“I am afraid I am the culprit, really, Mr. Bradstone,” said Bertie, pleasantly. “I rode over to ask after Bessie at the Lodge, and, being lucky enough to find Miss Vanley just starting for Wainford, I persuaded her to ride to Glenmaire. Her horse really wants a little more work.”
Bartley Bradstone bit his lip. After all his carefully laid plans, this young lordling had managed not only to balk him, but to snatch a tête-à-tête gallop with Olivia.
“I’m afraid you’ll be tired,” he said, ignoring Bertie’s explanation. “I should have thought you would have sent for the medicine.”
Bertie’s eyes opened widely, and he looked at Olivia to see how she would take this piece of impertinence; but her clear, calm gaze did not change in the slightest.
“Yes, I might have done so,” she said, quietly. “However, if you wish me to drive, I can change my habit in ten minutes.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t worth while,” he said; “don’t trouble.”
“Very well,” said Olivia, at once.
With an effort Bartley Bradstone cleared the sullen cloud from his brow, and forced himself to look more amiable.
“And how is the girl?” he asked. “I heard some cock-and-bull story of this accident. I always knew she’d have an accident with that brute of a pony. One of my men said that that fellow who has taken The Dell had a hand in it—startled the pony or something.”
Olivia did not offer to correct this amiable representation of the affair, and stood flicking her habit with her whip in silence; but the ready flush rose to Bertie’s face in a moment, and he said: