You May Kiss the Bride(38)

Sure enough, when Livia went upstairs to her room, there was her new habit, laid tenderly over a chair for her inspection. So what if it was dazzlingly stylish, made of beautiful soft bottle-green wool and with exquisite black embroidery on the cuffs and hem? Or if there were adorable black half-boots to go with it, all laced and fringed with matching green?

She interrupted her scowling survey to ask Flye if belowstairs they too were eating actual food again.

“Yes, Miss Livia, and we’re ever so much obliged to you,” came the quiet reply.

“It’s Mr. Penhallow you ought to thank,” Livia said, a little gruffly, then sat down at her dressing-table so that Flye could unpin her hair. She angled herself so that the habit was out of her line of vision.

They can’t force me onto a horse. It will never, ever happen.



An enormous nose, with the biggest nostrils Livia had ever seen, loomed in her direction and she stepped back in alarm. I will not scream, I will not scream. She did let out a strangled gasp, however, before she stiffened her spine and looked up at Gabriel, who stood very tall and cool, holding the reins of that monster—that horse—with a casualness that seemed almost to insult her.

“You’re wasting your time,” she told him bluntly. All her pious intentions of gracious condescension had fled, and only pride kept her from turning on her smart little heel and running away in shameful panic.

He looked down at her and said calmly: “Miss Stuart, Grandmama has made it abundantly clear that you, as a dutiful Penhallow-to-be, are to ride. There’s nothing more to discuss. Come here.”

“I shan’t!” she said defiantly, taking refuge in false bravado and uncaring that a pair of interested grooms stood nearby, one grasping the reins of Gabriel’s horribly large and lively black horse Primus. “And you can’t make me!”

“Can’t I?” He thrust the horse’s reins into the hands of the other groom, and with a single stride he was before her. Before she quite knew what he was about, his own hands were clasping her waist and with effortless strength he lifted her and placed her onto the saddle.

For a brief, giddy moment Livia registered how delicious it felt to be held in those strong hands of his, and then pure terror took over. Not only did her perch feel horrifyingly precarious and about a mile off the ground, but the horse actually shifted a little beneath her, no doubt in preparation to rear up and dash her brains out on the nearest cobblestone.

Livia squeaked and flung herself off the saddle at Gabriel’s arms, clinging to him shamelessly. Later, she couldn’t be sure if she felt his arms tighten about her, but then he said, with that familiar mocking tone in his deep voice:

“My dear girl, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t care!” she said hotly, immediately pushing away from him, but once again his hands were inexorably about her waist, lifting her, and she was in the saddle. She wanted to clutch at those powerful shoulders, temptingly close, but instead she grabbed at the pommel.

“There,” he said, so soothingly that she would have tried to hit him if she hadn’t been afraid to release the pommel. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It’s very bad.”

“How can it be bad? I’ve found you the most docile horse in Bath. Possibly in England.”

“I don’t care. I want to get off.”

“The worst part is over.”

“No, it’s not. We’re not even moving yet.” She could feel herself sweating. No—perspiring, that’s what she should call it, shouldn’t she? But somehow, “perspiring” didn’t quite convey the full meaning of what was happening to her. She felt damp and clammy all over.

“Let’s just try it, shall we?”

“Don’t say ‘we’ in that condescending way.”

“Just five minutes.”

“I want to get off.”

“I’ll go slowly, I promise.”

“I’m warning you,” Livia said, a little unsteadily.

“Nonsense. Stiff upper lip, my dear girl.”

“I’m not your dear girl.”

“You’re sagging. Straighten up.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can. Try harder.”

“You’re just mean.” Her voice was wobbly now, and if she weren’t hanging on to the pommel so tightly, she’d have wiped away the rivulets of sweat dripping into her eyes. And then smacked him.

“You look like a sack of potatoes up there.”

“Very, very mean.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Livia. I’m not going to stand around all day like this.” To the groom Gabriel said, “Give me the reins, please,” and when the groom complied, he began to lead the horse slowly forward.