The only small party they had attended had been his cousin’s house party, and that had ended before the dance could be had. “It’s a shame the floor is crowded. This would be a fine reel.”
The tapping stopped. “It would. If one chose to dance.”
“Do you not?”
“My dancing days are over.”
She’d become a statue in her chair, as though his question had turned her to stone. Agitation skittered over Jasper’s skin as he sipped his drink. She liked wordplay and music, but she’d put it all aside. She was observant and forthright, but she carefully measured out her advice. He’d only get answers from her if he could loosen her rigid control.
He thought back over the days of Amelia’s house party, of what they’d done and what he recalled of Annabel’s attendance. She’d sketched during the hunting party, and she’d read during fishing. They’d ridden, and she’d…
Loved it, if he recalled correctly. She’d cleared every jump and poured enthusiastic praise on her horse. At least, he thought it had been her.
“We’re riding tomorrow,” he whispered, testing his hypothesis.
Her eyes sparked to life before she could stop them. The fire died slowly. “Elizabeth has discussed painting in the garden. We will likely stay behind.”
“Linden always chooses the garden over trailing after Fiona in a carriage. She can keep an eye on Miss Spencer.” He applauded as everyone else did and stood to lead the gentlemen to the billiards room. “You can join us for a morning ride.”
“Lord Ramsbury, I couldn’t possibly.”
He stopped halfway to the door and turned. “Miss Pearce, I insist.”
Chapter Four
“The old marquess would have enjoyed seeing the stables and paddocks this full.”
“It likely would have reminded him of Tattersalls,” Jasper replied to the stable master. He ran his hand over the long, muscled back of his favorite mount, a roan whose black-tinted coat looked blue. “And grandfather loved nothing more than a horse sale.”
“Unless it was a race.” The servant grunted a laugh as he shoveled fresh hay into a neighboring stall. “His lordship had a damned good eye for a runner.”
Let’s go for a flutter, boy. Jasper’s lips twisted into a wry grin. Grandfather had never been one to merely flutter. Days at the track started early, in the stables with the trainers, pacing up and down until the old man pulled a stack of notes from his coat and shoved them at Benchley, his favorite bookmaker. Benchley’s frown grew deeper with every win. He likely would have stopped taking Grandfather’s wagers if he’d been just another bloke with five quid to spare.
Snorts and stamping feet announced a newcomer. Each horse tossed their mane, either in greeting or as a plea for praise. Even his big blue horse fell victim.
Jasper looked to the door, and a satisfied smile stretched his lips. For all her protests about impropriety, Annabel Pearce had found room in her case for a riding habit.
Like other gentlemen of the ton, he knew just enough about women’s clothing to realize the dark green skirt and coat had gone out of fashion last Season. However, she’d changed the buttons from bright brass to a more stylish black.
Unlike many gentlemen, Jasper cared little about fashion. He trusted his tailor to keep him in style. He knew what he liked when he saw it.
He liked Annabel in green. He also appreciated what she’d done with her hair. It flowed from under her plain, dark hat and over one shoulder, less a tumble of curls and more a steady stream that was neither fully blonde nor brown.
She dithered in the doorway, tapping her riding cane against her skirt, until she caught his eye. He waited until she’d stepped inside before he approached.
“Good morning, Miss Pearce.”
“Good morning, your lordship.” She looked past him and into the stable. “I seem to be the first to arrive.”
Society women had been known to dawdle in their carriages outside parties, out-waiting one another for the privilege of being last, of having the most eyes on them. Jasper didn’t think Annabel’s early arrival was accidental.
“The horses don’t mind the clock.” He offered his arm. “Come see if you approve of your mount.”
She took his elbow. Her gloves, from what he could tell by the fingertips, were new and well made. “What if I wish to choose my own?”
“If you disagree with my choice, you are welcome to make your own.”
They walked down the row, veering from one side to the other so she could stroke a wide forelock or a velvety nose. “You have a fine stable, Lord Ramsbury.”
“To be fair, many of them belong to houseguests. Men rarely travel without their best hunter.” He swept his hand along the opposite wall. “And most of the others were purchased by grandfather.”
“He did value a well-stocked stable.”
Women only knew such things from their fathers or from looking in account books. From what Jasper knew of Baron Chilworth, horses weren’t his weakness of choice. Kit was right—Annabel had been reading Grandfather’s ledgers. “I suppose he was famous for his excesses.”
“Most gentlemen are.” Annabel, her ear pink under her hat, led him to the other side of the stable. “Here’s a handsome man.”
The roan tossed his inky mane and snorted a hello before stretching his neck toward Jasper. More precisely, toward his pocket.
“No you don’t, Ceff.” Jasper chuckled as he ruffled the big horse’s forelock. “You’ve had your treats already today.”
“Ceff?” Annabel glanced up.
“Ceffylglas.” The light fell over the stallion’s gleaming back. “It’s Welsh for ‘blue horse.’”
Her laugh took years from her face. “You’re joking.”
