Madcap Miss

“Humph!” the duke uttered irritably. “James, is it? A great whip, is he?” He threw down his napkin on the table. “Let me tell you that I know Reinhart’s

style with those horses, and it is all flash. If he met real trouble, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. The man can drive, but not to an inch.”

“Oh, really?” Felicia retorted, color in her cheeks. “And you can?”

He eyed her. “You know I can, don’t you, love?”

Scott’s eyes were open wide, and he offered, “Of course, she knows it. We have both seen you with the driving reins. Right, Flip?” He looked at her hopefully.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Felicia shrugged her one shoulder. “Some men are all talk.”

Scott choked on his coffee and attempted to repair this uncomfortable conversation by stammering out a few disjointed sentences. No one paid him any mind.

Felicia and the duke glared at one another.

“Is that what you think—that I am all talk?” the duke asked her, his voice edged with fury.

“What I think is that you are probably in a vile temper with a vile head because of your convivial evening,” Felicia said, sidestepping.

“And even so, I can outdrive, outride, and outdo, your wonderful Reinhart!” he snapped.

“You have a very high opinion of yourself,” she snapped right back. “Do others share it?”

“What matters is that you will share it when I am done!” he shouted, got up, crossed the room, and pulled the bellrope.

A moment later, Jeffries appeared, and the duke said in forceful terms, “Send to Somerset stables and have my high-perch phaeton and my bays—the four of them—brought to Waverly.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jeffries made a quick exit.

He turned to Felicia. “Go and get your cloak.”

She threw down her napkin as well, glared at Scott, who sat back and put up a hand as though to fend her off, and then promptly stomped out of the room.

* * *

When she had left, Scott turned to the duke and asked, “Zounds—what the deuce is wrong with you two?”

“Never mind,” the duke responded sharply.

It was some forty minutes later that the duke was coldly but gallantly helping Felicia climb into his high-perch phaeton. He turned to his young groom and lightly dismissed him, telling him to go into Waverly and ask Cook to fetch him something to eat.

Felicia eyed him sardonically and asked, “Don’t we need your groom … as a chaperone?” And then with a wave of her hand, she said airily, “Oh, how silly of me, no, we don’t, do we? You are my chaperone!”

He said nothing to this as he climbed up beside her. His lips were set in hard lines, and he avoided glancing her way. That she was looking stunning in her black velvet driving ensemble with the gold frogging was something he did not want to dwell upon. Instead, he gave his full attention to his team and the bend of the road as he pulled away from the curbing and eased into traffic.

He cast a look in her direction as she adjusted her matching black velvet top hat over her cascading dusky curls. Then she surprised him by exclaiming, “Faith, but I must say, your bays are magnificent. James’ snowy grays are flash, yes, but your bays are certainly every inch blood!”

He didn’t answer this, though he felt slightly mollified. The streets they had just passed were quiet ones, and though he handled his reins skillfully, nothing yet had called for the precision driving he had spoken of. He did, however, after a moment say, “You know Reinhart’s vehicle is not designed for the speed mine can produce when tested.”

She shrugged a delicate shoulder and said, “No? He seemed to take the avenues fast enough.”

“Did he, by God!” thundered the duke, absurdly enraged by her defense of Reinhart. He was irritated by the fact that she appeared to be taken by the scoundrel, who he was convinced would hurt her.

He put his grievances aside as he whipped up his four horses and managed the traffic ahead, crossed the intersection, and avoided a collision with a man whose horse and wagon had gotten away with him.

Felicia lost herself as she watched him. He was correct. Reinhart was nothing when compared to his skill with the driving reins. She sighed to herself. Everything about him met and matched her soul. She waited for him to execute his turn and allowed him in an animated tone, “Oh, Ashton, you are most certainly a notable whip!”

“Ah, I am back to Ashton. Well, I’m glad of it. It isn’t Glen, but at least you aren’t calling me ‘Your Grace’.”