Page 5 of Miss Flibbertigibbet and the Barbarian
In unison, they stopped breathing again.
A footman appeared in the doorway, proffering a ball of string. Nicholas glanced at the man and, ruthlessly smothering the unmistakable flare of desire and steadfastly ignoring the more rapid beat of his heart, took the string and proceeded to show the children how to tie the twine in front of the fletching of each arrow. Once all the arrows had strings attached, he stood back and allowed the boys to try their hand at puncturing the balloons.
The older lad managed to nick one enough to have it deflate. It was a minor victory and, it seemed, not one that was going to be repeated.
Nicholas waited patiently until both boys had grown weary of shooting and missing, then asked if he could try his hand and was promptly handed a bow.
He made short work of the remaining four clusters of balloons, much to the children’s relief. They glanced at the lady, then gathered up the debris and looked hopefully her way.
She nodded in absolution. “You should tender your heartfelt thanks to Mr.…?” She glanced inquiringly at Nicholas.
He met her gaze, then smiled at the children. “Cynster.” He held out a hand. “Mr. Nicholas Cynster.”
* * *
While her siblings eagerly shook Nicholas Cynster’s hand and sincerely thanked him for his assistance, Addie seized the moment to rein in her whirling wits, reclaim her senses, and regain her breath, all lost during that charged moment when she’d all but fallen into the distracting man’s rich-brown eyes.
And then she had to quell the panic sparked by hearing his name, especially uttered in that deep, dark voice that did very strange things to her insides.
But he was a Cynster, for heaven’s sake! Admittedly not one she’d met before, yet even so, she knew the family well enough to know how much of a threat he posed.
“Miss Sommerville?”
She blinked to attention and found him studying her face. The children were scanning the gravel, picking up the last pieces of their wrecked experiment. The trio appeared reconciled to the failure of their grand plan, and she knew she owed their relative equanimity to the way he’d handled the past minutes.
But his question—his guess—confirmed that he wasn’t sure who she was…
It was tempting to sound sweet and flighty, to cloak herself in her social persona and shamelessly use it to drive him off, but with the children still there and having spoken as she had to them and him… And she owed him, enough at least to hear why he’d come.
Regretfully setting aside her customary shield, she tipped up her chin and coolly confirmed, “Lady Adriana.”
He half bowed. “I’m here to see the earl.”
No matter how much in charity with him she ought to feel, that was something she wouldn’t allow. Calmly, she responded, “Is my father expecting you?” She knew he wasn’t.
Nicholas Cynster frowned slightly. “Given the subject of my inquiry, I didn’t feel it necessary to write for an appointment.”
No, he wouldn’t, not least because he was a Cynster. “And the subject of your inquiry is…?”
“I—my family—have an interest in a horse that I understand is presently gracing your father’s stable. The Barbarian.”
The children had cleared the gravel and, burdened with the detritus of their experiment, glanced at her. She arched a brow at them, and they dutifully thanked Cynster again and made their farewells, to which he responded in a way that underscored that he was accustomed to dealing with youngsters. When the trio again looked to her, she nodded in dismissal, and they trooped up the steps and into the house, leaving her to deal with their wholly unexpected guest. Merriweather hovered in the doorway, ready to respond to any instruction.
Nicholas Cynster had returned his gaze to her face. “In short,” he continued, “assuming The Barbarian is, indeed, a horse your father owns, the Cynster Stable would like to discuss purchasing the stallion.”
She searched his expression, wondering… “Why?”
Somewhat to her surprise, he willingly elucidated, explaining his family’s wish to add the horse to their stud at Newmarket, which was attached to their famous racing stable that, apparently, he oversaw. He was open and direct and even hinted at how valuable the horse might be.
While she’d enjoyed riding The Barbarian over the months the horse had been at Aisby Grange, given the condition of the estate’s accounts, she couldn’t overlook such an unexpected source of additional funds, much less dismiss Cynster’s offer out of hand.
Yet she’d already seen enough of Nicholas Cynster to know that he was both shrewd and observant—witness the way he’d handled her sometimes difficult siblings. And being a Cynster, he would have all the connections one might expect of a member of that family, which was to say more than enough for him, inadvertently or otherwise, to pose a very real risk to her family’s ongoing and exceedingly necessary subterfuge.
All in all, shielding her father from exposure was more important than gaining further funds.
Having reached the end of his explanation, he’d fallen silent, waiting for her response. She forced herself to meet his unrelentingly intent brown gaze and haughtily state, “Regardless, Mr. Cynster, I fear The Barbarian is not for sale.”
Of course, he didn’t accept that; she hadn’t expected he would.
