there was always traffic.
And yet, as the mare trotted past, the lady was smiling.
So was Clonmere.
“I HOPE a journalist was present among the mob,” Hattie said. “When not one but three grown men listen to common sense from a woman, all of London should hear the tale.”
Cousin Hattie was probably not a first cousin. She was a relation to the late Countess of Falmouth, and while Hattie was every bit as kind as the countess had been, she resembled a bulldog more than a fairy godmother.
“Having younger siblings forces one to develop skills,” Iris replied, steering the mare in the direction of the park. “By themselves, most men are fairly biddable and pleasant, but put them together, and common sense flees the scene. The big fellow was ready to start knocking heads.” A big, well-dressed gentleman who’d hopped off his steed as nimbly as a panther.
Iris might have dismissed him as just another gawker but for two things. First, his proportions made him tall enough to see over the crowd and muscular enough that even street rabble gave way for him. He could have been in hostler’s attire, and they would have shown him the same respect.
But he hadn’t been wearing hostler’s attire. He’d been exquisitely turned out for riding, boots gleaming, cravat pinned in elegant folds, gloves tight across big hands.
And he filled out his breeches with the sort of muscle that didn’t come from standing up for a few waltzes. His thighs had shifted and strained the doeskin, announcing to any audacious enough to look that he rode often and well.
And probably not only horses.
Iris turned the mare onto Park Lane.
