Read Online Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) by Sydney Alexander - Free Book Online

over meats? Tucking into a great bloody chunk of beef, that’s what he was doing! She was quite on her own. “Just a bite of chicken and some sauce,” she assured the footman, who nervously complied before the gentlemen could clear their mouths enough to intercede.
    This dinner could not end soon enough. She was having a horrible night.

    ***

    William was having a splendid time.
    Mr. Maxwell was quite the most ridiculous man he had made the acquaintance of in some time. He had been a little put out when he had arrived for dinner and Mr. Spencer had informed him they would have company at the table that evening. Mr. Maxwell, Spencer had informed him, was a most excellent addition to the neighborhood: a knowledgeable farmer, a good landlord, and in possession of an income that would make him desirable to any young lady. It was a wonder, Spencer had said slyly, that he was not married yet.
    William had accepted a brandy and tried to still the sudden tic in his jaw. Spencer was apparently in a sudden hurry to marry his unladylike daughter off; William wondered why. After putting her in charge of the stables that were Spencer’s livelihood, and withdrawing to the earl’s kennels, it was strange that he’d suddenly be thrusting her into the marriage market. And in such a half-hearted manner, as well; there was, as far as William could tell, no one at all of their class within a days’ ride.
    Besides the estimable Mr. Maxwell.
    Perhaps Spencer just didn’t know how the game was properly played. There was no Mrs. Spencer, after all, to drape Grainne in the proper gowns, send her to the proper houses, and arrange her on the proper sofas. But he knew, thanks to Peregrin’s thorough research before they had come to Ireland, that Mrs. Spencer had been the second cousin of an English earl and had dowered Mr. Spencer a brother-in-law rather high-ranked in government. The girl had a few connections. It would have been a simple thing to gain invitations for the girl into Dublin society, and find her a nice honorable fellow for a husband.
    The most ignorant of men should have known that he needed a governess, a schoolroom, and an invitation from the brother-in-law’s wife in order to properly provide for his daughter.
    Instead he left her to be a wild horsewoman with only this ridiculous pink-faced shepherd of a squire for consideration as husband.
    William rather liked her as a wild horsewoman, although he would prefer it if she stopped disappearing for afternoons at a time. He doubted that Maxwell would allow her such freedom to be herself. He’d heard there to be no horses but farm horses and carriage horses at Boyle House. Maxwell did not consider riding a healthful exercise. There’d be no more riding, to say nothing of doing so in breeches and astride.  
    He gave a considered glance to the young lady sitting next to him, determinedly working away at her chicken and cream sauce. Even with her shabby gown and careless chignon, she still gave a credible impression of a respectable English deb. Bloodline mattered in humans as it did in horses, and she could have cleaned up as well as any fine racehorse at Epsom. But he had to admit, he liked her much better wild, with her hair falling across her face and reins in her hands.  
    He liked her a bit too much.
    She seemed to sense his gaze and looked up at him, the pink flooding her white cheeks again. She blushed a lot, this girl. Funny, it wasn’t in keeping with her temper. He met her eyes and held her there, still as a rabbit in a net, for a long moment. The clinking of silverware and the conversation between Spencer and Maxwell seemed to fade away. They were alone in an empty space.
    “Mr. Archer?” she whispered tentatively. He would never have believed she could sound so timid. “Is something amiss?”
    “No,” he answered. “Nothing is amiss, nothing at all.” And he smiled.
    A smile touched her lips then, brief and uncertain, and then she looked back down at her