Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“My ma always said that sour and stiff and nasty is an old man’s sack, no matter you’ve still got all your teeth.”

Jason realized in that moment that Martha hadn’t dropped a single h and she’d spoken all fluently and fast, her diction and grammar perfect. Anger did strange things to people. He had nothing to do. Martha had quite taken care of Petrie herself. He wondered if Petrie was ready to commit murder. He wished he could simply slip past them. He didn’t want to see his valet/butler when he was mortified. But Lyon’s Gate wasn’t near the size of Northcliffe Hall, so Petrie would have to see him, feel guilt, and suffer.

“Good morning, Martha, Petrie. No, Petrie, I didn’t need your services. I’m having breakfast now. Martha, is your mistress up and about?”

“Oh yes, sir. She’s an early riser, that one is, fair to made me turn around me—my—’ours—hours.”

“Cheeky and fresh,” Petrie said under his breath, but of course, it wasn’t under enough.

Martha turned on him, recalled the master was three feet away, and gave him a lovely curtsey before she seamed her lips.

“That was quite well done, Martha.”

“Thank you, sir. Miss Carrick, she taught me. She’s ever so graceful when she curtsies.”

“Possibly,” Jason said and walked into the breakfast room. When he sat down, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon, kidneys, he said to Hallie, who was sipping a cup of tea at the other end of the table, “We need a housekeeper, else Petrie will be murdered in his bed by all the female staff.”

“Cousin Angela wanted to be the housekeeper but she is my chaperone and a gentlewoman.”

“I will ask Hollis to recommend someone for us.”

Jason ate while Hallie continued to sip her tea, her fingertips drumming lightly on the tablecloth.

He missed the London paper he would normally have at Northcliffe Hall. “What’s wrong with you this morning? Didn’t you sleep well?”

“Oh yes. Actually, I would very much like you to give me permission for Dodger to cover Piccola, er, without charge for his stud services.”

An eyebrow went up. “No charge for Dodger’s services?”

“Since we’re partners, I deserve a bit of consideration, don’t you think?”

He’d handled Piccola several times since she’d arrived. She was a Thoroughbred, a glossy bay with four white socks and a slash of white down her face, a long graceful neck, a sound chest. “Yes,” he said. “If her first foal is a filly, she’s yours, if it’s a colt, he’s mine. All right?”

“Hmm. If it’s a colt, can I have the next colt?”

“All right.”

She gave him a big grin. “Very well, I’ll go speak to Henry. I think she’ll be in season very soon now. As you already know, summer is the best time for mating, so we need to hurry. I asked your uncle Tysen to bruit it about that we were open for business. My uncle Burke as well. Dodger will be very busy.”

“We are lucky to have Henry back with us again. He told me about the last few years of Squire Hoverton’s life, how Thomas was always—” His voice dried up when she suddenly rose, and he nearly fell off his chair. He couldn’t believe it. She was wearing black breeches, a loose white shirt covered with a black vest, and shiny black boots. She’d tied her hair back with a black velvet ribbon. It was quite obvious that everything she wore was new and well-made. He remembered the first time he and James had seen her at Lyon’s Gate. She’d been dressed in dusty old boy’s clothes. Now that he thought of it, he’d never seen her off Charlemagne’s back, either.

He found his voice as he roared out of his chair. “Don’t you move, Miss Carrick!” For an instant he couldn’t think. Her long legs were on very nice display, leaving very little to a man’s imagination. Her rear end—

Thank God Hallie slowly turned to face him and he could make himself look up at her face. He leaned over, splaying his palms on the table. He hit his fork and it flew across the breakfast room, but he paid it no heed. She said, eyebrow arched, “What do you want, Mr. Sherbrooke?”

He tried to get ahold on himself. He wasn’t her father, dammit, nor was he her husband. But the outrage rolled out; he simply couldn’t hold it in. “You will go upstairs this minute and have Martha put you in a proper gown. You will not show yourself outside until you are properly dressed, more or less like a lady. You will not wear men’s clothing ever again. Is that perfectly clear to you?”

“Since you’re nearly yelling, yes, of course, it’s clear. Excuse me now, Mr. Sherbrooke, I have work to do in the stables.”

“Don’t move, Miss Carrick!” His face was red, the pulse pounding in his neck. Luckily his brain was holding on and told him to retrench. “Damn you—” No, no, try again. Calm, he needed calm and control with her. His voice slowed, deepened, surely a master’s voice, a serious man’s voice. “Don’t you realize that everyone in the district will hear of your man’s charade? Don’t you realize you will be labeled loose?”

“That is absurd. I already have an interesting reputation in the district simply because I am living with a man who isn’t my husband. But let me assure you, no one believes me at all loose.”

She’d started out all light and dismissive, amused even, but by the time she’d finished, her voice had risen an octave and her face was red. Well, Jason thought, she was an uncontrolled female, what was one to expect? Where he was calm, his reason sound, she was a stubborn uncontrolled twit. He actually flicked a bit of lint off his coat sleeve. “You can’t see yourself from the back, Miss Carrick, whereas I can see every curve—your backside in particular is finely outlined, and your long legs, nicely shaped they are. Trust me on this. Every man who manages only the slightest glimpse of your shadow will be positively delighted. He will immediately see his han

ds cupping your bottom.” Actually, he was seeing himself doing that, and he would swear his hands tingled.

She shook her head at him. “I looked at the back of myself in my mirror. My britches are loose. There’s no hugging, no outlining. You’re being ridiculous. Now, good morning to you, Mr. Sherbrooke.”