She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to calm down. Her horse was exhausted, and so was she. Neither of them seemed to have any notion of where they were. She drew in a breath and listened to her own exhalation and the calm, steady breath of her horse. The soft clop of hoofs on the ground reassured her. She opened her eyes.
And frowned.
The sound of the horse’s hooves seemed off, disjointed. It took her a moment to realise why; the noise was coming not just from beneath her, but also from up ahead.
“Sebastian?” she called, her heart lifting with joy. “Papa?” Someone had ridden after her! Her spirits soared and she leaned forward, signaling her horse to move faster.
“Miss Rothwell?” a voice called out. Rosalyn shivered.
“Your Grace?” It was the Duke of Stallenwood. He had ridden after her. She breathed deeply, trying to still her heartbeat. If she showed any sign of agitation, the horse might become frightened again and bolt. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She tried to call out, clearing her throat, which was suddenly tight with a mix of emotions.
He must think I am a fool. Mayhap he was worried that I injured his horse. He couldn’t be worried for me, could he? The thoughts chased themselves around her mind. He was so hard to read. One moment, he was indifferent to the point of rudeness and the next, tender and considerate in a way that stole her breath.
“Miss Rothwell?” his voice called out. He was not too far—she could hear the distinct sound of a horse trotting along a dirt path. Her horse whickered a greeting, stepping forward of her own accord.
She must recognise the other horse, Rosalyn thought, patting her mare’s neck.
“Easy, girl,” she said gently. “We’ll be there soon.”
They rode forward and, before long, the sound of hoofs was almost before them. It was completely dark, and she widened her eyes, trying to see ahead. The flash of white of a high shirt collar came into focus, and then the white blaze on the nose of the duke’s thoroughbred. As she watched, he reined in, bringing his horse to a walk. The stallion walked alongside Rainstorm, who whickered again and stamped, giving him a greeting. Rosalyn swallowed, tension tightening her throat.
“Your Grace. I...” she began, trying to apologise for what had happened. His horse could easily have broken a leg the way she bolted. If he was angry, she could not really blame him. She braced herself for his ire, but before she could say anything further, he dismounted and ran to her. He reached up, lifting her out of the saddle.
“Miss Rothwell! Are you quite well? Did you fall? Are you harmed?” His voice was urgent.
He set her on her feet on the ground before him, his hands—which had been around her waist—resting on her shoulders. His eyes stared into her own. It was almost too dark to see him, but when he stood close, she could see his face in inky grey and black shadow.
“I am quite well,” she managed to reply. With his hands on her shoulders, and his presence so close to her, she was shaking, but not entirely with cold. She did not understand the wash of feelings that rushed through her, too intense and strange to fathom.
“You are sure you are not hurt?” The duke demanded. His grip on her shoulders tightened. She nodded.
The duke slumped visibly, the dark shadow of his presence becoming less upright. He let out a sigh.
“I thought you had been thrown. I thought you were badly wounded.”
“No, I am quite safe,” Rosalyn replied softly. “A little shocked and unsteady,” she added, giggling shakily.
“Of course. Of course.”
He stared into her eyes. She stopped giggling and looked into his gaze. She could see him a little better, the light of the first stars and the moon illuminating him well. His eyes were wide and round, his thin-lipped mouth set in a firm line. His hands were still on her shoulders. Wordlessly, he reached up and, with a tenderness that made her breath stop, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She gazed at him. He was so close, and in the darkness, it felt as though they were utterly alone, the only people for hundreds of miles. He stared into her eyes and leaned a little forward. She held her breath. For a moment, it seemed as if he might kiss her. The thought stirred a longing within her, unfamiliar and powerful. She wanted him to lean closer, to press his lips gently to hers. She longed for it, more deeply than she had ever known.
“Daughter? Daughter? Stallenwood! Are you there?”
Rosalyn let out her breath sharply. It was her father. He was galloping along the road—she could hear the horse’s hoof-beats, though they were still fairly far away. His shout was full of concern, and she flushed, feeling suddenly embarrassed.
The duke straightened up, making a small sound like a cough in his throat.
“You must be cold. Do you need assistance? There is a fence here that you can use to step up into the stirrup.”
His voice was businesslike, his manner brisk. Rosalyn swallowed. She tried to snap back into their usual, practical manner, but it felt wrong. She shook her head.
“No, thank you. I can manage quite well.” Her voice was a little colder than she intended it, spurred by her hurt.
“Fine,” the duke said briskly. She heard his boots crunch on the path and then the sound of him turning his horse and mounting the saddle. She went to her own horse, stroking her neck reassuringly.
“Easy, there.” She soothed the horse, stepping up lightly. She gripped the reins, wincing at the pain in her fingers. She was wearing riding gloves, but the thin leather did very little to warm her hands. She turned at the sound of a noise.
