Man of My Dreams Page 3

  “Die, Tiff?”

  “Well, worry about it, at any rate.” They laughed again; then Tiffany finally conceded the point. “All right, I guess it isn’t beyond impossible to win a duke, not for someone who looks like you. Are you absolutely sure, Meg?”

  “Yes. Ambrose St. James can start counting his bachelor days good-bye.”

  “Good God,” Tiffany gasped. “I forgot you named your horse after him.”

  Megan blinked. “So did I.”

  Again they burst into laughter, but were interrupted this time as Krebs opened the doors to announce the Honorable Tyler Whately’s arrival. Megan gave him a brilliant smile with the greeting, “Good morning, Tyler. My, don’t you look dashing today. If you’ll just give me a moment to run up and get my bonnet, we can leave.”

  She sailed past him without receiving a word of greeting from him, but the man was still dumbstruck by the smile she’d bestowed on him. Tiffany hid her own smile behind her teacup, pleasantly surprised that she wasn’t the least bit jealous over his reaction to her dear friend.

  She remarked blandly, “You’ll have to do better than that, Tyler, if you don’t want her to revert to being nasty to you again.”

  He snapped his mouth shut, shoved his hands in his pockets, and scowled. “God, I don’t envy the man who wins her hand, indeed I don’t.”

  “He’s already been chosen, so let’s hope he wins her heart along with her hand.”

  Tyler’s brow rose questioningly. “Did I miss something between yesterday and today?”

  “Nothing much—but did you ever think you would feel sorry for a duke?”

  Chapter 3

  “This is taking precaution too bloody far, Mr. Browne. Walking, by God. Freddy would laugh his arse off if he could see it.”

  Mortimer Browne gave the tall man at his side another disgusted look. All he’d heard were complaints of one kind or another since they’d left Kent. But he’d been warned to expect them.

  “You wouldn’t be walking if you’d brought another horse along as I suggested.”

  “D’you hear how he insults you, Caesar?” Devlin said to the horse of that name.

  Mortimer gave the stallion Devlin was leading a killing look for snorting in agreement, but he pressed on with the bare facts. “Traveling at night as we been doing is one thing, Mr. Jefferys, but during the day, you see a lot more and get seen a lot more, and it’d only make folks wonder what a bloke like you is doing riding a horse like that, wouldn’t it, now? You’re here to disappear, not to draw extra attention to yourself.”

  “And you’re here to badger me to death, I suppose,” Devlin replied. “But in case you haven’t noticed, the village is no longer in sight, and there isn’t another bloody soul on this road.”

  “There wasn’t, but there is now, or are you blind as well as pigheaded?”

  Devlin ignored the carriage that had just come over a rise. Instead he stopped short to give Mortimer one of his more intimidating looks. From that six-foot-three, well-filled-out frame, it most definitely did some intimidating. But Mortimer hadn’t been chosen to accompany this young man because he was known to buckle under. Just the opposite. And besides, he had his orders straight from the one and only person Devlin wasn’t quite up to defying, and that gave Mortimer the upper hand—some of the time.

  “We was told the squire’s holdings ain’t that far down the road,” Mortimer explained reasonably. “When we reach it will be soon enough for you to get back on that fine beast. Till then, kindly remember you’re no more than a stableboy now—”

  “Breeder, Mr. Browne,” Devlin cut in succinctly. “A breeder of fine horseflesh and trainer of same. Yes, a trainer, too. That has a nice ring—”

  “But you don’t know the first thing—”

  “That’s what you’re along for, to see I don’t make a fool of myself.”

  “That’s not why—”

  “That’s why I agreed to your obnoxious company. If I have to live in a stable, I’ll bloody well have top say in that stable, or this harebrained idea ends right now.”

  Mortimer opened his mouth to argue, but he could see on this point it wouldn’t do him a bit of good. So he nodded curtly, but went back to giving orders that had a better chance of being heeded.

