Page 93 of Courting the Country Miss

“Is she unhappy traveling to the school from your aunt’s house?”

Leticia shook her head. “Not that I am aware. I send a footman with her every day to keep watch over her.”

“Do you think the threat on you was an isolated incident or do you believe Mrs. Harper is in danger?”

“It was probably an idle threat but I rest easier with Mrs. Harper protected.”

“I hope he does not take more drastic measures,” Elizabeth said grimly.

“Who will take drastic measures?” Richard returned and handed Elizabeth a slice of cake.

Lord Bradbury offered Leticia a small plate with several neatly peeled orange slices and a napkin. His eyes brightened in curiosity over Richard’s question, but he remained silent.

“The man who attacked Leticia,” Elizabeth explained.

“What?” Lord Bradbury stared.

Leticia shot Elizabeth a warning look. “It wasn’t an attack, exactly. Someone told me no one wanted the school and that we should close it. It was nothing—the ramblings of the ignorant.”

“He had a knife,” Elizabeth said as if determined to exaggerate trouble.

Lord Bradbury’s eyes widened. He put a hand underneath her elbow. “Miss Wentworth, if you are in any danger, perhaps you should reconsider…”

“No.” Leticia shook he head. “As a mere precaution, the teacher is staying with my aunt, and we send a footman with her to the school, but surely nothing more will come of it. I refuse to disappoint the children. In fact, I’m teaching them to play the pianoforte—thanks to your generous donation—and we will also teach them to dance in the hopes of giving them access to potential husbands in the working class when they are old enough.”

Bradbury’s expression turned from concerned to incredulous. “Dancing as well as music? Don’t you think that’s raising their hopes too much?”

Leticia stared at him. “I thought you supported our efforts.”

“I do. It’s commendable. But thinking that they will rise very far above the situation of their birth—that’s not likely.”

Disappointment turned the tangy orange in her mouth to dust. How could he not understand? “Then why did you help us raise money at the ball? Why give me the pianoforte?”

A sheepish smile touched his mouth. “To impress you. Besides, I figured this would be a passing fancy and that you’d eventually realize the poor will never make anything of themselves.”

Stung by his dismissal of her cause, Leticia studied the last orange slice on her plate. “You never know.”

Tristan had been so supportive—excited, almost—that it never occurred to her that Bradbury felt differently.

He paused. “No, I suppose not.”

Intermission ended and they returned to their box. Leticia stared at the farce on stage while her mind turned over the new knowledge that Lord Bradbury had revealed a major flaw. Could she overlook it? Some husbands curtailed their wives’ involvement in causes. Would Lord Bradbury eventually forbid her to pursue such a noble cause if they married?

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the mews near his bachelor’s rooms, Tristan eyed his new phaeton and broke out into a sweat. He hadn’t driven since the accident that claimed Appleton’s life, and nearly his own. The horses stood as if awaiting his courage. Tristan had been driving since he was barely out of leading strings. One accident should not leave him quaking.

To take his mind off his almost paralyzing fear, he rubbed the noses of his new team. Their soft nickers soothed him. The gelding, Willow, gave Tristan’s neck a lippy kiss, the hairs of the horse’s chin tickling. Tristan ran a hand along their necks and backs. He checked the harness, and continued down the side of the carriage, admiring its graceful lines. The phaeton, built to his exact specifications, gleamed shiny black despite the dull light. New paint combined with leather and the warm scent of horses created a heady aroma.

He swallowed. He could do this.

After taking a bracing breath, he climbed inside the carriage and settled in the cloud-soft seat. Another swallow. He picked up the reins. Perspiration trickled down the side of his face. Dancer stamped and blew out her breath. Right. Get on with it.

He threaded the reins through his fingers, and took a firm hold. Another breath. He clicked to Willow and Dancer, and flicked his wrists. The horses stepped forward in near-perfect unison. As he guided the team onto the street, a rush of panic shot through him. The team responded to his tension by side-stepping.

“Easy,” he said. “Go easy.” He might as well have been speaking to himself.

The horses swiveled their ears back to listen to him. He drew another breath and relaxed his arm muscles, his shoulders. “We can do this, Dancer. Work with me, now, Willow.”