Page 61 of Thief of the Ton
She colored and looked away. “We cannot afford the livery.”
“Surely Lord Yates—”
“Cousin Charles would have paid had Papa asked,” she said, “but Papa dislikes taking charity. He’s determined to restore our fortunes without relying on handouts.” Her expression hardened. “Papa never wishes to be beholden to another—or rely on another—again.”
“Then you must ride Poseidon while you’re here,” Peregrine said. “I’m sure Lady Hythe’s head groom would find a suitable saddle, and Lady Hythe might lend you a habit.”
“Nowwho’s offering charity?”
“It’s not charity when it’s an offer from a friend.”
“I barely know you, Lord Marlow.”
“But we played as children, did we not, little Guinevere?”
“Children grow up,” she said. “Look at you—I can recall you trotting about on a little gray pony. Now you have a stallion who must be sixteen hands, if not more.”
Peregrine closed his eyes at the memory of Sir Lancelot—the pony who’d been his constant companion as a child, until…
“What happened to him?” she asked. “Lancelot, wasn’t it?”
“I shot him.”
Her eyes widened. “You—what?”
“About a year after you and your father disappeared,” he said, swallowing the pain of the memory. “I was teaching him how to jump. He fell at a fence and broke his leg.”
“You rode him too hard.”
He turned away at the accusation in her voice. “You cannot admonish me any more than I admonished myself,” he said. “When Father found out, I expected a thrashing, but he had a worse punishment in store.”
“What could be worse than a thrashing—unless he cut your allowance, of course?”
He couldn’t mistake the sneer in her tone. “He made me shoot him.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “He didwhat?”
“He fetched his pistol, then dragged me back to where Lancelot lay in the field and ordered me to shoot him.”
“Couldn’t you refuse?”
He shook his head. “The poor creature was in pain—the noises he made haunted my dreams for months afterward. Father gave orders that none should shoot him but me, and if I was too cowardly to do the deed, then he’d thrash me, confine me to my chamber, and let Lancelot die in his own time.” He let out a sigh. “I could already see crows circling ahead, ready to pick at him in his final hours. So, to end his suffering, I did as my Father ordered, and shot him between the eyes. I would have taken ten beatings if Lancelot could have lived.”
He closed his eyes, trying to dispel the memory of his beloved pony’s eye staring into his own at the final moments, while the spark of life flickered and died.
A hand took his, and he opened his eyes to see her soft hazel gaze filled with compassion.
“You did the right thing,” she said.
“It’s my fault he was lamed.”
“Accidents happen.”
“I was twelve—old enough to know better.”
“Twelve!” She shook her head. “You were still a child.” She lifted her free hand and placed it on his cheek, and his heart fluttered at the feel of her skin on his. “Lancelot would have been grateful. You eased his suffering.”
He caught her hand, and her eyes widened. Then he lowered his gaze to her lips. Would they taste as sweet as they looked? He only need dip his head a fraction, and he could claim them…