  “Since that is a carriage coming our way, and most likely carrying some of the local gentry, pull your hat down to conceal—”

  “Oh, give over, Browne,” Devlin bit out, obviously at the limit of his patience. “We’re at the bloody end of the world here. If those country bumpkins recognize me, I’ll eat these atrocious boots you dredged up for me to wear.”

  “Could you at least slouch a little?”

  “No.” And that “No” had a definite ring of finality to it. “I’m walking, walking, for God’s sake, with a moth-eaten jacket dangling from my shoulder, scruffed boots unworthy of a charity box, and I’m sweating, Mr. Browne. Sweating! Not another bloody concession am I inclined to make. Not another one.”

  “Sweating in a bloody white lawn shirt,” Mortimer mumbled beneath his breath. “The very mark of a gentle—”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Jefferys, nothing at all,” Mortimer said. “But if we fail in this endeavor, we know whose fault it will be, don’t we?”

  “Indeed we do.”

  That wasn’t reassuring in the least.

  It wasn’t unusual to see folks walking along the road from Teadale, even leading horses behind them instead of riding them. What was unusual today was the quality of the horseflesh on that road.

  Megan noticed the black Thoroughbred long before Tyler was moved to remark, “By God, did you ever see such a fine-looking stud?”

  Tiffany and Megan exchanged an amused look. The word “stud” wouldn’t have slipped out if Tyler weren’t so impressed that he could even forget there were ladies present. But they were closer, and the black stallion’s elegant lines were unmistakable now. Indeed, none of them had ever seen such a magnificent animal.

  With her love of horses, Megan was as impressed as Tyler, if not more so. She had prided herself on having the finest horse in the parish, in all of Devonshire for that matter, but this Thoroughbred put Sir Ambrose to shame, and she couldn’t even begrudge him that. He was just too beautiful. She could imagine the ride he would give, the speed a skillful rider could get out of him. It wasn’t fair that stallions were considered unsuitable mounts for ladies, for this was one horse Megan would dearly love to own. She wildly considered asking her father to buy him. He always gave her anything she wanted—within reason. But then she had to dismiss the idea, certain that the owner of that animal wouldn’t part with him for any price. She certainly wouldn’t if he were hers.

  It barely registered on her that Tyler had stopped the carriage, except that the stallion was right there in front of her now for her to admire, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She started to stand up, with every intention of getting even closer, but Tiffany’s laugh and whispered “Behave” recalled her to the fact that a lady didn’t just walk up and examine someone else’s horse, not without the owner’s permission, at any rate. She turned now to get that permission from the man who held the stallion’s reins—and promptly forgot about the horse.

  He stood there, sweaty and dusty, and she thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Without considering the impropriety of it, she cast her eyes over him with the same avid intensity she had given the stallion. Tall, broad, divinely put together, and clean-shaven, revealing every arrogant line of those stunning, sun-gilded features. She even found beautiful the hand that rose so slowly to remove his hat, and even the wildly unkempt hair that was as black as pitch. And then she ran into the most amazing turquoise eyes—and suddenly realized they were staring right back at her.

  The jolt she received from those eyes caused her to become aware of what she was doing, and she immediately looked away, grateful for the wide brim of her own hat that would conceal from all concerned the hot color o
f her mortification. She simply could not credit what she had just done. The only excuse she could think of was that she had been avidly admiring the stallion, then to see an even more magnificent specimen, though of a different breed…that was no excuse for the way she had stared at a complete stranger. She had never stared at men she did know the way she had looked at this man.

  And then the picture of him, still branded in her mind, pointed out the poor quality of his attire, the slowness of his manners, as if he weren’t used to them, the lack of even a neckcloth, which no gentleman would be without. He wasn’t gentry, then, and thank God for that; at least she hoped he wasn’t, so her unspeakable behavior wouldn’t make the rounds of her acquaintances. It might be mentioned in a few taverns, but she could live with that—no, she couldn’t. God, what had possessed her?

  But Tiffany hadn’t noticed, thankfully, and Tyler was still utterly engrossed in the stallion and hearing about its bloodlines, in answer to the question he’d just asked. What else had been said, Megan couldn’t imagine. She wanted to be away from there. She never wanted to lay eyes on that fellow again with his secret knowledge of her wretched behavior.

