The Double Wager by Mary Balogh

the opera, a play, or a ball, perhaps.
    On the second day after their return from France, a handsome high-perch phaeton was delivered to the duke’s mansion, a wedding present for the duchess from her dear friends, the Raeburns.
    “Ah,” said Eversleigh, eyeing the conveyance through his quizzing glass, Henry at his side, “a very unusual wedding present, Henry.”
    “Yes,” she said, eyes shining, “but is it not magnificent, Marius? I shall be able to drive myself in the park. It will be famous.”
    He eyed her out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps, my love, I should have a groom run along ahead of you with a hand bell to warn all unsuspecting souls that you are coming.”
    “Absurd!” She laughed. “Papa used to say I must have been born in the saddle.”
    “In the saddle maybe, but perched several feet above the horses’ backs, Henry, with only the ribbons and a whip to control them?”
    “Pooh!” she said. “I do not anticipate any problems.”
    “For my peace of mind, Henry, allow me to drive with you for a while?”
    “When you speak to me like that, Marius, I know I have no choice,” she said practically, “so I might as well say yes.”
    “Quite so, my dear girl,” he replied with a slight bow.
    Henry was left feeling very glad that there had been no really awkward questions about the strangeness of the “wedding gift.” At least Douglas had had the tact to say that the phaeton was a gift from his family.
    On the next day, a pair of perfectly matched grays was delivered to the duke’s stables. He was away from home when they arrived, but he was informed of the delivery as soon as he set foot inside the house, first by a hurtling pair of twins, who were down the stairs before the butler had time to close the door behind him, and then by his wife, who descended the staircase with only marginally more dignity.
    “Marius!” she shrieked, startling his eyes wide open for a moment by rushing straight at him and throwing her arms around his neck. “You really are too generous. Yesterday you pretended to be so cautious about my phaeton.”
    “I really thought you disapproved and did not want me to drive it. But today you surprised me with a pair of grays. They are perfectly gorgeous, your Grace.”
    “Henry, my love, I think the hallway of our home is hardly the appropriate scene for such an impassioned embrace. Shall we discuss the matter in the drawing room?” Eversleigh asked, apparently unperturbed by the misunderstanding. “And, Phil, if you keep hopping around in that manner, dear boy, you will surely knock down one of those marble busts and Mrs. Dean will have your head, or mine.”
    Henry twined her arm through his as they ascended the staircase together. “The grays are perfect for my phaeton, Marius,” she said. “I wanted to take them out this afternoon, but I remembered that you wish to be with me until you can be certain that I shall not break my neck. I shan’t, you know, but it seemed only fair to wait after you had been so generous. Did you go out first thing this morning to buy them for me?”
    “I have been trying to acquire them for several months,” Eversleigh answered evasively. “I suppose our marriage finally speeded the matter on.”
    “Did you have to pay a great deal for them?” she asked, looking anxiously up into his face.
    He looked back into her eyes, his own half-hidden behind his eyelids. “I begin to think that the cost was not too high at all,” he answered smoothly.
    The Duke of Eversleigh spent a few afternoons with his wife, sitting beside her as she drove her new phaeton, pulled by the grays. The conveyance was dangerous and daring for a woman; the grays were high-spirited and difficult animals. The combination should have been beyond Henry’s skill and strength, but as she had predicted, she proved to be an excellent whip. She drove her dashing new vehicle with precision and apparent ease. Eversleigh’s relaxed and almost-lazy posture beside