‘I would settle for nothing less,’ Mr Gregory said.
‘And your horses are a right pair of steppers, aren’t they?’
He nodded. ‘The best I could find at Tattersall’s. I outbid the Regent himself for them.’
Perhaps it was an exaggeration. But they were the sort of cattle fit for royalty. She grinned. ‘How fast do you think they will go?’
‘I have been to Croydon and back in less than two hours.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I would love to take them out some day.’
He laughed. ‘You?’
‘Just a run down the coach road. No more than a couple of miles.’
Beside her, Mr Challenger cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, when we retire to Richmond in July, I will buy you a pony cart. Once you have learned to manage that, we will see about a larger carriage.’
George turned to look at him, rolling her eyes. ‘Or you could get me a milk wagon pulled by dogs.’ She had been having such a good time talking to Mr Gregory that she had almost forgotten she was married. Leave it to Frederick Challenger to ruin everything. ‘I have been driving my father’s gig in the country since I was twelve. He says I am as good as a boy with the ribbons.’ Or at least he had until he had married Marietta and taken no more notice of anything she had done.
‘Do you seriously think you can handle a curricle?’ Mr Gregory said with admiration of his own.
‘Oliver.’
The signal word of warning from Mr Challenger put him on his guard again and he shook his head in regret. But he was looking at her with speculation, as if wondering just what she might be capable of if she could slip the tight leash Mr Challenger wanted to put on her. ‘Fred will have my hide if anything happens to you.’
She seriously doubted it. She leaned forward and said in a mock whisper that she was sure Mr Challenger could hear, ‘He need not know. It will be our secret.’
‘Georgiana!’ This time she was the one to receive the warning.
For a moment, she debated continuing to argue, then thought the better of it. While it did not matter to her what Mr Challenger thought, she did not think it fair to trap the charming Mr Gregory in the middle of their quarrel. She turned to her husband and smiled. ‘Yes, Frederick. I will behave.’
He should have known better than to believe her. But at the sound of his Christian name, his look of suspicion softened to confusion. Then he snapped back to being his usual difficult self. ‘We will discuss the wisdom of your carriage driving when we are home. At the moment, I wish to speak to Mr Gregory. It concerns the club.’ The look he gave her now indicated that they wished for privacy. He pointed down the path. ‘I see your stepmother just ahead. She will, no doubt, wish to speak to you.’
‘No doubt,’ George snapped, before remembering that she was supposed to be agreeable. Then she turned her horse and set off down the path at a walk so slow that even Mr Challenger could have kept pace with it. Why, of all people, did she have to talk to Marietta?
She had written a letter to Father after breakfast, to assure him that she was well. She had included a few gentle hints about her eagerness to see him soon. It was not like gentlemen to make social calls in the morning the way ladies did. But perhaps he might find a few minutes on his way to and from Westminster to stop for a cup of tea and admire his daughter’s new home.
But she had assumed, since she was marrying and leaving his house for ever, that the Lord would give her at least one day’s respite from the woman who had despised her since she was twelve. She already had to deal with the critical opinions of Mr Challenger. Was it so much to ask that only one person hate her at a time?
Nor did she need to be reminded again that her taste in clothing did not compare to the fashionable set in London. Her husband was wearing a bottle-green coat and immaculate buff britches. His friend, Mr Gregory, wore a red coat and his linen was white as snow. Marietta’s habit was as blue as a summer sky, topped with a high, plumed hat. She was also sitting aside the chestnut gelding that George had been riding less than a week ago.
And George was riding a nag and wearing brown twill. Again. Until now, she had been perfectly satisfied with her habit. It was new this Season, but was far more suitable for a rough country gallop than the parade that Londoners seemed to enjoy. On the sad mare that Challenger had chosen for her, she felt dowdy and out of sorts. Even the liveried groom that rode one pace behind her stepmother dressed in the Grinsted colours of blue and gold was more elegantly attired than she was.
Her husband had said nothing about her choice of clothing when they’d left the house. Perhaps he was waiting until they returned home to inform her that people had been staring at her for all the wrong reasons, when she’d been hoping that they would not notice her at all. If only the blandness of her dress could camouflage her, then maybe Marietta would ride on without noticing her. Or perhaps, now that they were not forced to share a household, her stepmother would simply cut her dead and pretend that they did not know each other.
Instead Marietta turned her horse to watch her approach and called, ‘Georgiana!’, welcoming her with an elegant wave of her hand as if, after years of hatred, she was suddenly overjoyed to see her.
George braced herself for the inevitable argument, before remembering Mr Challenger’s desire that they seem to be a loving couple. For once, she agreed with him. To be anything less than brilliantly happy with the match she had made would give her stepmother one more reason to gloat. ‘Marietta!’ She followed the greeting with her most brilliant smile.
Her stepmother leaned forward, kissing the air in her direction, as if only the inconvenience of the horses kept her from offering a warm, physical greeting. ‘It is such a surprise to see you out and about. And so early.’
‘It is nearly five,’ George replied. ‘The perfect time for a ride.’
‘But on the day after your wedding?’ Marietta’s eyes were wide with mocking amazement. ‘I thought you would be staying at home today.’
‘Is there some rule that requires I stay in the house?’ George asked sweetly, half wondering if it were true.
‘Not a rule, exactly. But I would think, with a husband as handsome as Frederick Challenger, a leisurely day at home would be preferable to riding…on a horse.’
