Her smile had nothing in it of buns, spectacles, or sensible shoes. Her smile was pure, lovely female benevolence, and it inspired Ethan to a reckless display of his best manners.
“I am asking, most politely, for the honor of my given name from you.”
Because she’d back down. He knew she’d back down, plead her diminished capacity, and otherwise let him call her bluff.
Her smile grew yet more brilliant. “When circumstances don’t require otherwise, I shall call you Ethan.”
He smiled back—let her have a taste of her own good manners rewarded—then made a bid to knock her off her governess pins by leaning over and brushing a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll stop by after lunch, and you had best be napping, or at least on the mend, or there will be unpleasant consequences.”
He finished with an admonitory scowl, thinking this scolding business was almost fun. No wonder Miss Portman—who was looking gratifyingly, no, marvelously nonplussed—seemed to enjoy it so much.
“Papa?” Jeremiah scrambled to his feet, dragging Joshua upright with him, their astonishment at seeing their father in the nursery suite plain on their faces.
“Good morning.” Ethan frowned down at them. “Gentlemen.” He added it as an afterthought, and it earned him a wary exchange of looks from his sons. “Miss Portman is not faring well today, so we are cast upon one another’s company. I am charged to get the both of you outside before it gets too hot, and then we will visit Miss Portman at midday. Now then…” Ethan’s sons were gazing at him with disconcerting stillness. “What had you planned for the day?”
Joshua shrugged his little shoulders. “Nothing.” He shot a puzzled look at his older brother. “Well, we didn’t.”
“Miss Portman said we’d have to see where we were,” Jeremiah offered hesitantly. “She said there should be time for a ride and would discuss it with you.”
“A ride might be just the thing.” He’d ridden with them before, though the last time was months ago, and it was by happenstance. Still, it was a good place to start.
And it went surprisingly well, the ponies having been kept in work by the grooms during the boys’ absence. Ethan rode Argus, who was too tired from his travels to provide his usual brand of entertainment, and the boys largely absorbed each other’s attention as they walked and trotted their mounts through the woods. They were all headed back to the barn at the walk, the heat building, when Joshua turned to his brother with a questioning look, though no inquiry had been voiced.
Jeremiah shook his head emphatically, which inspired Joshua to stick out his tongue then whack his pony one stout blow with his crop. The little beast shot forward, Jeremiah’s mount did the same, and Ethan and Argus were left to bring up the rear at a canter.
Shouting wasn’t going to help. Ponies were wily little things, and these two were both sane, sittable, and sure-footed. His sons were standing in their stirrups, clearly accustomed to a hearty gallop from time to time. When Joshua aimed his pony at a stile, though, Ethan felt his heart rise up in his throat.
“Joshua, no!” Ethan bellowed, but the pony had seen the objective and wasn’t to be pulled off his fence. At a dead run, the animal charged up to the fence and sailed over, Joshua grinning like a fiend on his back. Jeremiah cleared the same obstacle, but had the sense to shoot worried glances over his shoulder as Ethan popped the jump easily behind them.
Only when Joshua drew his pony up did he glance at his father. His grin evaporated as he recalled who their groom was that morning, though he patted his pony, who was rudely cropping grass after its exertions.
Ethan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Who taught you to jump like that?”
“Nobody taught us,” Jeremiah piped up, ever protective. “The ponies just know, and it’s shorter to get home if you hop the stiles. Shorter to get to the village too.”
“So you hop them frequently at a dead run?” They had ridden the jump like little jockeys, their form flawless and relaxed.
“We canter them,” Jeremiah said, his chin coming up. “Mostly.”
So they’d cantered them the first time, and gone screaming over forever after. Ethan did not know whether to be proud or horrified.
“I suppose we’ll have to get you proper hunting attire, then. Cubbing starts in September.”
He turned Argus without another word, feeling his sons staring agape at his back.
“We’re to ride to hounds?” Joshua’s tone suggested he could not believe such a thing.
“Cubbing.” Jeremiah said, nudging his pony forward. “It’s not quite the same, but it counts.”
“But, gentlemen,” Ethan called over his shoulder then stopped Argus and turned him to face the ponies. “Tearing off that way in company is considered the height of bad form, though I know between the two of you, it’s great fun to startle your brother’s horse. When we ride in company, though, there’ll be none of that, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Correct, sir.”
“And now we will walk our horses out, for they’ve exerted themselves mightily, but I see we’re on the wrong side of the fence, aren’t we?”
Joshua and Jeremiah were exchanging one of those puzzled, fraternal looks when Ethan surreptitiously nudged at Argus’s side with his spur, sending the gelding back toward the stile at a brisk trot. The ponies fell in behind without benefit of direction from their riders, and they cleared the same obstacle, one, two, three, at a more dignified pace but with the same excellent form.
When they gained the stable yard, the boys were grinning, and whacking their ponies with appreciative pats on the neck, and betting each other their ponies could clear anything old Argus could.
“Let’s not put it to the test,” Ethan interrupted them. “And if I ever learn you were foolish enough to attempt an obstacle without me or a groom to supervise, I will forbid you to ride for a considerable while, not that I think either of my sons would be so foolish.”
His sons surely would, but Miss Portman’s favorite gentlemen might not.
“Outside?” Joshua and Jeremiah grinned at each other. “Now?”
“I suggest you stop up in the playroom to mass your troops,” Mr. Grey said, sounding very stern indeed. “Get a shovel from the garden shed and ask Tolliver where you might find some shade and a patch of earth to memorialize British military heroism. You will be expected back upstairs, with clean hands and faces, by teatime.”
“That’s five bongs of the clock,” Joshua said. “Let’s go, Jeremiah.”
“And thus the Corsican monster meets his deserved fate,” Alice said from her place on the bed. The boys bounced away from her sides, leaving her in blessed quiet—and quite at sea—with their father.
Mr. Grey—or Ethan, since they were in private—lowered himself to sit on the bed at her hip. He was inspecting her, not in any way trespassing against propriety.
“Thus my sons are given an excuse to be loud, get muddy, and plague the gardener.”
“You would have made a tolerable governess, you know.” Alice smiled at him, even knowing he was assessing her complexion, her eyes, and any other aspect of her person that might provide insight. “Disguising mud as British military heroism is ingenious.”
“I suspect a fair amount of mud was involved at Waterloo, if the stories are true. You look better.”
“Which is not saying much.” Alice smoothed a hand over her quilt, not sure how to deal with an Ethan Grey who could outwit his sons and play nursemaid to a governess. “I was in wretched shape this morning, and you have my thanks for your kindness.”