“Thank you, Papa,” Rosalyn said with a smile. Her father never gave praise lightly, though he gave it often. She truly had a rapport with the horses, particularly the ones who spooked easily with other people. Their trust in her gave her more than it did to the horses themselves. She loved their closeness. The stables were her refuge, the one place in the world where she wasabsolutely herself. Since her mother had passed away five years before, she had spent more and more time there, seeking solace in the love that the beautiful creatures could give.
“Don’t exhaust yourself, dear. It’s a long day today,” Papa reminded her gently.
“I won’t, Papa,” Rosalyn said, biting her lip. She felt nauseous just thinking about it. His Grace, the Duke of Stallenwood, had asked for her hand, and Papa had agreed to it. And the duke was going to arrive that day to call on them.
It still stunned Rosalyn. Her family were barely known in Court circles and had never been part of London’s high society. Their income was modest, their estate holdings not exactly vast. Their horse breeding program was among the very best in England, though, and that was the sole reason, she imagined, for the duke and for her father to agree to the match. She could not imagine any other reason why a duke would involve himself with a relatively obscure and humble family.
I have never even seen him,Rosalyn thought fearfully, her fingers twisting the fabric of her sleeves in an anxious habit. She shut her hazel-brown eyes for a moment, her head hurting. She knew nothing whatsoever about the duke. He could be anything at all—old, young or somewhere in between; ugly, handsome or ordinary-looking. She was frightened of the very idea—frightened and apprehensive. And she was going to meet him in a few hours.
She tidied her thick, pale hair, trying to ignore the knot of worry in her stomach.
“I need to go in, now,” her father added gently. “Do not linger too long. It’s cold.”
“Yes, Papa,” Rosalyn said softly. It was cold, though it had yet to snow. In Sussex, it did not snow heavily—sometimes, not at all. Rosalyn could remember only a handful of years when it had snowed close to Christmastide. She lifted the brush fromwhere she had left it balanced on the gatepost and continued her work.
“Hush, there,” she said gently to Bradford, the stallion, as she combed his coat. He snorted and stamped, and Rosalyn took a deep breath. Her own anxious mood was communicating itself to him.
“I’ll let you rest now,” she told the horse, stroking his head gently. As she went to the door of the stables, she heard voices. She tensed instantly, peering out. Her father was walking up the gravel drive with a strange man.
Her heart thudded wildly. The man must be the Duke of Stallenwood.
Rosalyn looked down at her gown. She was wearing a threadbare white velvet dress that she hardly ever used and she could only imagine how her hair looked. The duke stood ten paces away. She studied him, heart racing.
The duke was tall; an inch taller than Papa, who was not a short man. He had a slim but athletic build, his tight buckskin riding breeches showing firmly muscled legs and well-formed calves. His face was long and slim, his mouth a grim line. His hair was jet black. He wore knee-length riding boots and something about his stance made her think he rode often; his posture upright, his legs strong. His shirt collar reached up to his ears, white and stiff. His cravat was sparsely tied, as though he could not be bothered to expend energy on frivolity. She could not read the expression on his face—it was what she could only describe as icy.
“His grace the duke wished to view our stables,” Papa greeted her. She gasped, realising he had noticed her presence. The duke was looking at her. Her cheeks burned. “May I have the honour of presenting to you his grace, the Duke of Stallenwood?” Papa added with an awkward grimace.
Rosalyn drew in a breath. The duke was staring at her, but his gaze was far from friendly, and her stomach tightened. His eyes were grey, the exact colour of the leaden sky, and his glance was coldly assessing, as though she was a horse for sale. She reddened, anger mixing with awkwardness.
“Your Grace,” she murmured. She had learned etiquette, and she knew the exact depth of curtsey appropriate to offer a duke. Yet as she did so, her knees were trembling. His expression was so cold, his grey eyes so assessing, that it scared her.
“Your Grace, may I present my daughter, the Honourable Miss Rothwell?” Papa addressed the duke. The duke inclined his head, the barest of nods, and bowed low to Rosalyn. His wintry gaze held hers for a moment as he straightened.
“Good afternoon, Miss Rothwell.”
His voice was neither high nor low, a middle-toned voice that was soft and resonant and which, for some unfathomable reason, tied her stomach in knots.
“Good afternoon,” she managed to say, though her heart was racing, her palms wet with perspiration.
The duke turned to her father. “Shall we go on, my lord?” he asked Papa coolly. “I wish to see your stable.”
How rude!Rosalyn thought angrily. He had not even had the courtesy to take tea with the family and already he was demanding a look at the stables. He had travelled for a week from the Midlands to Sussex, and, still, he could not find the manners to take a cup of tea first. She bristled and glared at him. He caught her stare, and she blushed. His own look was mild, as if her anger did not touch him.
He does not seem to care if we—some small, provincial family—are angry with him,Rosalyn thought crossly.
“Our stud stallions are on opposite ends of the stable,” her father was explaining as he led the duke into the stables. “Atthe door we have Wildfire, and Starlight is on the other side.” One of the horses near the door neighed as he saw Papa. It was Chestnut, his hunting stallion. He always greeted Papa like that. Rosalyn followed her father, unsure what else to do.
“Mm. Both are Arabian?” the duke asked mildly.
“They are,” Papa replied.
He seemed to have no idea of courtesy or decency. He had barely even glanced at her. She looked at Papa, willing him to say something. Surely, he should address the rudeness?
“You have your own breeding program with the two and your mares?” the duke asked.
Rosalyn opened her mouth, about to say that they had bred several fine foals already, but Papa spoke first.
“We have,” he replied almost nervously.
