Maria held out Prue’s hat, shaking her head. “It’s a bit crumpled, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear. It is, isn’t it?” Unfortunately, her hat had fallen victim to that mad dash down the hill yesterday. Sampson must have trod on it, because the brim was quite squashed, and the jaunty little feather rather bent, but it was the best she had, and so it would have to do. She jammed it down on top of her head and rose from the dressing table. “There. I’m ready.”
Maria followed her to the bedchamber door, wringing her hands. “You will be careful today, won’t you, miss?”
“Certainly not, Maria!” Prue tucked her gloves into her skirt pocket and gave Maria a wink. “What fun would that be?”
Maria frowned. “I wouldn’t like you to do yourself an injury, miss.”
“There’s no need to worry, Maria,” Prue called over her shoulder as she dashed through the bedchamber door into the hallway. “I’m not apt to shoot myself, I promise you!”
She closed the door behind her and made her way downstairs to the breakfast room, where she found Franny alone at the table with a half-finished cup of tea in front of her. She looked up when Prue entered. “Good morning!” She eyed Prue’s riding habit, a rueful smile rising to her lips. “Ah, so you do intend to shoot today? I wondered if the weather would put you off.”
“No, indeed.” Prue paused in the doorway. “Unless you object to it? I won’t go if you’d rather I didn’t.”
“No, not at all. I might have known a little drizzle wouldn’t deter you.”
“Perhaps your husband might not like it.” Prue dropped into the chair opposite her friend, her spirits flagging at the thought. “Does Basingstoke object to ladies shooting?”
“Not in the least. I told him you’re fond of shooting, and he said you’re welcome to come.” Franny glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “Did you have a chance to resolve that business with Montford last night?”
“I did, yes. Montford has his earrings back.” One of them was satisfied, at least.
“What about that other matter? Is he likely to create a fuss about it?”
“You mean, does he intend to have me taken up for blackmail? No. The matter is closed. You needn’t worry anymore Franny, I promise you. I’ll tell you everything when we return this afternoon.”
Well, perhaps noteverything. She raised a hand to her lips. They felt tender still, swollen. She wouldn’t tell Franny about the way her heart had leapt in that breathless instant before Montford’s lips met hers, or describe to Franny the way his eyes appeared as dark as midnight itself in the firelight, or confess that she’d dreamed of his kiss, and woken to the taste of it lingering on her lips—
“Thank goodness!” Franny let out a breath. “I daresay Montford was happy to—”
She was cut off by masculine voices and the tread of heavy boots in the hallway, and a moment later Basingstoke strode into the room, with the Duke of Grantham on his heels.
“Good morning, ladies!” Grantham offered each of them a bow. “Miss Thorne, I’m delighted to hear you’re joining our shooting party today.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I expect we’ll be off soon, my love.” Basingstoke smiled down at Franny, tweaking one of her curls. “Blount is gathering the shooting party in the courtyard by the stables. Will you come see us off?”
“Of course.” Franny set her teacup in the saucer and rose to her feet.
Prue got to her feet just as a particularly violent gust of wind arose, rattling the windowpanes and sending a torrent of raindrops battering against the glass. “Perhaps I’d better go and fetch my cloak. I’ll be out in a trice.”
She was halfway up the stairs when she recalled she’d left her cloak in the billiards room the night before. She hurried back down, retracing her steps from last night, and yes, there it was, draped over the chair where she’d left it. She snatched it up, then made her way out to a small stone courtyard connected to the stables by a narrow pathway.
Gentlemen crowded about, all of them in their finest shooting costumes, along with a motley collection of spaniels, retrievers, and pointers, all yapping excitedly, and at least two dozen servants weighted down with leather game bags.
“Quite a spectacle, isn’t it?” Franny asked, appearing at her elbow.
“A glorious spectacle, yes.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Franny nodded over Prue’s shoulder, her blue eyes twinkling. “Here’s Montford.”
Prue turned, and her heart shot into her throat.
The Duke of Montford had just strolled into the courtyard. He was wearing a bottle green frock coat, with a gleaming black top hat arranged over his tousled curls. A servant trailed after him, but Montford carried his own leather bag, the strap slung over his broad chest and the bag at his hip, and he wore a pair of leather spatterdashes up to his knees, laced over a pair of shockingly tight buff breeches.
Goodness, there went her knees again, trembling like jelly. Could any lady ever be ready for such a sight as that? One glance was more than enough. She’d take care not to risk another for the rest of the day.
