The skirts were long with a train, to cover her legs as she rode sidesaddle, and there was a loop inside that she could grasp to hold them up as she walked.
“You do know how to sit on a horse?” Francesca asked. “I forgot to ask you before I ordered the habit.”
“I don’t. My mother said it gives gentlemen licentious ideas.”
“Exactly!” Marta cried.
“You should practice in the habit,” Francesca said. “We wouldn’t want you falling off your horse.”
“I’ll lend you my curricle,” Roslyn said. “I think that will be easier than teaching you how to ride.”
“Let’s rehearse what you’ll do when you approach Lord Dane,” Roslyn said. “I think you should be holding a cheroot. It will give you an air of daring and sophistication.”
“And you should wear my heeled red leather half boots,” Francesca said. “They’ll look perfect with the habit.”
Marta sighed happily. “He doesn’t stand a chance!”
Dane was oiling the fittings on his curricle in the yard when a commotion sounded nearby.
“Women,” shouted Somersby, running toward him. “Women at the gate!”
Dane and Kenwick exchanged amused glances.
“Well, go and see what they want,” Dane said.
“They want to join the Thunderbolt Club.”
“I did say we’d allow ladies if they possessed suitable equipages and were excellent horsewomen,” said Dane.
“Come and judge for yourself,” Dudley said with a wide grin.
Dane and Kenwick followed Dudley and Somersby into the club.
“Roslyn, what are you doing here?” Kenwick asked. “It’s gents only.”
“I don’t see any gentlemen, do you? I see rakes, rogues, and rapscallions.”
“Who are you calling a rapscallion?” Somersby wanted to know.
“You’re right. You’re more of a reptile, Somersby.”
Dudley guffawed.
“Roslyn, you have to leave. That’s an order from your future husband.”
“I don’t take orders. You should know that by now. And I brought reinforcements.” She pulled several bottles of brandy out of her cloak. “And pretty women. Come in, ladies.”
Francesca and Marta waltzed into the room followed by... followed by a vision in tight black leather.
“Sandrine?” Dane’s jaw dropped. The black riding habit she wore lovingly hugged her curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her hair was a halo of sunshiny curls.
“That’s my name,” she said in a husky, seductive voice. She threw down the cheroot she held and ground it under heeled red leather boots.
Chills chased up and down Dane’s spine. He dropped to both knees before her, filled with an uncontrollable urge to grovel. “Marry me, Sandrine.”
“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“Miss Sandrine Oliver, I don’t deserve you, but I’ll die if you don’t marry me.”