“Yes.” The duke nodded briskly. He had turned towards the stairs. “She was coughing all morning, the stable hand said. Intermittent coughing. She looks weary and frightened. I need to do something to help. She is not strong.”
He was walking down the stairs, Rosalyn keeping pace beside him. They reached the entranceway. The duke gestured to a footman who was hurrying past.
“Stratford? Where is Mr Morton?”
“He is outdoors, Your Grace,” the footman replied respectfully. “A cart of ale came in and he went to direct the unloading.”
“Oh, for...” The duke looked as though he was trying not to swear. He strode towards the door. “I will find him myself. I have to explain to him what to do.” He reached for his greatcoat and shrugged it on, and Rosalyn reached for her pelisse as he opened the door. The cold air cut her like a knife, and she gasped. She tugged on her pelisse, hesitating. She did not have to go outside, but the mare’s plight had awakened her interest and compassion, and she could not simply go to a warm, genteel drawing room and ignore it.
“The stable boy said the warmth improved it,” the duke continued to relate. “I told him to feed her warm mash. The apothecary should see her. He has cures for everything,” he stated, sounding worried. Rosalyn followed him down the steps and into the garden.
“I am sure she can be cured,” Rosalyn said gently. Her gaze held his.
“I hope so,” he said softly. His brow furrowed as he looked down. “She is...special.”
Rosalyn swallowed hard. She knew how he felt. She loved her horse, Marmalade, with every fibre of her. If Marmalade were to be coughing, she would be as worried as he was. All the horses were important to her, but Marmalade and Swallowtail, the old stallion with a white blaze in the shape of a swallowtail across his long, greying nose, were even more special than the rest.
“I am sure she can be cured. Horses can cough for many reasons. As you know,” she demurred. She respected the duke’s knowledge of his horses.
“I hope so,” he repeated. “Mr Morton!” He shouted to the butler, who was instructing a carter unloading a cart full of barrels. The butler came over at once. He bowed to the duke.
“Your Grace. May I assist you?”
"I need someone to fetch the apothecary. At once. Bring him here. Buttercup is ailing and needs some assistance.”
The butler inclined his head. “At once, Your Grace.” He strode off to summon a rider. Rosalyn stood with the duke. It was freezing cold, a chilly breeze tugging at her skirt. She shivered. She had no gloves with her, and she balled her hands into fists, trying to keep her fingers warm.
“You’re shivering,” the duke said softly. He was standing no more than the length of her forearm away. His grey gaze was troubled. He reached for her hand. “Your fingers are cold. Go inside,” he said gently.
Rosalyn stopped breathing as he clasped his fingers delicately around her own. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, and she stared into his eyes. His own grey gaze held hers. Her fingers tingled with his touch.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said softly.
His gaze lingered a moment and then he turned away.
He let her hand go and she hurried back up the stairs and into the house. The warmth seemed stifling after the intense cold. She shrugged off her pelisse and glanced in a looking glass, checking that her hair was still tidy. She tucked a curl behind one ear and hurried up the steps.
She turned at the sound of footsteps. The duke was hurrying up the stairs after her. The clock struck four as they reached the hallway and they increased their pace, rushing into the drawing room.
“And I...oh!”
The Duchess was standing by the tea table, inviting the guests who had already assembled there to help themselves. She turned and stared as Rosalyn and the duke stumbled in. Her gaze narrowed as she studied Rosalyn.
Rosalyn glanced at the duke. He glanced at her briefly and her heart almost stopped at the look in his eyes. Amused, rueful and tender, it drew her in.
She turned towards the guests, determined to face them all boldly and not to let them intimidate her. The duke walked beside her, and they slipped into the crowd together, determined to enjoy the afternoon.
Chapter 12
Callum drew his gaze back, for the fourth time, from where Miss Rothwell sat with her sisters by the window. The sunshine fell through onto her hair, making it glow like burnished brass, and her happy laughter drew his gaze back to her whenever he looked away. A plate of mince pies stood on the tea table, a blue-and-white Meissen ware tea set beside them.
“...thought we’d go for a jaunt. A fine day! Oughtn’t to waste this opportunity, eh?”
Callum blinked, Lord Grassdale’s words just reaching him through the fog of his thoughts. In his mind, he was in the icy cold garden, holding Miss Rothwell’s hand in his own. She gazed up at him, her hazel eyes wide with surprise. Her fingers were icy in his touch, fine and graceful and unexpectedly strong from years of riding.
“...the fellows and me. What do you say, Stallenwood?”
“I beg your pardon?” Callum asked, confused. “Would you mind repeating that?”
