“Fine,” the duke said icily.
Chestnut neighed again and Papa went over to stroke him. Rosalyn looked up at the duke uncomfortably. He was standing close to her, and the enormity of the situation hit her like a fist. She did not know him at all. She could not think of a single thing to say to him. But in a few weeks, they would be living at Stallenwood Park together. He was a cold, silent stranger who seemed to be assessing and judging herself and her family at their small, provincial home.
She looked away, racking her brains to think of what to say.
“He must be two years old?” the duke asked coolly. She jumped. She had not expected him to say anything.
“Two and a half,” Rosalyn replied neutrally. She kept her voice firm, though she was secretly impressed, despite her anger, by his astute observation. It took a knowledgeable breeder to be able to guess a horse’s age, and she could not help but be impressed by that.
“Mm. You have owned him since he was a foal?” His eyes were impossible to read.
“A yearling,” Rosalyn replied. She could not help smiling at the recollection of Chestnut when he arrived. He had been almost full-grown, around the height of her shoulder; all long chestnut legs and swiveling ears and swishing tail.
“He is quite tall,” the duke commented.
“Mm. His sire was very tall. Smoke, his name was. A black thoroughbred.” She recalled the stallion—imposing and cool-tempered, quite different to their loveable chestnut foal.
“Who owned him?” the duke asked.
Rosalyn frowned. That was a secret of their own breeding program, not to be given lightly to a stranger. But then, she thought as a sudden flush crept into her cheeks, he was not a stranger. In a month’s time, he would be her husband.
Her easy rapport with him was instantly replaced with awkwardness. She looked down at her toes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were burning with heat as he looked at her and she realised that he must be thinking the same thing.
“Rosalyn, sweetness?” her father called her, saving her from having to reply. She looked up.
“Yes, Papa?”
“Mayhap you can show his grace your mare? You have done so much of her training yourself that I would hesitate to show her without you.”
“Marmalade?” Rosalyn blinked. Why should the duke see her horse, Marmalade? She was an eight-year-old mare, who Rosalyn had ridden since she was a teenager. She had begun riding her at fifteen, and now, after Rosalyn’s twentieth birthday, they had shared five years together. They were inseparable friends.
“Yes. She is one of our best mares.”
Rosalyn turned to the stall where her horse, Marmalade, stood, whickering a greeting to her over the doorway.
“Easy, lass,” Rosalyn murmured, stroking her nose. Marmalade followed her without the need for a bridle, which was, Rosalyn realised, why her father had asked her to lead the mare out. Marmalade followed her like that, but she would not follow anyone else.
“Fine. Fine,” the duke praised as Marmalade trotted past him. She was a beautiful horse. She was fifteen hands tall—a good height for a thoroughbred mare—and she had a broad, deep chest and strong legs. She carried her head proudly, her thick mane tossing and her white coat glossy in the late-morning light. It was a sunny day, but it was icy cold out in the paddock. Rosalyn’s teeth chattered as she drew her shawl closer around her shoulders.
“She is eight years old,” Papa was explaining. Rosalyn stopped focusing on them and focused instead on Marmalade. She held up her hand and the horse came to sniff it, tossing her head back in imitation of Rosalyn, who tossed back her own. Rosalyn ached to run because if she did, Marmalade would run with her, showing off her even gait. But the thought of running in front of a stranger made her flush. The duke was so cold and remote that he would almost certainly be shocked by any breach of etiquette.
“Easy, sweetling,” she said to Marmalade, reaching up to stroke her forehead. “Are you going to rear for me?” She lifted her hand, practising a signal that she had taught her horse—or tried to—long ago, when she was fifteen and Marmalade was three. She had exercised for countless hours with the horse, but she had only ever done this particular thing a few times, and Marmalade had only managed to understand her gesture once before. This time, Marmalade reared up on her back feet and then brought her front feet, muscled and heavy, crashing down onto the earth in front of her.
“Whoa! Good girl! Good girl!” Rosalyn praised. A delighted grin spread across her face. The duke slipped from her notice, and she reached up to stroke her horse’s head, hugging her neck in delight and appreciation of the unexpected gesture. Marmalade snorted, snuffing in Rosalyn’s hair. Rosalyn stroked her head again, then glanced across at the duke.
He was staring straight at her.
Rosalyn went cold and looked away hastily, her heart thudding in her chest. Embarrassment and confusion washed through her. His gaze was focused, unreadable.
Why is he staring?she asked herself. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, heart thumping hard. Maybe he was staring because she looked untidy. She glanced down at her tatty dress and worn-out boots.
Her father was saying something—she could hear his low voice as he talked, but she could not make out the words. She did not hear the duke reply and she risked a glance at them as she turned to lead Marmalade out. The duke’s gaze met hers again. He stared for a second and then looked down, as if he had noticed that she had seen him staring. She was closer when he looked up, and his expression was utterly unreadable. Whatever he was thinking, she simply could not guess.
Those grey eyes are so cold,she thought with a shiver. She risked a glance at him from the stable door, studying his features more closely. His mouth was a thin line, his chin hard. His jet-black hair was cut severely short. His nose was slim and well-formed, and his face was hard, his cheekbones high and very slight wrinkles framing his mouth at the corners. She shivered again and looked away.
“Thank you, sweetness,” her father called to her gently. Rosalyn understood that he wanted her to take her horse back to her stall. She went through the door, fighting not to look back, and stabled Marmalade and then went outside again. Papa wasstill talking, his posture suggesting that it was a serious matter. Rosalyn’s heart thudded hard.
Her father looked up, smiled and waved her closer. She walked over reluctantly, swallowing her fear and tension about being so close to the duke. She avoided his eye, looking instead at her father.
