Hart kept a straight face. He had no intention of encouraging Bullstrode, of course—he was a bully and a braggart and Hart would rather shoot the man than have him as a stepfather—but if the threat kept his mother from her eternal meddling, it was worth it.

He returned to his correspondence. He had a man of affairs, but not a private secretary. Some things he preferred to do himself. He administered a number of estates, his own and three for which he had recently become a trustee. These last three, which had belonged to a late cousin, took up most of his time; Arthur Wooldridge had not only left his young son and heir to Hart’s wardship, he’d left his affairs in a mess and his estate in debt.

Fortunately, Hart enjoyed a challenge.

*   *   *

Two hours later he received an answer to his note.

My horse is not for sale, to you or anyone.

G. Rutherford.

Chapter Four

I have not the pleasure of understanding you.

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

The last thing George had expected to enjoy when she’d first been thrust into the life of the ton was the opera. But to everyone’s surprise—including hers—she did. The first time, she’d attended it reluctantly with Rose and Aunt Agatha, knowing it was just some excuse for Aunt Agatha to introduce Rose to the duke.

Except he hadn’t turned up.

For Aunt Agatha the evening had been a waste of time; for George, it had been a revelation. The music, the drama, the story, the costumes—she’d been entranced.

She’d always liked music, always enjoyed a song or two, but she’d had no musical education. According to Martha, Mama had a very sweet voice—she’d played the pianoforte and sung—but she’d died when George was a baby. The music in church was always her favorite part of Sundays, and she’d loved to listen to the villagers playing their fiddles and other instruments whenever there was a wedding or some other celebration. Several times she’d even sneaked into the grounds of some of the grander local houses and eavesdropped on their balls and parties.

But opera was something else again. She couldn’t understand most of the words—she spoke no Italian or German; no other language except English, in fact—but Emm, who knew about opera, usually told her the story before she went, so she could follow along. Often the story seemed a bit silly, and the characters a little on the ridiculous side, but then a voice would begin to soar and she would be transported out of the theater, away from London, into a realm she’d never known existed.