The Inconvenient Duchess

years since she’d last ridden, and that had been a tethered pony.
    But St John warmed to the idea. ‘I’ve been meaning to try out my brother’s new hunter, and this is just the excuse. You can have your pick of the horseflesh, there’s sure to be something to suit you.’
    ‘St John,’ she began, ‘I don’t know that a ride would be possible. I did not bring a habit with me when I came from town.’
    He frowned, but only for a moment. ‘Certainly your maid can find something of my mother’s that will do until your own clothes arrive. Call her immediately and we will see.’
    ‘But, St John, I…’ and inspiration struck her ‘…I am afraid of horses.’ It was close enough to the truth.
    ‘Afraid?’ He stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘And you married my brother. Oh, dear. This will not do, Miranda. You must overcome this unfortunate problem before my brother reappears if the two of you are to manage at all. Marcus is quite the man for the sporting life. The thrill of the hunt is in his blood. He is never truly happy unless he’s haring around after one poor animal while on the back of another.’ St John frowned. ‘When he finds that he has married someone who does not share his interests…’ He shook his head. ‘He will be most put out.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But, fear not, little sister. I am here. And I can teach you. A few quiet rides through the country on the back of a gentle beast will be just the thing. When it is time to jump fences—’ He saw the alarm on her face. ‘Well, that may never be needed, so there is no point in worrying about it.’

    Polly was able to cobble together bits of the late dowager’s riding apparel to leave her suitably, although not fashionably covered. Miranda limped down the stairs in too-tight boots, cursing the need to force her unnaturally tall frame into the clothing of yet another petite woman. The dowager had been several inches shorter than she, with delicate feet and a trim figure. Once again, she was showing too much wrist and ankle, immobilised in a jacket that lacked room for her shoulders, but had plenty of space for the bosom that she did not possess.
    She met St John in the entry hall; if he found anything unusual in her appearance, he was too polite to say so. He led her to the stables, where he chose a docile mare and helped her up, before mounting the magnificent black stallion beside it.
    Horses were taller than she remembered. Certainly taller than they looked from the ground, where she wished she still was. She felt the horse twitch under her and forced the thought from her mind. If it realised that she wanted to be back on solid earth, it might decide to throw her and grant the wish without warning. She did not wish for the ground, she reminded herself. She wished to remain in the saddle.
    St John set off at a walk and her own horse followed his with a minimum of direction on her part. She relaxed a little. He was right; this was not so bad. She called on what little she could remember of her childhood rides and manoeuvred her horse to walk beside St John’s so they could converse.
    ‘See?’ he encouraged. ‘It is not so bad as all that, is it?’
    ‘No. Not so bad,’ she lied.
    ‘We will ride down the main road and into the farm land, towards that little copse of trees yonder—’ he pointed towards the horizon ‘—then back to the house. And you will find the fresh air and exercise will do you good.’
    He led her on and kept a running commentary on the local landscape. That farm held the oldest tenant. There lay the berry bushes that he and Marcus had raided as boys. That tree was the rumoured hanging spot of a notorious highwayman.
    As he did so he encouraged his horse to a trot, and she did likewise. Her seat was not good and she jolted on the horse, wishing that they could return to the walking pace.
    ‘You are managing quite well. I was sure it would onlytake a short while to bring you back up to snuff.’ His voice was full of encouragement.
    ‘St John, I am not sure—’
    ‘It is only a little further. We will stop to rest in the woods and then walk the horses home.’
    She gritted her teeth. If it was only a little further, she could manage. And, perhaps it was her imagination, but his pace seemed faster still, and her horse speeded up without encouragement to follow St John’s stallion. She glanced to the side, then quickly ahead to fight down the churning in her stomach. It was better to focus on the