She’d thought this engagement would ruin Gifford’s life. But for the first time (in, perhaps, ever), she’d been wrong: the engagement to Lord Gifford Dudley would ruin her life.
Unless she put a stop to it.
Jane straightened her spine. She was not going to marry Gifford Dudley. (And what kind of name was Gifford Dudley, anyway? Honestly!) Not Saturday. Not ever.
THREE
Gifford (call him G!)
The worst part about waking up when the sun went down was the distinct grassy taste of hay in his mouth, an unfortunate side effect of actually having hay in his mouth. But the affliction of unwanted-hay-in-the-mouth-itis (or “hay-mouth” as his mother referred to it, like someone else would refer to morning breath) was not to be avoided when one ended each day as an undomesticated horse and began each night as an undomesticated man.
Almost man, his mother would say. At nineteen years of age, he was almost a man. Definitely undomesticated.
As he pushed himself into a crouching position, and then into a standing position, G (please call him G, and avoid referring to him by his terrible given name, Gifford Dudley, the second—and therefore insignificant—son of Lord John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland) stretched out his haunches, which were now hips.
He reflected on this morning’s jaunt across the countryside. He’d gone northwest this time, running at a flat-out canter over green hills and lush forests for hours before he had to search for water. There was nothing, he imagined, that could compete with the feeling of a life without boundaries or borders, and the wind running through his hair. Mane.
He hadn’t asked for this power. (If he had, he definitely would’ve requested the ability to control it as well, even though it would be rather missing the point for a curse to come with an on/off switch.) Still, there was an upside to it. He belonged to no one. (Who would want a half horse/half man?) He could pick a spot on a map and then go there the next time the sun was up. (Provided his horse brain remembered the way. G would argue that horses were not known for their sense of direction, instead of the likelihood that he—even as a man—could get lost in his own closet.) Best of all, he had no human-ish responsibilities.
After the freedom he enjoyed during his days, nightfall was usually a bit of a letdown. G searched out the pail of water his servant always left for him in the corner, and once he spotted it he galloped over (in a human way, but probably resembling a horse more than any other human could) and ladled a cupful of water into his mouth.
The transformation always left him dehydrated, and tonight he needed his wits about him. Due to an entirely nighttime existence, there were only so many activities in which the human G could participate. With the casual, often brash way G spoke, and his general rambunctious demeanor, it was easy for his parents to assume he spent his human hours in the boudoirs of questionable ladies or getting tipsy in brothels. Lady Dudley was often overheard lamenting, “That boy and his dalliances . . . What are we to do?”
G let them believe that; in fact, he often boasted of his conquests with different ladies in order to play along. If they thought he was something of a Casanova (although they of course couldn’t equate him to the literal Casanova, who wouldn’t be born for another two hundred years), it left G the freedom to do as he pleased. Besides, the truth of how he spent his nights was far more humiliating. He would rather his parents believed he was carousing with the ladies.
A sharp knock sounded on the stable door.
“My lord?” Billingsly called from the other side.
“Yes,” G said, trying to shake the whinny out of his voice like someone else would clear his throat in the morning.
“Your trousers.”
The stable door opened just wide enough for an arm covered in the blue of the steward uniform to extend through, holding a pair of trousers.
“Thank you, Billingsly.” G took the pants and stepped into them as Billingsly set the rest of his clothes on a wooden table so the hay wouldn’t besmirch the young lord’s ensemble.
“And, my lord, your father would like a word with you when you are appropriately attired.”
“My father?” G said, alarmed. “He’s returned to the castle?”
“Yes, my lord,” Billingsly said.
G fastened the buttons on the front of his jacket and pulled on his tall leather boots. “Please tell my father I am otherwise occupied. I have . . . plans.”
Billingsly cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, my lord, your father was rather insistent. You’ll have to reschedule your . . . um . . . po—”
“Billingsly!” G cut off his servant as the heat rose in his cheeks. “I thought we had an agreement that we would never mention the . . . thing . . . outside of . . . the place.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. But I couldn’t recall your requested code word for it.”
G closed his eyes and sighed. Billingsly had only recently discovered the true nature of G’s secret night outings and had been convinced (cough, bribed) not to tell G’s parents. “Dalliances, Billingsly. My dalliances.”
“Right, my lord. Your dalliances will have to wait, because your mother requests your company as well. She is with your father in the drawing room.”
His father and his mother both here at the estate, in the same room, and summoning him? This sounded rather serious. Yes, his father occasionally requested G’s company to discuss his future, his equestrian curse, his inheritance (or lack thereof, considering he was the second son), his desire for more comfortable hoof-wear and a blacksmith who could keep his mouth shut. But his mother rarely participated in these discussions. She was more at ease in a nurturing role, like giving him sartorial advice or fixing his hair (or mane, depending on the position of the sun in the sky).
G looked at Billingsly. “It’s not Christmas, is it?”
“It’s May, my lord.”
“Somebody’s birthday?”
“No, my lord.”
“Somebody died?” For a moment, he let himself believe it might have been his perfect older brother, Stan, who had died, leaving behind his perfect wife and their perfect son, but then he realized Stan never made mistakes, and leaving behind a family due to an untimely death would most certainly be considered bad form. In addition, then G would be responsible for marrying and heiring. He shuddered at the thought.
“Not that I am aware of, my lord,” answered Billingsly.
G pressed his noble lips together and blew, a sound that was all horse.
“Shall I translate that to mean you are in compliance?”
G closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“Very good, my lord.”
What G wouldn’t give at this moment to be able to change into a horse at will. Then he could put fifty miles between himself and his father’s nose. (He would probably need forty-nine of those miles just to get out from under the sniffer.)
Twilight transformed into deep dusk as G made the trek up from the stables to the side door of the apartments. His mind was galloping at breakneck speed wondering what his parents wanted to speak to him about.
From the time he was old enough to sit at the supper table, he’d been aware of his inferior position in the family. Stan always got served before G—the main course and all the side dishes. When their father introduced the two of them, it was always, “This is Stan, the next Duke of Northumberland, heir to the Dudley fortune.” Long pause. “Oh, and this is my other son, Stan’s brother.”