Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride. Elizabeth Rolls

to demonstrate. He shot a glare at his sisters as he caught up the reins again. ‘And they do appear. Julian owns them.’ This last with great pride.

      Miss Daventry’s mouth barely twitched. ‘Then of all things, that is what I should most like to see,’ she said firmly. ‘I had no idea his lordship was important enough to own fish and make them appear.’

      Emma giggled, and Matthew shouted with laughter.

      ‘There you are, Julian. When do you try holding back the tide?’

      ‘As I recall,’ said Julian, trying not to laugh, ‘that wasn’t King Canute’s idea! The river then. Come along all of you.’

      They rode towards the river, all thought of quarrelling forgotten.

      He had to hand it to Miss Daventry. She had averted a quarrel very neatly. Lissy was far too well brought-up to argue with her. He was amused to see that Lissy’s attitude to Miss Daventry was just what he had hoped it would be. Sympathetic affection laced with pity. Which should be enough to have Lissy entertaining second thoughts about her infatuation for the dashing Mr Daventry. In his experience pity was a death knell to passion.

      As for Miss Daventry, he listened with deepening respect as she took shameless advantage of Davy’s momentary gratitude.

      ‘Davy, what is the French word—’ beyond a faint smile she ignored a groan ‘—for “fish”?’

      His littlest brother stared, and wrinkled his brow. ‘Pou… poussin?’

      ‘Nearly,’ said Miss Daventry. ‘That is a chicken, but it does sound similar. Poisson.’

      They rode on towards the river and Julian listened in utter disbelief as Miss Daventry proceeded effortlessly to enlarge not only Davy’s French vocabulary, but Matthew, Emma and Lissy’s as well.

      Talking about fish.

      By the time they reached the woods, Christy felt a great deal safer on horseback. Lord Braybrook had insisted on keeping to a walk, but now permitted the younger members of the party to ride ahead.

      ‘Very neat, Miss Daventry,’ he said, as the youngsters raced off whooping. ‘I had no idea Davy knew that much French.’

      She smiled. ‘You are paying me handsomely, my lord. I should use my time to the best advantage.’

      ‘There is that,’ he said. ‘Sit up straight, Miss Daventry. We’ll essay a trot.’

      Before she could utter a word of protest, he had urged his mount to a trot. Trotting, she discovered, was a great deal harder than walking. Merlin bounced, and so did she. His lordship, she observed, riding astride, was able to rise and fall to the rhythm. In a side saddle she had no such option.

      She gritted her teeth, sat up even straighter and tightened her right leg around the pommel. As far as she could see, she was going to earn every last penny of her one hundred pounds per annum.

      They had not gone far before the younger members of the party were well out of sight around a bend in the woodland ride. The sound of pounding hooves and faint laughter floated back. Breathless from the bouncing, Christy managed to say, ‘Should we not catch them up, my lord?’

      He flicked her a glance. ‘You’d break your neck at that hell- for-leather pace.’ He frowned. ‘If you wish to stop bouncing, sit straighter and keep your heel down. It will keep your…seat in the saddle.’

      Her…seat was already so sore that the last thing Christy wanted was to have it in closer contact with the saddle, but she obeyed, and, sure enough, she bounced less. Whether or not she was any more comfortable was a moot point.

      ‘I cannot but think that Miss Trentham will find riding with me in attendance somewhat boring, my lord,’ she said a few moments later.

      ‘Probably,’ he said.

      She flushed, suddenly aware that he too must be finding the restricted pace a bore. ‘I am sure if you wish to catch up with the children, that I will be perfectly safe. Merlin seems very quiet.’

      His brow rose. ‘Certainly not, Miss Daventry. Whatever my shortcomings, I have a little more consideration than that.’

      Christy subsided. Surreptitiously she patted Merlin’s neck, finding it warm and silken. Despite still feeling like a bug perched on top of him, she found that she rather liked Merlin. She liked the friendly way he occasionally swung his head and blew at Lord Braybrook’s mount. And once or twice lipped at Lord Braybrook’s breeches. At least, she assumed he was only using his lips.

      It would be nice to ride him again.

      She flinched away from the thought. Becoming fond of Merlin would be as foolish as becoming fond of Lady Braybrook’s cat. Or feeling herself to be part of the family. This was not her place. The landing—that was her place; no matter how kind and considerate the family might be, she was not one of them. She would do far better to take her cue from his lordship’s hauteur and remember that she was not riding for her own pleasure. That was incidental. His lordship had insisted because it made her more useful to him.