with interest. “I see. And the eccentricities you mentioned?” he asked softly, “What might those entail?”
Nell smiled ruefully. He would think her a snob. “Nothing obvious or offensive, I assure you, but first, there is your speech. . .”
He frowned.
She recognized his frown for what it was. He thought she meant to criticize his stutter. How had she gotten herself into this tangle? She rushed on. "”Your vernacular and vocabulary do not ring true to what I am accustomed to hearing out of the stables.”
He smiled one of his slow, captivating smiles. “What else?” Encouraged, she ticked the items off on her fingers. “Your friendship with Mr. Tyrrwhit is unexpected, the quality of your gloves and posy holder would seem to be beyond the means of a coachman, as would your knowledge of the peerage and your appreciation for Beethoven.”
One of his eyebrows twitched. “But, it would seem I have somehow m-m-managed to convince you that I am not a gentleman after a-all, despite so much compelling evidence to the contrary?”
Nell dimpled. She was glad he would not seem to have taken offense. “Yes, you have Mr. Ferd, for while a gentleman might disguise himself to ride the mail, I cannot think of any reason why he would continue such a deception in accepting the position of private coachman to my Aunt Ursula.”
The enchanting curve of his lips increased. The blue eyes held as much amusement as his smile. “Not even one?” he pressed.
Nell’s eyes widened under the appreciative onslaught of his gaze, and then doubt as swiftly narrowed them. The young man was teasing her, Duke or dustman, coachman or king, and she must put an end to the liberty he took in looking at her in such a disconcerting manner. Her lips parted to speak, and yet she could not seem to articulate the thoughts that passed through her head. Did she really want him to cease looking at her so?
“Can not a coachman possess friends, Miss Quinby, and fine gloves, a-a-and an a-a-appreciation for music?”
Nell flinched, pained that he judged her a snob. “Of course. That and more, I’m sure. I do apologize for attempting to pigeonhole you. It was wrong in me. I’ll leave you to Toby now.” She nodded formally. The man was an enigma, a cipher, a contradiction to all the rules that would seem to govern the separation of the classes, and as her own class was now in question, she found the smoky boundaries of his manners, mores and interests imminently intriguing. “I hope you will be content with only two horses to drive. It will seem rather tame I’m sure after having four at hand.”
“Not at all, Miss Quinby.”
“Mr. Ferd?”
Again the slow smile transformed his features. “Yes, miss?”
She felt awkward in asking him to perform as ordinary coachman, having just explained her conviction that he was anything but an ordinary coachman. “I realize that this is short notice, but do you think the horses might be ready and brought ’round within a half hour’s time? My aunt did most particularly wish to purchase a fan before this evening’s Assembly.”
Politely, almost regally, he bowed his head. “Yes, miss. As you say, in a half hour’s time.”
With one last searching look, for doubts still riddled Nell’s confidence in his veracity, she nodded and left him.
Chapter Eight
Toby’s tour revealed a small but neat stable, that did but lack a certain level of spit and polish to satisfy the Duke’s discerning eye. It began in the tackroom, and ended at the top of the steep, narrow flight of stairs that led to the room Beau was to call his own.
“This ’uns yours,” the groom proudly presented their quarters. “My own flop, is down at the end."
The room smelled as richly of hay and horse and leather as the stalls below. Deep, but not very wide, the room was big enough to hold no more than a narrow cot, a washstand with plain pitcher and bowl, and a crate that served as both cupboard and chair. There was
Nell smiled ruefully. He would think her a snob. “Nothing obvious or offensive, I assure you, but first, there is your speech. . .”
He frowned.
She recognized his frown for what it was. He thought she meant to criticize his stutter. How had she gotten herself into this tangle? She rushed on. "”Your vernacular and vocabulary do not ring true to what I am accustomed to hearing out of the stables.”
He smiled one of his slow, captivating smiles. “What else?” Encouraged, she ticked the items off on her fingers. “Your friendship with Mr. Tyrrwhit is unexpected, the quality of your gloves and posy holder would seem to be beyond the means of a coachman, as would your knowledge of the peerage and your appreciation for Beethoven.”
One of his eyebrows twitched. “But, it would seem I have somehow m-m-managed to convince you that I am not a gentleman after a-all, despite so much compelling evidence to the contrary?”
Nell dimpled. She was glad he would not seem to have taken offense. “Yes, you have Mr. Ferd, for while a gentleman might disguise himself to ride the mail, I cannot think of any reason why he would continue such a deception in accepting the position of private coachman to my Aunt Ursula.”
The enchanting curve of his lips increased. The blue eyes held as much amusement as his smile. “Not even one?” he pressed.
Nell’s eyes widened under the appreciative onslaught of his gaze, and then doubt as swiftly narrowed them. The young man was teasing her, Duke or dustman, coachman or king, and she must put an end to the liberty he took in looking at her in such a disconcerting manner. Her lips parted to speak, and yet she could not seem to articulate the thoughts that passed through her head. Did she really want him to cease looking at her so?
“Can not a coachman possess friends, Miss Quinby, and fine gloves, a-a-and an a-a-appreciation for music?”
Nell flinched, pained that he judged her a snob. “Of course. That and more, I’m sure. I do apologize for attempting to pigeonhole you. It was wrong in me. I’ll leave you to Toby now.” She nodded formally. The man was an enigma, a cipher, a contradiction to all the rules that would seem to govern the separation of the classes, and as her own class was now in question, she found the smoky boundaries of his manners, mores and interests imminently intriguing. “I hope you will be content with only two horses to drive. It will seem rather tame I’m sure after having four at hand.”
“Not at all, Miss Quinby.”
“Mr. Ferd?”
Again the slow smile transformed his features. “Yes, miss?”
She felt awkward in asking him to perform as ordinary coachman, having just explained her conviction that he was anything but an ordinary coachman. “I realize that this is short notice, but do you think the horses might be ready and brought ’round within a half hour’s time? My aunt did most particularly wish to purchase a fan before this evening’s Assembly.”
Politely, almost regally, he bowed his head. “Yes, miss. As you say, in a half hour’s time.”
With one last searching look, for doubts still riddled Nell’s confidence in his veracity, she nodded and left him.
Chapter Eight
Toby’s tour revealed a small but neat stable, that did but lack a certain level of spit and polish to satisfy the Duke’s discerning eye. It began in the tackroom, and ended at the top of the steep, narrow flight of stairs that led to the room Beau was to call his own.
“This ’uns yours,” the groom proudly presented their quarters. “My own flop, is down at the end."
The room smelled as richly of hay and horse and leather as the stalls below. Deep, but not very wide, the room was big enough to hold no more than a narrow cot, a washstand with plain pitcher and bowl, and a crate that served as both cupboard and chair. There was
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