Free His Lordship's Filly by Nina Coombs Pykare Page B

nightdress hit the floor—and said to never mind, he was sure they’d deal quite well together. And then he’d shown her how they would deal.
    Their lovemaking was much better, actually, than the way the horses did it. Not nearly as quick or as violent. And for the first time in her life she felt sorry for a horse—who couldn’t possibly know those wonderful, golden, shimmering waves of warmth that spread over her entire body.
    Finally she pushed back the silken covers. It was late to be lying abed—late for her, anyway. There were things she meant to do today: to speak to Ned about caring for Waterloo, to go for her long-awaited ride on the stallion, to send Peggy for yard-good samples so they could begin to think about redecorating the room. And she hoped that she and Andrew could ride out to see Papa to tell him the stables were safe. And he, too.
    She washed and dressed, not even thinking till she was almost finished that she should have rung the bell for Peggy. Well, time enough to start being a lady tomorrow. She ran the brush through her hair and went downstairs.
    The breakfast room was empty except for the patiently waiting footman. “His Lordship?” she asked. “Has he gone out?”
    The footman nodded. “Yes, my Lady, but I heard him tell Mr. Purvey he’d be back directly.”
    “Thank you.” Bridget picked up a plate and surveyed the sideboard. She really must ask Andrew the reason for so much food.
    * * * *
    At that moment Andrew was outside White’s, engaged in conversation with Peter, who had run into him as they approached the club’s sacred precincts. “My word,” Peter exclaimed, showing his teeth in a devilish grin. “If it isn’t the man all London’s talking about! Shall we go in and have a glass together?”
    “Yes,” Andrew said. “From the sound of things, I shall need it.”
    Peter’s grin grew even bigger. “You mean you aren’t finding married life to your liking?”
    Thinking of last night, Andrew experienced a surge of warmth. “Married life is—so far at least—quite to my liking. This is something else.”
    “How do you suppose the news got about so quickly?” Peter asked as they found a table. “Why, six or eight people must have informed me already this morning.”
    Andrew dropped into a chair, glowering. “It’s those abominable Lindens! Too bad they can’t be shrunk and put on display at Farrington’s Folly like Lady Elizabeth’s shrunken heads.”
    “A charming idea,” Peter agreed, summoning a waiter. “But one I’m afraid will never achieve the Lindens’ assent. Besides, can you imagine the monumental task of shrinking Lady Linden?” He paused to order, remaining silent till the waiter left. Then he said, “I take it you ran into the messengers of scandal sometime yesterday.”
    Andrew nodded. “Yes, I did. On Bond Street. And that miserable slip of a daughter shrilled out that Bridget was Durabian’s daughter. All heads turned, you can believe, to see what all the yapping was about.”
    Peter shrugged. “I don’t see how you could expect to keep it a secret. Either your marriage or Bridget’s parentage.” He grinned. “I mean, Bridget’s no ordinary wife. She won’t be a sit-at-home.”
    “Don’t I know it,” Andrew agreed with a half groan. “But how can I take her out in company? Why, yesterday she was outraged to find that we use different spoons for the soup, said it was a waste.”
    He found himself growing red and lowered his voice. “And do you know what else she told me?”
    Peter looked agreeably curious. “No, what?”
    Andrew leaned closer. “That she couldn’t understand why wealthy people are so foolish.”
    Peter grinned. “We are, I suppose, at least to her, but did she mention specifics?”
    Andrew nodded. “Oh, yes, she said it was a waste for married people to sleep apart—a waste of space, of beds, and of—” He paused, unaccountably embarrassed. “And of warm bodies.”
    Peter’s guffaw echoed through the