Free The Dreadful Debutante by M. C. Beaton

master and do not have my servants waiting up for me—the house servants, that is. I will need to rouse the head groom to saddle up for us.”
     
    London had changed back to an exciting and wonderful place in Mira’s eyes as they walked together through the rain-washed streets. The rain had ceased to fall, and a tiny moon, a hunter’s moon, was riding high above the jumbled chimney pots.
     
    When they reached his house in Grosvenor Square, he produced a door key, opened the door, and ushered her in. “You had best come upstairs with me,” he said. “I had a young nephew staying here, and he has left some of his clothes. I may be able to find something to fit you more suitable for riding than what you have on. Your clothes are still damp.”
     
    He was amused to sense that innocent Mira saw nothing odd about being unchaperoned in his home. He led her into a bedchamber, lit the lamps, and searched in a large press in the corner and then threw a riding outfit on the bed. “Change into that and meet me downstairs.”
     
    Mira changed into the clothes after stripping off and rubbing herself vigorously with a towel. She put on the clothes, which fitted her well, plaited her frizzy hair, and taking a bone pin from the pocket of the damp coat she had discarded, skewered the plait on top of her head and then put a curly brimmed beaver on top of it. She surveyed herself in the glass. She had tied a cravat in a simple style. She thought she looked the very picture of a young gentleman.
     
    When she went down to the hall, he was changed and waiting. “Good,” he said, looking her up and down.
     
    They walked round to the mews, where he roused the groom and asked for two horses to be saddled up.
     
    Soon they were riding together sedately out of Grosvenor Square. “Where to?” called Mira.
     
    “The parks are closed. We take the Great West Road again. Go easily on the gravel, and we will swing away across country after Knightsbridge. Look out for footpads.”
     
    After Knightsbridge they set out across the open fields. Then he called, “Now!” and they both spurred their horses.
     
    Mira felt the magnificent Arab he had lent her surge under her. Under the moon they rode with the wind whistling in their ears. Mira felt she could ride forever. London was in the distance, London with its peculiar society and its grim laws, London with heartless Charles.
     
    He finally slowed to a canter and then a trot, reining in finally on top of a rise. A pale dawn was spreading across the sky, and the first birds were beginning to twitter.
     
    “Better?” he asked.
     
    “Much better,” said Mira, leaning forward and patting the horse’s neck.
     
    “We had better return. Your servants will soon be awake.”
     
    As they rode easily back to London, he talked of his home in the country, of improvements to the land, and then said, “I may decide to return and forgo the rest of the Season.”
     
    “Wait a little longer,” said Mira. “I need your help a little longer.”
     
    He had dismounted. He reached up and lifted her down from the saddle. She was pressed against his chest. He suddenly felt a spurt of anger at her sheer indifference to his masculinity, and before he could stop himself, he kissed her full on the mouth. Sheer shock kept her still until he released her.
     
    “That is to teach you a lesson,” he said, standing back. “Be careful in future of treating men as friends. London can be a wicked place.”
     
    Mira backed away from him, her hand to her mouth. “So I have found out,” she whispered. She turned and ran away. He stood for a long moment, hearing the clatter of her feet on the cobbles, and then he shrugged and tried to put her out of his mind, tried not to tell himself that he had behaved cruelly and badly. He could still taste her lips, young and sweet and full. He swore under his breath and called loudly for his groom.
     
    Mira managed to gain the privacy of her room, unobserved. She