“What nonsense!” His mother dismissed his words. “It is the future duchess that you have chosen! And you have made a terrible choice. A nobody, from some wretched provincial backwater. When you could have had a celebrated debutante from London’s highest circles! I...”
“Stop.Please,” Callum shouted. He tensed. He hated raising his voice. His father had raised his voice, sometimes, and Callum had sworn to himself that he would not be that kind of man. He wanted to control himself. But his mother pushed him beyond all reason.
“I will take luncheon, then,” his mother said in a small, tight voice, her blue eyes widening with shock. She looked down at the floor, apparently wounded by his anger. “You seem indisposed to company.” She turned and went through the door.
Callum sat down, exhausted, at his desk. All his energy had drained out of him.
“Heavens help me,” he said silently, a prayer for divine guidance. He had struggled with his beliefs after his father's passing, but if he had ever needed help, it was with his current decisions. He had never once met Miss Rothwell, and he could not care less what she looked like, what her character was like, or whether her family were acceptable. He had long ago decided that he was never going to trust anyone outside his family with any kind of affection.
“I do not care about anything else. I just need those horses,” he whispered.
He looked up as someone tapped on the door. He drew a breath, about to shout at whoever it was, but someone spoke through the wood.
“Callum? Brother? Are you here?”
“Harriet,” Callum called, going towards the door. “Come in. Do,” he added. Harriet opened the door and slipped in. Her clover-honey hair tumbled around her shoulders; her blue eyes wide. Her face was slim, like his, but she had their mother’s shorter, smaller nose instead of his long, thin one and a neat, pointed chin. She frowned.
“Callum. Are you quite well?” she asked softly.
Callum sighed. “I think you heard that our mother was just in here,” he said carefully. He did not want to lay all his worries on Harriet’s slight shoulders. At twenty, she should be enjoying her life, revelling in being newly out in society. Callum had never had the time to enjoy his youth—at eighteen, he had become the duke, and all the responsibilities of the household had settled on his shoulders.
“Was she terribly horrid?” Harriet asked, her nose wrinkling.
Callum smiled. “You know Mother. A navy captain would have a hard time bossing her about.” He could talk openly with his sister like that, with no fear of any misunderstanding. She loved their mother, as he did; and she understood full well that she could be difficult sometimes.
She nodded. “Even a big navy captain. Like Uncle Gerald.”
Callum chuckled. “Yes. Even he would think twice before making any kind of argument with Mother.” Their uncle was a commodore in the navy, and even he tended to avoid any direct conflict with the formidable Duchess of Stallenwood.
Harriet laughed. She went to the door and Callum thought that perhaps he had avoided laying any worries on her, but at the door, she frowned up at him.
“Are you uneasy about tomorrow?” she asked him.
Callum sighed. “Not particularly, no,” he answered softly. In truth, he was worried, but he was not about to tell his sister that fact. The next day, he was departing on a week-long ride to Sussex, to meet with the viscount, and to make the acquaintance of Miss Rothwell.
“Oh, good,” his sister said with a smile. “I cannot wait to meet her.”
“Mm.” Callum smiled at her, though his thoughts were elsewhere. “That’s good, sister,” he said gently. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to attend to these wretched books.”
“Of course, brother,” Harriet said with a grin. “But do eat something. It’s cold today.”
Callum smiled fondly at Harriet as she went to the door. “I will,” he promised her. She grinned at him—a breathtaking, dazzling grin—and then went out into the hallway.
Callum sighed and sat down at his desk. His heart was heavy. He was going to make a commitment the next day, and he had still not really obtained his mother’s blessing. She was fighting him, and the last thing he needed was fights.
I wonder what she looks like,he thought idly, recalling Harriet’s excitement to see her. He pushed the thought away. It did not matter to him, as he had told his mother. The horses and the future of the Stallenwood stables were all that mattered. He ran his gaze across the line of entries in the breeding book, focusing on the task at hand so that he could be ready to speak to the viscount when he finally met with him at his home after a week of riding.
Chapter 2
“Papa! Look here! This wound healed up so nicely,” Rosalyn said to her father, who was talking to the stable master, Mr Hansley, at the entrance to the stables. The scent of hay and horses was strong in Rosalyn’s nostrils, and she loved it. It was the scent of her childhood, of her happiest memories growing up. She scraped a fall of blonde hair out of one eye and squinted at the scar she could see under the mane of the stallion.
“...and we need to order more bran. What is it, sweetness?” Rosalyn’s father called, turning from where he conferred with the serious-faced Mr Hansley.
Rosalyn turned back to what she was doing, which was combing one of their stallions, Bradford. “The wound on Bradford’s neck,” Rosalyn told her father as he came over to join her. “It has healed up so nicely. It’s just a small scar now.”
Bradford, a part-Arabian thoroughbred, had injured his neck running in the forest—a branch or something else had sliced into his neck as he ran past it. The wound had been cleaned and stitched by the village surgeon, who occasionally visited the Rothwell stable, despite his usual vocation regarding people. It had healed well: Besides a small, hairless line in his russet-red coat, one could see no other indication.
“It looks very good indeed,” Papa replied, smiling. “You’re doing a grand job at grooming him. I have never had the patience that you do. The horses respond well to it.”
