Emily nodded. “He didn’t just say no.”
“Indeed.” The marchioness’s expression turned pensive. After several moments sunk in thought, she mused, “I did wonder, when Stacie appeared on the doorstep, as it were, if that might be a sign. If any lady has proved as resistant to the notion of marriage as Frederick, then surely it would be she.”
“One has to admit that they seem to share a great many interests, including avoiding the altar.”
The marchioness nodded. “I do believe, Emily dear, that Fate might have finally taken a hand and steered Stacie into Frederick’s path.”
“Or him into hers, as the case may be.”
“Regardless”—the marchioness sat up, determination infusing both her spine and her expression—“Stacie Cavanaugh is unquestionably the best prospect for a daughter-in-law yet to come our way. We must stand ready to do whatever we can to assist in securing such a desirable result.”
Two mornings later, at an hour when the majority of the ton could be relied on to still be in their beds, Frederick rode his favorite black gelding into the park. He enjoyed the early-morning silence, and once deep in the park, where the sounds of the awakening city were even more muted, he could almost imagine he was at Brampton Hall, engulfed in the soothing peace of the countryside.
The few other riders about at that hour weren’t interested in socializing any more than he was. With a nod or a salute, they passed each other on the sward or waited for their turn to thunder down the tan of Rotten Row.
He’d galloped down once and was returning to the head of the track, close by Apsley House, when his gaze fell on the distinctive cherry-red riding habit of a female rider perched atop a good-looking, frisky bay mare.
Stacie.
His lips started to curve before he’d realized. He began to straighten them, then surrendered and let his faintly cynical smile show.
She halted a little way from the track and scanned the riders; her gaze reached him, and after a second of studying him, she sent the mare his way.
She circled and fell in alongside as he held his black to a long-legged walk.
He was conscious of her gaze running over him.
When he turned his head and looked at her, she inclined her head. “Good morning, Frederick.”
“Stacie.” Viewed in retrospect, it was odd they’d advanced so quickly to a first-name basis. He cocked a brow at her. “Tell me, was using first names a deliberate ploy to make me look upon your proposal more favorably?”
She widened her eyes at him. “Of course. First names get one past the awkwardness of lord this and lady that, and I would prefer that you didn’t view my proposal in the light of social interaction.”
“Indeed?” He paused, then felt compelled to ask, “How would you prefer I viewed it?”
She’d looked ahead and now raised her chin. “As an invitation to contribute to the greater good in a field in which you harbor real interest.”
He pondered that, then tipped his head her way. “Good answer.”
“Thank you.”
They joined the small queue of riders waiting to gallop down the tan track.
There was sufficient space between them and the riders ahead and those behind for their conversation to remain private; he waited for her to ask for his decision regarding her request, but again, she surprised him.
Her gaze on the riders before them, she watched with apparent interest as each group or rider took their turn and—for the most part—shot off down the track.
Then it was their turn. He glanced her way and arched a resigned brow. “I presume you don’t gallop?”
Most young ladies toed the line laid down by the influential hostesses who ruled the ton and deemed a public gallop a sign of unfettered wildness.
Her gaze trained down the track, she smiled. “How many grandes dames do you imagine are watching?”
Then she tapped her heel to the mare’s flank, and the bay shot forward.
After a split second of shocked surpris
e, he loosened the black’s reins and set off in pursuit. Whoops from the gentlemen who’d been behind them in the queue echoed in his ears as he flew down the tan in her wake.