Page 5 of Marrying Bluebeard

“Of Lord Harrison, of course. Are you even listening to me?” The exasperation in Julien’s voice pulls my attention away from crowd watching. He scrubs a hand over his face. “And would you please stop doing that? You look absurd.”

The wedge drives a little deeper.

I flex my hand, forcing it to keep moving as I fake an air of innocence. “Stop doing what?”

“Petting your imaginary cat,” he hisses, eyes darting toward the door as if afraid someone might be standing outside with their ear pressed to it. Heaven forbid anyone catch a whiff of his sister’s shameful secret.

I lift Whisper flush with my face and plant a kiss on her delicate, gray nose. It used to be pink once upon a time, but apparently ghosts aren't too keen on color. “You're not imaginary, are you darling?”

“Adelaide, please!” Julien's normally even temper snaps, and I feel a smidgen of remorse over my teasing. He really has been under a lot of stress lately. I release Whisper onto the bed and fold my hands behind my back, attempting to look contrite.

“Lord Harrison was a perfect gentleman,” I recite, forcing myself not to glance out the window in search of a particular blue beard. I try to come up with something else to say about the young man, but aside from his ridiculous flattery, I can't recall much about him.

“I'm glad to hear it.” Some of the tension eases from Julien’s posture. He holds out his arm, and I obediently place my hand in the crook of his elbow. “He's in excellent standing among the business class and has some truly envious connections. A good word from him would go a long way toward clearing the stain our father left on the company's reputation.”

My smile is paper thin as he leads me through the doorway, and if I drag a bit, can I really be blamed? My brother would have me marry simply to secure a good word for his business. Well, I have a few choice words for him if he thinks I'd trade my future away so easily.

Not bloody likely.

The outing Madame Gossard has arranged for the morning is a trip to the ruins of Prospect Abbey, where a picnic will be laid out upon our arrival. A line of carriages awaits, but to my surprise (and excitement), she's remembered my love of horses and arranged for me to ride along with a dozen or so of the others. I grin up at Julien, who looks torn as to whether he should consent to my riding or insist that I go in the carriages.

“There are other ladies riding.” I plead with my eyes for him not to make a fuss. “It'll be fine.”

“It's not the other ladies I'm worried about,” he grumbles.

“Oh, come on. I smiled and played nice over cards last night, didn't I? Let me have this, please.”

He frowns. “I don't know...”

“Aunt Charlotte will be offended if I snub her arrangements.” And then, in a last-ditch effort to secure his agreement, I add, “Lord Harrison is riding. Perhaps we'll get an opportunity to converse some more.” Anything to keep me out of those stuffy carriages.

Julien's gaze flicks to where Lord Harrison holds the reins of a sleek, brown bay, and I know I've won. “No racing.” He gives me a stern look. “Or jumping. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I hear you. Anything that seems like fun, don't do it.” I’m tempted to give him a mock salute but hold back for fear it'd earn me a place in the carriages. And it’s far too fine a day for that. He purses his lips, looking for all the world as if he’s about to launch into another lecture, but something over my shoulder draws his attention.

“Who is that talking to Marguerite?”

I turn, seeking out my sister and raise my brows in surprise when I spy the tall, blue-bearded gentleman conversing with her. “I believe that's Monsieur de Montragoux. Did you not meet him last night during cards?”

“I spent most of the evening in the billiards room with Lord Hefnor talking business.” His eyes narrow as he watches my sister's mouth pull into a rare smile upon something the man says. I feel a twinge of regret that I can’t hear what they’re saying. “I don't care for that beard,” he adds. “It's positively licentious.”

“Licentious?” I laugh. “What could possibly be licentious about facial hair?”

“It's unnatural for a beard to be that blue.” Julien’s eyes dart about as he lowers his voice to a hushed whisper. “Any man who would dye it as such is obviously perverse and certainly no gentleman. I can only imagine Aunt Charlotte was unaware of it when she invited him here.”

I roll my eyes but refrain from commenting. I learned long ago that arguing with Julien is a waste of breath. Best to simply ignore him. Together we watch Monsieur de Montragoux help Marguerite into one of the waiting carriages. Julien sighs with relief when he doesn’t follow her in but rather heads to where those riding horseback are gathered.

“Well,” Julien huffs. “Let's hope that's the end of that. The last thing we need is another scandal, and mark my words—that man is a scandal waiting to happen. Now come, I see Lord Harrison has secured a mount for you. Let's not keep him waiting.”

“How do you know it's for me?” I turn to look in the direction he’s gesturing. The answer is clear, however, the moment I spy him, his eager eyes locked on me as he walks toward us, a set of reins in each hand. He bows to my brother, who gives him an approving smile before spiriting away, leaving the two of us alone.

“You're as lovely as ever this morning, Miss Brindamour,” Miles states.

“And you’re as full of flattery.” I nod toward the horses. “Is one of those for me?”

“Ah yes. Madame Gossard said you were quite the horsewoman, so I made sure to secure a match worthy of your skill.” He holds out the reins to a beautiful, brown thoroughbred. “Sir Lancelot, at your service.”

“A knight are you?” I take the reins and rub the horse’s nose as he sniffs my hand. “You’re certainly dashing enough.” Lord Harrison cups his hands, and I place the tip of my boot in them as I swing up and onto Lancelot’s back. Julien will be furious, but I simply can’t abide riding sidesaddle. My skirts are long enough that only a glimpse of ankle peeks out, and anyway, it’s not as if we’re in town. Summer house parties are nothing if not casual.