Mr. Granville Moretyne was not above the average height, but the excellence of his figure and the perfection of his dress made him stand out from every other gentleman. Having from a young age taken the great Brummell for his model, he never indulged in the freaks of fancy with which other men frequently adorned themselves, and no one had ever seen his coat crumpled or his hair in disorder.
In spite of his fastidiousness in dress he was well known for a magnificent horseman, with a taste for half-wild, fractious beasts that miraculously became manageable under his expert hand—providing they remained under his hand. It was the expertise of his horsemanship which had caused the friction between him and Miss Thorne, herself an expert in the art, at their first meeting.
Miss Thorne had been mounted on her most recent acquisition, a flighty black hunter with a sensitive mouth, and was cantering through the Park under the escort of her brother, when she narrowly escaped a collision with a wild-eyed gray horse who came suddenly from a side path.
She knew herself to be innocent, and was ready to defend herself and her horse, when he had sunk himself in reproach by coolly looking her over and declaring that she would do very well when she had learned to manage her mounts. "For it is most unusual to meet a lady with so good a seat, and I have no doubt of your skill when you are not overmounted," he had drawled.
Hot words had followed, at least on her side, as the gentleman seemed inclined toward amusement at the situation, and he was only spared a pithy homily by the arrival of Mr. Harry Thorne on the scene. From that day forward Miss Thorne was resolute in her desire to avoid Mr. Moretyne, but much to her disgust he seemed to derive considerable delight from her repulsions.
Her brother persisted in naming Mr Moretyne as the best of good fellows who had condescended to take an interest in a young man enjoying his first trip to London. According to Mr Thorne, the gentleman's theology was good, his manners pleasing, and his opinion worth having, and nothing Eleanor said could turn him from this view.
Now, as she watched out of the corner of one eye Mr Moretyne's unhurried progress across the room, she reflected that he should be taught a salutary lesson. With an effort she arranged her face into a delighted smile.
"Miss Thorne, dare I hope that you will bestow your hand upon me for the first waltz?" Mr. Moretyne bowed with an ironic air, as though anticipating a verbal sparring match.
Miss Thorne inclined her head. "Indeed sir, mine will be the honour."
She had the satisfaction of seeing one of his black eyebrows twitch upward and his eyes widen for a moment before her hand was claimed by Mr. Elliot as the musicians struck up.
She had every intention of being a charming partner to Mr. Elliot, but her attention was distracted by the sight of Mr. Moretyne leading Miss Charing into the next set. Since rumour had it that the lady was betrothed to a notable Pink of the ton Miss Thorne told herself she was not jealous, but on the contrary glad to discover that the provoking Mr. Moretyne was willing to bestow his attentions on more than one lady at a time. It was exactly what she would expect from a spoiled darling of Society.
Consequently she finished the dance in an abstracted frame of mind, which continued until the subject of her thoughts arrived to claim his promised waltz. Miss Thorne had planned to simper and flutter her lashes, but found herself incapable of such foolishness and resorted to a brilliant smile.
Mr. Moretyne proved, in spite of his habitual languid air, to be an excellent waltzer, and while fully alive to his many faults Eleanor found no harm in admitting that she very much enjoyed the sensation of swirling about the ballroom.
Until he spoke, that is. "Allow me to compliment you on your skill. You dance even better than you ride."
She squelched the retort that sprang to her lips. "You are too kind, sir. I have had a great deal more practice on horseback, but I believe that you have a considerable reputation along those lines."
"It is nothing to boast of. I merely acquire animals that no one else is fool enough to buy."
As Harry had informed her that a credible source placed the price Mr. Moretyne had paid for his wild-eyed gray in the vicinity of three hundred guineas, beating numerous offers from other hopeful purchasers, she was inclined to consider this false modesty, and told him so.
"I perceive that, being such a notable horsewoman, you have your own opinions on what is an affordable sum. Tell me, Miss Thorne, did you ever see a horse that you considered it would be a crime not to buy?"
She thought he was laughing at her behind those clear gray eyes, and wondered why the dreamy smile she was at pains to keep fixed on her face was not giving him a disgust of her. "Only my black, but I confess I have a bargain. I gave fifty for him, and would gladly have paid twice that."
"Twice—three times!" Mr. Moretyne agreed. "I would gladly see him in my stables at any time, you know."
Eleanor's eyes twinkled. "But you are ungallant, sir! You consider me a fool!"
"No indeed! Where did you come by such a notion?"
Pleased to have set him off his balance, she gave a tiny toss of her head. "You said only a moment ago that you purchase horses that no one else is fool enough to buy. Either you know yourself ready to part with large sums for indifferent animals—which I cannot believe, if you have the good taste to admire my Spartan—or you think me a fool for owning a horse who tipped his previous owner into a river and ran wild for two days."
"Did he do so?" asked Mr. Moretyne, interested. "Well, I cannot blame you on that account. I once purchased a hunter who had kicked his master backwards into a thorn bush, not once but twice."
"What was the merit that attracted your attention?" Eleanor had to ask.
"Excellent shoulders and paces, and the fact that he never refused a fence. But he had terrible manners, and was by far too strong for any lady to hold." The sentence was accompanied by a provocative smirk, as though he was trying to goad her into retort.
She almost fell into the trap, but remembered in time the discomfort he was to suffer and schooled her features into an expression of admiration. "Oh dear, he does sound dangerous! But I am certain that you did not suffer the least difficulty with him."
"My dear Miss Thorne, that is a shocking fib," he returned, his voice changing in an instant to light teasing. "If you have the least knowledge of horses, you are fully aware that I endured innumerable indignities in his conquest."
Eleanor gave an involuntary chuckle at the thought, Mr. Moretyne's appearance being so perfect as to defy her imagination to picture him in a state of dishevelment.
"I am wounded to think that you find such delight in my abasement," he said with a mock-frown that almost overset her gravity.
"Oh no sir!" she hastened. "I assure you that I feel every sympathy with you, but it is just that you always look so much the gentleman that I find it impossible to imagine such a scene as you describe."
"I must count myself flattered," he said with a small bow as the dance ended, but to her disappointment he did not sound at all perturbed by her assumed admiration.
She noticed Harry with the Season's latest Beauty and was somewhat put out. As much as Eleanor valued Harriet's friendship and considered that she would make Harry an admirable wife, she could not think that the timid Miss Webster would appear to advantage beside the golden beauty of Miss Charis Merriville.
"I do hope that I am not the cause of that frown," Mr Moretyne's voice broke into her thoughts.
Eleanor swallowed her explanation and managed to simper, "How can you say so, sir? I am sure that your presence could never cause any frown but a jealous one."
"My dear ma'am, do you really think so?" She had been hoping that her bold speech would accomplish her purpose, but instead of looking disgusted he seemed much struck. "I am happy to think that I have accounted for your apparent hostility during our early acquaintance."
"Do not be absurd!" she snapped, her schemes forgotten in outrage at the suggestion. "You will excuse me, sir, I am promised to Lord Wansbeck for the next waltz!"
As thought her words had conjured him up, her next partner appeared to claim her hand and spare her from whatever reply Mr Moretyne was going to make.