Free The Perfect Waltz by Anne Gracíe

Wound up like a spring.
    She glanced across at her sleeping twin in the next bed. When Faith felt like this, she found her release in music. It never worked for Hope. She needed something more active.
    She slipped from her bed and peered out of the window. Cool and dry. Perfect. From her wardrobe she quietly pulled her old brown riding habit, boots, hat, and crop and tiptoed into the next room to dress.
    Carrying her boots in her hands, she padded out into the corridor and ran up the stairs to the servant’s quarters, under the attic. She knocked softly on one of the doors. At her second knock, a low groan came from inside. “All right Miss Hope. I’ll be down in a moment.”
    Grinning, Hope ran lightly down the stairs and sat on the bottom one to put on her boots. Their footman James would grumble, but he always enjoyed their illicit morning outings, and the guinea she gave him each time she deprived him of sleep was a useful addition to his savings. It was no secret in the Merridew household that James was saving to go to America.
    In the kitchen, she cut two thick, ragged slices of bread and slathered them with butter and apricot jam. She devoured one in a moment and handed the other to James as he came in the door.
    He eyed the slice, then gave her a baleful look. “Trying to turn me up sweet with that great, crooked doorstop, Miss Hope?”
    Hope grinned. She never had been able to cut a straight slice of bread, but at least she wasn’t stingy. “But of course, dear, grouchy James. I cut them like this because you’re always so hungry. Now do hurry up. I want to get there as soon as possible.”
    Grumbling good-naturedly, he followed her out into the dim gray streets, munching on his bread. Having known all the Merridew girls since childhood, he was used to her ways.
    By the time the sun was starting to gild the spires of the churches, they were trotting in at Grosvenor Gate. Hyde Park was deserted. Hope’s bay gelding sidled and danced mischievously, shying skittishly at stray leaves and imaginary shadows. He was full of oats, chafing at the bit, longing for a good gallop. Hope knew exactly how he felt.
    “Come on, sluggard, I’ll race you,” she called to James, and without waiting, she urged her mount to a gallop.
    The gelding moved smoothly under her, its hooves pounding the turf; she would tip the stableboy extra again. He always gave her the best horse, and once she made her preference known, this one was almost always magically available. Over the past few weeks, horse and rider had grown accustomed to each other’s ways, and Hope could now do almost anything she wanted with him. This morning he seemed to relish the speed as much as she did.
    It was glorious, thundering through crisp morning air free and wild, without care or thought. Exhilarating. Almost as good as being in the country—better in some ways, for there was an illicit edge to galloping here.
    Cool morning air whipped at her skin, filled her lungs, blasting her free of all the rules and restrictions she had to live by. Here she was filled with air and light and excitement. The wind streamed through her as if she were flying. How she relished these secret early morning excursions. Dawn was the only time she could ride as fast and as wildly as she liked.
    Later that day she would probably ride in the park with Great Uncle Oswald and Faith and Grace. A decorous walk, or perhaps a trot, stopping every few moments to greet someone and exchange idle chitchat.
    She allowed the horse to run himself out of his fidgets, taking him in a great circle so as to remain in sight of James. She glanced back and smiled. James had snapped at the stableboy and as a result had been given the slowest of the hacks, a veritable slug. He huffed along in the distance.
    The park was still deserted. She could practice her moves. Gathering the horse, she began to put him through a series of actions. He jibbed a bit at first, but soon he was responding