“Well, I might as well go downstairs,” Harriet said. She had her hair tied back, but no powder.
“Your hat!” Lucille said. She opened the wardrobe and then hesitated. “I’m sure he said the bicorne for horseback. Or perhaps a round hat.”
The round hat had a brim that stuck out all around, and a little cockade on the side. Harriet thought it looked stupid, but she grabbed it and jammed it down on her head. “I have to go or Strange will come up and find you here.”
“I can’t believe he walked straight into your bedchamber,” Lucille muttered. “You’re that fortunate he didn’t know it on the instant.”
“People see what they expect to see,” Harriet said, reassuring herself as much as Lucille.
“It’s perishing cold outside. Just look at the frost flowers on the windows. Here, I’ll put another cravat over that black one. No one will know the difference, and at least it will keep your neck warm.”
Harriet had to make a conscious effort to pick up her feet since her boots thumped so loudly on the wooden stairs that she felt as if she were waking the whole house. Given that she had stolen off to her room around eleven in the evening, when most of the party appeared to be just starting to enjoy themselves, she would feel truly guilty to wake them.
Strange was at the bottom of the stairs. In the morning light his hair gleamed the color of dark mahogany. She was overcome by a giddy sense of exactly how much fun she was having.
He glanced up and said, “I might as well have been waiting for a woman to dress, Cope.”
“Good morning to you too, my lord,” she said. The butler was waiting with their coats. When she had struggled into her great coat (Villiers’s tailor had padded her shoulders so that she looked more manly), Strange eyed her from head to foot.
“You don’t look warm enough,” he said brusquely. “And you’re as pale as Villiers. We’ll work up a sweat soon enough.”
Harriet smiled rather weakly and strode through the door. Outdoors the air was as cold as liquid ice, catching the back of her throat and emerging from her mouth in great puffs of steam.
Groomsmen were holding the reins of stamping horses. Strange’s mount threw up his head in greeting. Strange said over his shoulder, “Don’t get your nose out of joint, youngster. I gave you a filly, rather than a gelding, but that’s not meant as a comment on your horsemanship. She’s got a beautiful stride.”
A lad with a shock of white-blond hair and freckles on his nose was holding Harriet’s horse. Harriet walked over and held out her hand so the filly could blow warm air into her palm. Then she pulled on her gloves.
“Let’s go,” Strange snapped.
He must be irritable by nature, Harriet decided. She checked the belly strap of the horse as she watched Strange swing into the saddle. She’d seen countless men mount horses, but she never expected to ride astride herself.
Finally Harriet put her left boot into the stirrup and flung herself into the air.
Plop! She landed on the saddle and gathered the reins as if she expected to find herself there.
Strange started down the driveway without looking back, so Harriet signaled to the boy to let her horse go. He stepped aside but then said in a low voice, “If you’ll excuse the presumption, sir, grip with your knees.”
Harriet nodded in a dignified sort of way, and let her horse start picking her way down the icy path. The sun was up, and Strange was right about the light. At this hour it had a peculiar, dancing clarity that edged every blade of glass with silver. Ice crackled under her mount’s feet, and hung in great dripping rows from the fence beside the road.