  “…as if I had the blunt to own him,” that deep voice was saying in something of a churlish tone.

  “Then who does?” Tyler wanted to know.

  “Squire Penworthy’s the proud new owner.”

  Megan’s head whipped around, but again she was struck first by the handsomeness of the fellow, so much so, with his eyes meeting hers head on, that she almost, to her horror, forgot his incredible statement.

  As it was, it took five long seconds for her to remember and let the words tumble out. “I don’t believe it. My father would have said something to me.”

  “And who is your father that he would know anything about it?”

  “Squire Penworthy, of course.”

  It was his turn to pause overlong, but then his full lower lip curled up the slightest bit. “Ah, well, I don’t see that his decision to start up a stud farm would be any business of yours, now would it?”

  That was perfectly true—in most cases. Not in hers, however, when her father knew she would take a keen interest in the acquisition of new horseflesh, for whatever the reason. He would just have found a more delicate way to mention it. Not like this fellow, who seemed to take an undue amount of pleasure in saying the word “stud” as he did, which was saying it rudely. Even Tyler moved uncomfortably upon hearing that “forbidden” word, forgetting he had said it himself only moments ago.

  Those turquoise eyes were still on Megan, flustering her with their directness, and now that he had her attention again, they moved over her in the same slow manner that hers had done to him—deliberately, she didn’t doubt, an exact tit for tat. And there wasn’t anything she could say about it without his announcing to the world—or to their small group—that he was merely repaying the compliment. But what he was doing was no compliment. It was an insult of the worse kind, something no gentleman would do no matter the provocation, but then he was proving he wasn’t of that stamp with every passing moment—unless he thought she welcomed his personal attention. Good God, he might think just that after what she’d done.

  “Then you’re only delivering the stallion?” Megan blurted out. “You’ll be gone afterward?”

  The hopeful note in her tone had Tiffany looking askance at her. The man on the ground didn’t miss it either. He seemed confused for the briefest moment; then he smiled, a downright nasty-looking smile that made Megan brace herself, and with reason.

  “I’m a horse breeder, miss, and I come with this one, ’cause no one else can handle him but me. You don’t think his previous owner would let a horse like this go without assuring he has the proper care, do you? Not bloody likely. But I’m also a horse trainer, so I’m a right valuable chap to have around. I have a knack for it, you see, cause I treat them all like women—with a gentle hand for the most part, a firm one when needed, and a good slap to the hindquarters when they get too feisty.”

  Now why the devil had he said that, Devlin wondered. Just to see if her cheeks could get as bright as that god-awful titian hair? Redheads did not blush becomingly. This one did, damn her.

  The gent was starting to sputter indignantly, however. Devlin would have been surprised if he didn’t. But he gave the blond chap a look of innocent inquiry, and got a look back that said, What could one expect of a horse breeder but ill-bred manners?

  But the squire’s daughter was good and furious now and not trying to hide it. “Drive on, Tyler. I’ll have him dismissed before he’s settled in, I guarantee it.”

  Devlin heard the young man’s answer as the reins snapped and the carriage pulled away. “I’m sure he didn’t mean that as it sounded, or at least, not as an insult.”

  “The devil he didn’t.”

  “She’s right,” Mortimer said beside Devlin as they both stared after the departing carriage.

  “Found your tongue again, did you?”

  Mortimer’s cheeks exploded with color. “So I lost it. I ain’t never seen anything the likes of her before, but what’s your excuse? You didn’t lose your tongue, you lost your bloody wits. That was the squire’s daughter, the same said squire that don’t even know yet that we’re going to be guests in his stable, or that he’s bought himself a prime piece of horseflesh. What if she had had that bloke take her right home instead to complain to her father?”

  Devlin scowled because that hadn’t occurred to him, when it should have. But he dismissed it by saying, “So we would have had a little race to see who would get to the squire first. Need you wonder who would win?”

  “Oh, that’s a fine solution, guaranteed to get the little miss in a worse snit. Why’d you have to go and insult her in the first place?”

