“You have seen the stable, of course, Miss Rothwell?” he asked. Rosalyn shook her head. She tucked her hair behind her ear again, feeling terribly self-conscious. His eyes seemed to follow her every move.
“No,” she replied, clearing her throat. It was hard to talk when he stared at her like that. “I have not.”
“You are invited to come and view them now,” the duke said, not quite looking at her.
“Hurrah!” Georgina yelled happily, then glanced at the duke and blushed.
“May we come too?” Isabel queried.
The duke shrugged. “Of course,” he said lightly.
Rosalyn looked at her sisters, who were both looking round-eyed at the duke, and then fell into step with them as they followed the duke down the path where, minutes before, she had nearly injured herself falling.
They walked a short distance down the path, which curved around tall trees, and Rosalyn noticed a long, low stone building with a thatched roof. She gazed at it. It was clearly a stable, but it seemed even larger and more welcoming than their own.
The duke walked in through the front door, and Rosalyn followed him, eyes darting around. The first thing she noticed was that the door lintel was scuffed and worn, then that the boards of the roof were likewise worn, patched here and there with bright, new sections of wood.
Their stable is old, she thought, and grand, but it is in worse repair than ours is. The Stallenwood stables seemed to have been through a time of neglect, the building clearly recently repaired.
“Here he is,” the duke said, his voice loud in the silence. A horse was whickering. “Here is my dear friend, Firelight. He’s the best hunting stallion anyone could want.” He scratched the horse between the ears and Rosalyn smiled to herself, at ease with the duke’s close connection to horses. She went closer.
“He is very beautiful,” Rosalyn murmured, watching as the duke stroked the stallion’s forehead. He was a roan thoroughbred with a white blaze down his nose. He must, she guessed, stand sixteen hands, perhaps even taller. He was a big horse. His eyes were half closed as he rested his head on the duke, nuzzling against his shoulder.
“He is a grand fellow,” the duke said, all of his earlier coldness melting away in the presence of the horse. “A grand old fellow.”
“He’s very big,” Georgina said nervously, making Rosalyn turn around, surprised. She had almost forgotten that she and the duke were not alone in the stable.
“Can I stroke him?” Isabel asked shyly.
“Of course,” the duke said, stepping aside so that Georgina and Isabel could approach the horse.
Georgina lifted up a hand, stroking the stallion’s muzzle carefully. Isabel waited her turn. Rosalyn stepped back, moving back towards the door so that she did not upset the horse in the stall opposite, who seemed jittery. The duke stood with her. Rosalyn tensed. She could not help but be acutely aware of his presence.
He wore a swathing grey greatcoat of the kind that coach drivers wore, and under it, she could see a few inches of buckskin riding breeches. He wore long riding boots that reached almost to his knees. His tall frame towered over her, and she gazed up into his eyes, feeling unsettled by his closeness.
“You were not hurt, were you?” the duke asked carefully.
“No,” Rosalyn replied softly. “I came very close, though. Thank you.” She could not help smiling.
The duke’s face lit up with a sudden smile. Rosalyn drew a breath. He was so forbidding, so intimidating, but when he smiled, he looked extremely handsome and approachable.
“The paths can be dangerous,” he said gently. “You should not run around out here.”
“I discovered that,” she said with a lilting laugh. “We were in high spirits. The weather is...uplifting here.” She drew in another breath. The cold was invigorating, revitalising in ways that the damp, chilly cold near the coast never was. It had been a pleasant surprise.
He smiled again, this time a grin that made her speechless. He looked stunning when he grinned, his thin, handsome face lighting up from within.
“I imagine so,” he replied. “It is a very wearying, draining cold in Sussex. And it seems you do not often have snow?” he asked.
Rosalyn nodded. “Very rarely,” she agreed.
“That is unfortunate,” the duke said, eyes sparkling warmly. “Snow offers a whole range of pleasant diversions in the winter.”
“I can imagine so,” Rosalyn said, her heart lifting. His smile was warm and friendly, his eyes amused. “Snowball fights, for one.”
“Yes!” The duke laughed. “Indeed. Full-scale snowball warfare, here at Stallenwood Park. There are ten years between myself and Harriet, so for the longest time it was just me and a crowd of boys.” His gaze was soft, nostalgic.
“You must have got up to all sorts of mischief,” Rosalyn said with a grin. She shut her eyes, imagining the duke as a youth. It was hard to imagine, as there seemed so little warmth in him, so little humour. In this single conversation, though, she could glimpse another side.
