“You are right,” Callum agreed gruffly. While Miss Rothwell was more than adequately chaperoned by her father andbrother, the presence of another lady would soften things and make them more acceptable. He bit back his anger at Mr Rothwell, who was grinning as though he had been granted a thousand pounds, and let Harriet go past them.
The ladies shrugged on their riding cloaks while the gentlemen donned their coats and gloves, and then they all proceeded outside to the stable.
The air was bitterly cold, cutting through Callum’s thick greatcoat, and he gritted his teeth as he glanced over at Miss Rothwell. She wore her velvet gown and a seemingly thick velvet mantel, yet he worried about her in the intense cold. As they walked down the path, they met with the late afternoon sunshine that shone into the stables. That improved matters and Callum relaxed a little.
“Right. My lord?” he addressed Lord Cranfield, Miss Rothwell’s father. “I suggest you take Snowstorm. He is our most spirited stallion. I think you are the most experienced rider here?”
Lord Cranfield shrugged; his thin face relaxed. “I will do as you suggest,” he replied politely.
Callum swiftly assigned horses to all the riders, then hurried to call the stable hands to assist with tacking up. While he was sure all of the people present, including the ladies, could tack up their own horses, it would be much faster with help.
He glanced over at Buttercup. He had not assigned her to any rider, though he would have liked her for Miss Rothwell. She was an older horse, calm in temperament and the least likely to spook. She coughed as he approached, but her manner did not seem as strained.
“How is she faring?” Miss Rothwell asked from beside him. Callum jumped.
“She seems better,” he said gruffly. “Noah?” he called to a young man, perhaps eighteen, who was hauling a saddle out of the tack room. “What happened? Did the apothecary visit?”
The young man bowed, touching his forehead in a respectful gesture. “Your Grace. The apothecary was here ten minutes ago. He left us a preparation of herbs. We dosed Buttercup with it about five minutes before you arrived. It seems to ease her, Your Grace.”
“Good. Good,” Callum replied in genuine relief. He gazed over at the horse. She was pale brown, her muzzle white with age. She looked at him and he was relieved to see there was no fear in her gaze.
“Has she always been in this stall?” Miss Rothwell asked Callum.
He frowned, thinking. “No. She was there,” he replied, gesturing to the stall at the end of the row, which had a window that looked out onto the kitchen garden. “We moved her so that she would not catch a draft and get cold.”
“Consider putting her back?” Miss Rothwell suggested. “Mayhap the fresh air did her good. We had a horse with a cough, and when we moved him to another stall, it improved. It might be the dust.” She gestured at the straw on the floor and the sawdust in the aisle between.
“Mm.” Callum nodded, a frown creasing his brow. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. He tucked the idea away in the back of his mind to tell Mr Randell when they returned. “Thank you. I will consider it.”
Miss Rothwell just nodded, then turned away, taking the rein of Rainstorm, a dappled thoroughbred whom he had chosen as her mount.
Callum tacked up Firelight, his horse, but his mind was not really in it. He kept on thinking about Miss Rothwell. Her suggestion was good, and he could not help but be impressed.He led his horse out to the mounting block in the stable yard. Miss Rothwell was already seated, waiting at the gate with her father and Lord Chesterford. Mr Rothwell, Harriet and Lord Grassdale were not yet out. Callum swung up into the saddle, still annoyed at Mr Rothwell for inviting his sister and Harriet. While Harriet was a competent horsewoman, she was not accustomed to riding in the cold, or riding on the route he had planned for the afternoon.
He rode Firelight to the edge of the yard, careful to keep him away from Snowstorm, with whom he sometimes fought. He was just getting impatient when Harriet and Mr Rothwell emerged, followed by Lord Grassdale. Harriet and Mr Rothwell were laughing. Callum bit back his annoyance.
I envy them their ease with one another,he thought sadly. They were both open, direct people, and they chatted and laughed without effort.
“I remember almost swallowing the sixpence once,” Mr Rothwell was saying as they rode into the line behind Callum. Harriet guffawed.
“You didn’t! I always wondered if someone had. I always search through my pudding for a sixpence before I take a spoonful of it.”
“Wise, my lady. Most wise.”
Callum smiled to himself. The tradition of hiding a sixpence in the pudding, to bless whoever found it with riches, was a tradition he enjoyed. Their family did not practice it often, since Mother feared that someone would choke on it. But in the years when they had done it, he had himself found the sixpence more than once.
Strange,he mused. He had inherited an estate in ruins, had sold off much of it to repay the debts, and was left as a duke of relatively modest means compared to the wealth of otherdukedoms. The silver sixpence did not seem to do its job as promised.
His thoughts drifted back to the moment as they rode out of the gate. He had chosen a route that went up into the parklands that adjoined the manor grounds. Several acres of wood, belonging to the estate, surrounded the manor and were maintained by the verderers to keep them stocked with deer and other hunting quarry. Father had been a keen hunter, but Callum was not fond of the sport. He rode up through the gate, cutting ahead of Lord Cranfield who had been leading the party.
“This way,” he called, gesturing up the steep slope.
His guests fell in behind him, chatting and laughing. The route was narrow but would widen out so that they could ride beside one another later. Callum leaned back, slowing his horse to a walk as they navigated the steep slope.
The feeling of the horse’s relaxed gait soothed Callum and he started to relax. The woods were warmer atop the steep rise, and the sunshine was pleasant, relaxing him and his horse still further. He could hear the drowsy rise and fall of Lord Cranfield talking to the baron; the low, murmurous conversation pleasant and easy on the ear. Mr Rothwell and Harriet were somewhere near the back—he could hear the occasional laugh and giggle as they chatted brightly. He reached a wider point in the road and stopped, turning in his saddle, to check on his guests.
Miss Rothwell was in the middle of the group. Lord Grassdale rode a little behind her, and Harriet and Mr Rothwell behind him. Callum’s gaze focused on Miss Rothwell’s soft, pretty face. She looked relaxed, turning to her father to make some comment. Her silky hair glowed in the sunshine and an easy smile brightened her expression. Her brown riding habit made her hair seem brighter. Her gaze caught Callum’s, and she held his eye, then blushed, turning away. Callum swallowed hard.
“The road widens here,” he informed the guests, his throat tight. “We can safely ride beside one another. It cuts to the left, and then we circle back and cross the pastureland back to the estate.”
