Matthew by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Grace Burrowes Publishing
Published: 2015-09-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

“Might I say, Miss Jennings, that you make a very fetching addition to the gathering? Very fetching, indeed. That shade of blue becomes your charms most agreeably.”

The weather was too crisp for flies to be a bother, but Emmanuel Capshaw annoyed Theresa more than any winged pest could have. She’d let Matthew talk her into joining the hunt party, and for the first two runs, she’d enjoyed herself tremendously. Then Mr. Capshaw had appeared at her side, and the day had deteriorated apace.

“Thank you, Mr. Capshaw, but I’ve borrowed this ensemble from the baroness. I’ll pass along your compliments to her.”

Would that Loris was on hand to deflect Mr. Capshaw’s attention.

He offered Theresa an exaggerated wink and a wiggle of his eyebrows. “I daresay, she would not do the habit half as much credit.”

Matthew was serving as master of fox hounds and had thus remained ahead of the first flight, managing the pack and directing the hunt staff. Theresa had enjoyed the company of the other ladies and the older squires in the second flight, where socializing often took precedence over sport.

“Miss Jennings, may I ride in with you and Mr. Capshaw?” Beckman Haddonfield asked from the back of a lovely bay gelding.

“Of course,” Theresa said, and thank the angels, Beckman’s presence put a stop to Mr. Capshaw’s most effusive overtures.

Emmanuel Capshaw was at that point in life where he’d not accepted that his youthful good looks—along with a quantity of his graying brown hair—had departed. The flesh beneath his eyes tended to pouches. The last button of his hunt coat strained against a slight belly, his equestrian skills were somewhat wanting, and despite having undergone no significant exertion in the last fifteen minutes, his complexion was ruddy.

Perhaps the frequency with which he drank from his hunting flask had something to do with his heightened color.

“Haddonfield, good day,” Mr. Capshaw said. “A pity the sport wasn’t more exciting this morning, wouldn’t you agree?”

“If you rode with us more often,” Beckman replied, “you’d find not a member of this hunt is truly interested in ending Reynard’s existence, Mr. Capshaw. We’ve gone multiple seasons without a kill, and yet, half the shire shows up to the meets when the weather’s fair. A good gallop after a pack in full cry, a good gossip over the hunt breakfast, and we’re happy.”

“Damned odd, if you ask me,” Capshaw retorted. “If I were master here, the chickens would be much safer, I can tell you that.”

“We build sturdy coops,” Beckman said, “and stout fences. That seems to work quite well. Miss Jennings, did you enjoy yourself?”

“Very much.” At least until Mr. Capshaw had attached himself to her side. “I’d forgotten what tearing across the fields and leaping the ditches can do for one’s spirits, particularly with a solid fellow like Evan under saddle.”

The gelding enjoyed hunting, as some horses did. On the lanes, he plodded. Aim him across an open field or show him an obstacle, and he became a different fellow altogether.

“Mr. Belmont is a first-rate master,” Beckman said.

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