Royal Weddings(4)

That morning, she needed to fly more than most; she needed to blow away the deadening sense of old regrets—regrets she’d never even known she possessed—that had beset her on awakening.

She was halfway down the track when she heard heavy hoofbeats following.

Closing.

She urged Atlas on, but the pursuing horse and rider drew ever closer.

She didn’t need to glance sideways to know who the rider was. Only one man—and it had to be a man—would dare.

Would dare intrude on her morning’s race and ride her down.

And, damn it, win.

They were neck and neck, but with his horse a sliver of a nose ahead when they flashed past the post that marked the incipient end of the track.

Both of them drew up, straightening as they drew rein, then they turned their horses onto the thick grass to the side of the track, letting them slow to a walk.

She glanced at his horse. A massive chestnut hunter with, clearly, an unexpected turn of speed. Without meeting Gaston’s eyes, she asked, “Did you bring him with you?”

“No. I’d left him here. I’m going to take him home with me when I leave.”

“And how soon will that be?”

He hesitated, then said, “After the wedding. I can’t stay away much longer than that—my estates need fairly constant tending.”

She glanced at him then, trying to see past the easy charm she was aware was a mask. “I can’t imagine you as a farmer. Where’s home these days?”

He grinned. “Perigord, of course.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. “Where in Perigord?” She’d looked in the map book in her father’s library the previous evening. “Where’s your principal seat?”

“Theoretically a castle on the upper reaches of the Dordogne, but it’s drafty and cold in winter, so I live at a chateau not far from a town called Sarlat in Perigord Noir.”

She made a note to look it up. Why, she couldn’t have said.

Walking his chestnut alongside her gray, Gaston looked ahead, and seized the opening she’d inadvertently given him. “I have to get back because there’s no one I can trust with my holdings, not for too long. Oh, they have their hearts in the right place—it’s not their loyalty that limits me. But there is much to deal with, and they will become overwhelmed. They know to put off the harder decisions until I am back—so I must not stay away too long.”

She frowned. “I would have thought you would have married by now.” She glanced briefly at him. “A wife with a sound understanding could manage your estates, at least for a few months.”

“True.” He sighed. “But what with installing Louis, and helping sort out the chaos left in the aftermath of the Corsican’s downfall, and then, once I returned home, there was so much to do, I haven’t really had time to look for a wife.” He hesitated, then added, “Perhaps when I get back, now that everything is more or less stable again, I’ll be able to attend to the matter.”

She sniffed. “You make it sound like the equivalent of hiring a maid. That you just need to see the woman, interview her, weigh up her attributes, look at her references, and make up your mind. I suspect you’ll find it’s rather more complicated.”

He glanced sidelong at her, but she was looking ahead. “I heard about Beaumont. My condolences.”

She inclined her head. “It was a long time ago.”

“Not so long that you’ve found a replacement. Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t see the need. I had other activities to keep me amused.”

“Ah, yes—the weddings.”

“I’m good at it.” A touch of belligerence.

His lips curved. “Indeed. I saw. You are a general in charge of a motley troop, but you were in control and whipped us into line.” It was too good a chance to pass up. “Would that I could find a lady with the same skills to take charge of my household.”

She snorted. “The only one that lady would need to whip into line is you—and she’ll need the luck of the devil to succeed.”

“Vraiment? You wound me. But no, my lady would find I would be a willing partner, because, sadly, there’s rather more than my poor self she would have to deal with.”

He waited.

Waited.

They were nearly at the gate when Meg finally gave in to her curiosity and asked, “Who else?”

“My brothers. Did I tell you I have five of them? All much younger than me—my sisters lie between in age, but they are all married with their own households and unable to bear with the . . . well, they call them heathens.” He sighed deeply, but she knew him well enough to know he was smiling fondly, to detect the note of pride in his deep voice.