“I shan’t provide them,” Esmée said with a confident smile, pocketing the paper. “The Almighty shall.”
Miss Grove gave a sigh. “My faith is small, I’m afraid. I’ve seen a great many broken promises and hearts here.”
Esmée squeezed her hand before turning away. “I can assure you every need on the list shall be met, though it may take time.”
She left the main building, the wind rising and threatening to unseat her hat. Minta was hobbled beneath a widespread oak wearing a leafy coat as colorful as the biblical Joseph’s. Esmée started toward her, the sun in her eyes, before coming to a sudden stop. There, across a wide stretch of meadow, were two men and a handsome bay horse. A nicer mount she’d never seen save from the stables of the Tayloes or Lees.
Yet it wasn’t the horse but the rider she lingered upon. Could it be? Only an uncanny resemblance, surely. Wasn’t the captain back on his island? If so, his twin swung himself up in the saddle.
And promptly fell off the other side.
Oh, Henri.
Nay.Captain Lennox.She wouldn’t allow herself the more intimateHenri.
Or would she?
If ever she’d wished him a humiliating moment, such played out before her very eyes. To see him so undone when he was usually all mastery and finesse was a shocking sight.
He stood, failed to dust himself off, and tried again. He succeeded on a second try, though he swayed a bit. She held her breath as the portly man on the ground gave some instruction. Jago Wherry? Reins in hand, the captain prodded the bay forward and began a slow, uncertain walk ... in her direction.
The wind gusted and a shower of crisp leaves ended her gawking, adorning her beaver hat. Brushing them aside, she mounted her mare with great speed and a new appreciation for the riding lessons of her youth. Prodding Minta into motion, she rode toward York’s smoke and spires far faster than she’d left them.
CHAPTER
twelve
Henri’s tumble from the saddle was far less jarring than the realization he had an audience. If it had been anyone other than Esmée, he wouldn’t have minded. There she stood in a fetching tailored jacket and skirt of the palest green. A jaunty hat with several white feathers crowned her head. He regarded her just long enough for Jago Wherry to take note.
The canny Cornishman gave a chuckle. “’Twas Miss Shaw who caused ye to take a tumble, no doubt.”
Henri smiled past his humiliation and turned his back on the comely vision as Esmée fled with far more grace than he was capable of. Reins firmly in hand, he gave up the thought of chasing after her. A far-fetched notion, as she was born to the saddle like any well-bred woman. He’d never catch up with her.
Wherry cleared his throat. “Riding is not so far afield from commanding a ship, aye, sir? Ye must control the direction and speed with great discernment and a minimum of meddling. Ye must let the horse—like the ship—do the work.”
“A worthy comparison.”
“Yer posture is without fault, but yer a bit stiff.” Wherry took a stepback. “’Tis all about balance. Ye must learn to think like the creature upon whose back ye sit.”
“A tall order.”
By hour’s end Henri had grown comfortable with this, his third lesson, enough to manage a brisk walk if not a trot. “I believe I can make my way back to Grant’s stables.”
“Without breaking yer blessed neck, I hope.”
“If I do, Trident is yours.”
Wherry gave a wheezing laugh and scratched Trident’s withers. “Ye learn quick, Captain. And a better horse cannot be had. Spritely but not too spirited. Even tempered. Surefooted.”
“And long-suffering with a sea rover like myself.”
“Ye have a way with Trident, calm and assured as ye are. That bodes well for ye both.”
Henri reached into his waistcoat and withdrew coin enough to pay for Wherry’s trouble. “We have a gentleman’s agreement, aye? I’ll not see my hard-earned cash wagered.”
Wherry chuckled. “Come to the races, Captain, and ye might well change yer mind.”
“Once I can ride there without cause for shame, I may take you up on it.”