  “I thought I was being crudely in character.”

  “Whose character, a breeder of fine horseflesh who by his very trade associates with the gentry enough to know better, or a guttersnipe who don’t?”

  Devlin suddenly laughed. “I think I will be safer if I assume the guttersnipe’s manners, at least around that little gem.”

  “Safer?”

  “Without question,” Devlin replied. But since that hadn’t answered Mortimer’s confusion, he added, “I do believe you were right, Mr. Browne. My wits went a-begging, and they haven’t come back yet.”

  “She was something to look at, wasn’t she?”

  “If you like brassy redheads.”

  Mortimer snorted. “And you don’t, I suppose?”

  “No, thank God. If I did, I’d prob’ly have been laid to waste. But you know, Mr. Browne, I’m inclined to think now that I just might enjoy our sojourn in this tail end of the world.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean you intend to amuse yourself with that little miss.”

  “Amuse? Certainly, or didn’t you notice she and I just declared war?”

  Chapter 4

  Arnold Penworthy glanced up from the letter in his hand to give Devlin another long look, his third since he’d opened the letter, but then he went back to reading. He had warm, friendly brown eyes. Even disturbed as he was now about what he was being asked to do, his eyes were still friendly.

  She was nothing like her father. Devlin had felt like a bloody giant when the squire had stood up from behind his desk to accept the letter Devlin had handed over. The squire was definitely on the short side, might even be an inch or two shorter than his daughter. And rotund as a stout barrel of ale, whereas Devlin knew corsets, from as many as he’d had the pleasure of removing, and would hazard a guess that Miss Penworthy’s hadn’t been cinched in all that tight to give her that slim, hourglass waistline.

  Miss? He didn’t know. She could be married. She certainly looked old enough to be married. That could even have been her husband with her today. Devlin wasn’t going to ask.

  “It doesn’t say here why he wants me to hide you in my stable,” the squire suddenly pointed out.

  Devlin considered his ans
wer carefully, but finally opted for bluntness in saying, “A friend of mine wants to blow my head off.”

  A bushy red brow shot up. “A friend, you say?”

  Devlin nodded. “My best friend, actually. It’s a misunderstanding that he’s too hotheaded to try straightening out just yet. So it was thought best for all concerned if I disappeared for a while.”

  “I see,” the squire said. He didn’t, but he went back to reading.

  Their hair was perhaps the only thing they had in common, father and daughter, though the squire’s wasn’t that bright copper-red that hers was, but was faded with age and liberally laced with gray. And he had freckles, a whole slew of them across his nose and cheeks. You’d think he might sport whiskers to hide some of them, but he didn’t.

  Devlin wondered if there were freckles anywhere on her body. There’d been none on those ivory, soft cheeks.

  What the devil was her first name?

  He wasn’t going to ask.

  The squire had to be reading the letter a second time through, it was taking him so long. Devlin couldn’t care less, for his mind was back on that dusty road, trying to come up with an excuse for his asinine behavior.

  He might not have pulled his hat down at the approach of that carriage, as Mortimer had told him to do, but he’d kept his eyes downcast, a most humble bearing to assume, he’d thought, rather pleased with himself for thinking of it. But now he had to admit it would have been infinitely preferable to have seen her from a distance first, rather than to just look up and have her right there before his eyes. One needed time to adjust to such radiance so that one did not make a bloody fool of oneself. At least she hadn’t noticed his slack-jawed astonishment, nor had her companions. All three of them had been staring at Caesar, long enough for Devlin to get his mouth shut, though that first question asked of him had needed to be repeated once before he’d actually heard it.

  Caesar usually did create something of a sensation, but then so did Devlin. It was the first time he’d been ignored entirely in favor of his horse, however, at least by females. And to actually feel annoyed by it, for God’s sake. Only then she’d given him too much attention, looked him over as if he were the prime stud, with the same thoroughness that Caesar had gotten from her. On the one hand, he’d bloody well felt insulted to be examined like that, as if he were on an auction block with the bidding about to begin. On the other hand, he’d been hit with a jolt of pure lust.