“We remained to watch what would transpire, however I was detained for some time by Lady Julia and when I returned half an hour later the male spider appeared to be making a judicious exit, sated and quite intact. I, however, was suspicious of what I judged to be tampering of the web. Nevertheless, Sir Archie prevailed and I was declared the loser of the bet.”
Lord Partington’s complexion had grown florid. “Sir Archie Ledger,” he muttered. “Floppy Ledger’s son. The little weasel sounds like his father.” He clicked his tongue and urged his mount over a fallen log, shouting back over his shoulder, “You’ll invite him here and prove your theory sound.”
Stephen drew level and his uncle twisted in the saddle, warming to his theme as they continued at a leisurely canter. “A male arachnid, especially if it’s small, always comes off second best. You were cheated. Indeed, I’ll not hand over such a sum if your version of matters proves true.”
“Oh, it’s quite true, and I’d happily see you invite him here, my lord, to prove it.”
“We’ll need examples so the boy can see with his own eyes that he can’t bamboozle us. Ask Araminta to start gathering a collection.”
They laughed. Amusement, however, turned to admiration after they returned to the house to propose the idea and Hetty rose to the challenge. Araminta declared roundly that she’d do so only on pain of death.
“Not even to please me?” Stephen asked with a suitably cajoling smile.
“You have a lot to learn, if that’s how you think you’ll win me,” she declared with a sly look beneath lowered lashes.
Nevertheless, Stephen was satisfied by her response. Araminta had all but stated how things stood. In a few days the time would be right. He’d ask for her hand and all would be settled in his world. Even the debt was no longer a niggling boil that needed lancing.
Returning later that night from The Slippery Green Toad after a couple of pots of porter, Stephen was reminded that not everyone was as fortunate. The evening was still light and he was in the east paddock closest to the house when the sound of weeping interspersed with the soft, snuffly noises of a horse caught his attention.
Stephen stepped quietly round the corner of the barn and peered across to where a hitherto unknown gray mare was nuzzling the neck of, if he wasn’t seeing things, his mistress of Partington Hall.
Lady Partington was in evening dress. She must have left the house on a sudden whim before dinner. A strangely compelling desire indeed, for as he drew nearer, Stephen saw that her silk slippers were completely covered in mud and filth.
“Lady Partington?” he said without thinking she may wish for privacy. However, her forlorn stance and the force of her weeping demanded that he step forward to render what assistance or comfort he could. “Is anything the matter?”
When she merely raised a baleful eye from above the straggly mane of the gray mare he added, self-deprecatingly, “Of course, I realize something’s the matter otherwise you’d not be crying or have ruined your evening slippers. Whose mare is this?”
“Her name’s Bunty and His Lordship bought her this afternoon for Araminta. She’s not yet seen it but it will a mighty fine victory for her.”
He wondered at the bitterness in her tone. “Miss Araminta already has a fine mare. Does she need another?”
“That’s of no account when Araminta wants something. My husband will deny her nothing and now he has bought her this, which belonged to someone who has had to go away. It’s an insult to me. A cruel blow though Humphry does not see it that way. He’d consider such talk hysterical. He’s always thought me overstrung and yet I’ve maintained my dignity in the face of his continual denigration.”
Her words became muffled as she buried her face in the docile mare’s flank. It seemed she had no wish to censor what she said but would drown her words instead.
Stephen was not unused to comforting weeping women. In fact, this was a favored ploy usually resulting in said weeping woman throwing herself into his arms. Stephen was generally quite happy to render his assistance. However he now stood before his benefactress. In the half-light with her hair ruffled out of its careful coiffure and the utterly desperate vision of misery she presented, Stephen couldn’t help himself.
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her round to face him. “My dear Lady Partington,” he murmured, frowning into soft, doe-brown eyes that bore soulfully into his. “I’m sure your husband had no intention of causing you such heartbreak. If you wished for a mare of your own why not just ask? His Lordship is a generous man.”
Lady Partington rested her forehead against his chest. “Generous, indeed!” She trembled. “Loyal would be a better way of describing him yet in this case it is not a compliment to me.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Had I known his heart was engaged elsewhere when he offered for me, I’d never have agreed to the contract.”
The evening twilight and the lack of formality in their surroundings added to the sense of unreality. This was neither a conversation for the drawing room, the great outdoors or one to be had by two people in their requisite stations. But Lady Partington had clearly cast convention to the wind.
For now anyway.
With a great sigh she twisted out of Stephen’s embrace. She seemed neither embarrassed nor inclined to invite his confidence. Just unutterably weary. “I’ll have to attend to my appearance before I present myself for dinner.”
Stephen rubbed his chin, unsure what to do next. “Perhaps you should plead a megrim, ma’am, in view of your distress.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Distress is a general state for me.” She seemed to register Stephen’s lack of surety and put her hand to his cheek as if to return the gesture of comfort. “I think you are kinder at he
art than I gave you credit for. Perhaps you will be good for the Grange and for Araminta—if that is what you want.”
In the semi dark, Stephen stroked the mare’s flank as he watched Lady Partington walk slowly toward the house. She carried herself with grace, the skirts of her crimson dress frothing around her ankles, and a sudden image visited him of her dark-gold tresses swinging around her hips. A surge of some identified feeling for her rose up in his breast, truncated by the sound of running footsteps from the opposite direction.
“Bunty! Oh, you darling horse!” With a cry of joy, Araminta threw herself upon the horse’s neck and kissed the mare rapturously. It was a moment before she realized she was not alone.
“Cousin Stephen!” she cried, smiling. “What are you doing here?”