Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

There was a shriek from the doorway.

“Goodness gracious, burn a feather beneath my nostrils!” Angela slapped her palms over her chest. “My dearest girl, I’ve never before seen a young lady’s, er, after parts in such great detail.”

CHAPTER 19

Angela finally stopped patting her lace-covered chest. “Oh dear, Hallie. It’s not that you don’t look delightful in those exquisite pants—I daresay the gentlemen will surely think so as well, as will those males who aren’t gentlemen at all. And that doesn’t include all the men at Lyon’s Gate with the exception of dear Jason here, and I saw that even he was looking at—well, now, never mind that. I’m sorry, dearest, but the men’s britches aren’t possible. However, I have an idea. It’s been done before, at least I’ve heard that it has. Go change into an old gown, and I will see what I can do. Yes, dear, you must. Trust me.”

Jason, whose eyes were firmly fixed on Angela’s face, and not on Hallie’s britches, said, “Wouldn’t you like some breakfast before you go off to see what you can do?”

“Oh yes, dear boy. That would be quite nice. Do have my Glenda bring a tray up to my room. Jason, I am very fond of the furniture arrangement. It is so cozy, I feel like I’ve lived in those rooms for a good twenty years.” And she glided out on her fairy feet, humming.

“Whatever is on her mind,” Jason said, “I fancy it is going to be something very clever. Pick your lower lip off the floor, Hallie. Have faith.”

Hallie wasn’t so sure. All she knew was she had to give up her wonderful britches. She sighed deeply. “I don’t know what clever can do about this. Oh, all right, I’ll go change into one of my ancient gowns.”

She sighed again and strode like a young man from the breakfast room, eyes down, shoulders slumped, which meant, he supposed, that her lower lip was still scraping the floor.

He heard Petrie gasp and choke, a gurgling sound from deep in his throat, which meant he was in extreme distress.

Jason looked upward. Thank God for Angela. What was she going to do? Whatever it was, he couldn’t imagine it would make Hallie happy. But then again, wasn’t Angela now his grandmother’s cohort? Surely even the good Lord couldn’t have predicted that miracle. Indeed, they visited together at least three times a week.

He saw Hallie’s britches again in his mind’s eye and nearly groaned. Didn’t she realize she was going to have enough trouble gaining acceptance without adding her quite lovely bottom to the mix?

Lord Brinkley from Trowbridge Manor in Inchbury, Sussex, brought his mare Delilah the following morning.

Petrie, elegant in full black regalia, showed him ceremoniously into the drawing room, announcing him in a low, mellifluous voice Hallie had never heard before. She supposed it was because he was more in control of his vocal cords when Martha wasn’t around.

“Miss Carrick, is it? Delightful to meet you.” Lord Brinkley, a man her father’s age, who could have passed for her father’s father, bowed, quite gracefully for such a portly man.

“Hello, Lord Brinkley. Welcome to Lyon’s Gate.”

He smiled at her, thinking she looked quite dashing in her full skirt, blouse, and lovely vest. Rather exotic, actually. He pulled his eyes from the vest. “I knew old Hoverton before he passed on. Fine stables, a bit of corruption I heard at the racetrack, but so long as it doesn’t happen to my Delilah, I’ll live and let live.”

Hallie, who doubted that horse racing would ever be free of corruption, said, “Delilah is a wonderful mare. I saw her last spring in a race near Spalding, one I might add that all the owners agreed to run fairly.”

“Did you now? Delilah didn’t win that one, lost out to the most beautiful mare I’ve ever seen, truth be told. I don’t remember her name.”

Hallie grinned from ear to ear, showing beautiful white teeth that Lord Brinkley envied to his boots. “Her name is Piccola and she belongs to me. That’s why I was at the race.”

“Well, now, is that a fact? I don’t remember you voting for an honest race.”

“I voted in absentia.”

“Ah, probably a good thing to have a man dealing with such things since you’re a female. Is Mr. Sherbrooke here?”

“I believe so. He’s probably at the stables tending to Delilah. Would you care for tea, Lord Brinkley, or would you like to meet Dodger?”

“Did you k

now it was Lord Ravensworth—your uncle I believe—who told me I couldn’t do better than a foal off Dodger? He said Mr. Sherbrooke raced him in Baltimore for five years and he rarely lost.”

Hallie nodded. She wasn’t about to tell him that Dodger, with Jason on his back, couldn’t ever beat Jessie Wyndham. “Come with me, my lord.”

“Er, you are coming with me, Miss Carrick?”

“Of course. I am Mr. Sherbrooke’s partner, you know. Didn’t my uncle tell you that?”

“Well, yes, but I thought it was all an uncle’s pride, didn’t really take him all that seriously, you know.”