“I suppose I might. You also might have,” she reminded him. He grinned.
“Well said, miss. Well said.”
“Good day,” Rosalyn said, a little more firmly than she usually would, and shut the door. She hurried out into the snow. She shivered, though not only from the cold. The man’s behaviour was most unsettling.
She walked across the path. It was freezing cold. She shivered again and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her pelisse. She had forgotten her gloves. A light dusting of snow covered the path, and she stepped into it, her footsteps crunching as she hurried past the lawn towards the hedge-lined path.
Lord Winbrook had disturbed her and, while she would usually have taken a brisk walk around the lawn and gone in—perhaps staying for a moment or two to admire the snow-dusted foliage and the icicles on the tree—she walked towards the stable.
Just a moment with the horses, she promised herself. That is all I need.
Horses had always been her first source of comfort. Whenever she was sad or disturbed, she went to find them. She stepped into the stable and breathed in, smelling the rich, dusty hay and the pleasant, warm smell of living creatures drowsing in the stable’s warmth. A horse whickered, and Rosalyn walked instinctively towards the stall.
“...and you’re much better now. Much better,” a male voice murmured.
Rosalyn moved back, pressing herself against the wall. It was a refined voice, rich and resonant and clearly mature. It might be the stable master, she reminded herself. She stood where she was and listened.
“You’re a good girl. Such a good girl.”
She drew in a breath. It was the duke’s voice. He was in the stall at the end. She guessed he was talking to Buttercup, the mare who had been sick earlier in the week. She stepped out of hiding, turning in the aisle to go out again. She did not want to disturb the duke. She froze as he called out to her.
“Miss Rothwell? Is that you?”
“Um...yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, turning to face him. She reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear. She had not yet taken the time to arrange her hair, planning to go back to her room and style it before going down to breakfast. It was tied back in a ribbon, that was all.
“Come and see Buttercup. She has made such progress. The medicine must be quite effective.”
“I would not wish to intrude,” Rosalyn demurred, reluctant to disturb the duke on his morning rounds in the stable. Perhaps, like for herself, this place was his refuge.
“Come,” he said gently, gesturing to the stall. “You are not intruding. I have invited you to step inside.”
She grinned, a wry smile. “Indeed, Your Grace, that is so.”
“Quite so.”
His smile was wry, and his one eyebrow lifted in amusement as he looked at her. His long, thin face was still, his gaze intense.
Rosalyn’s heart thudded in her chest. It was there, the look that had so confounded her the day before. It was admiration. She could not deny it to herself any longer. She gazed up at him, losing herself in the grey depths of his eyes.
One of the horses neighed, making him look away, startled.
“Oh. Firelight? Is that you?” the duke chuckled. “Whatever is the matter now?”
Rosalyn laughed. He sounded just a little impatient, though the love he felt for the horse was evident. It was just like her voice must sound when she talked to her own mare, Marmalade. At the thought of Marmalade, her heart twisted. She had no doubt that she was being well cared for at home, but she missed her sorely.
“I should take them out for exercise today,” the duke confided as she came to join him next to Buttercup’s stall. “At least, my horse needs it.” He chuckled, gazing over at the stall. “That big fellow is used to being out and about. He hates being shut away in a stable for long.”
“He looks like an intelligent creature,” Rosalyn commented, looking over at the horse. “I imagine he finds it very tiresome in here.”
“Quite so,” the duke replied. “Intelligent, brave and as stubborn as a mule. Not so, eh, old chap...?” He turned to his horse.
The horse neighed and stamped, and it seemed as though he had understood the duke’s minor insult. Rosalyn chuckled.
“He is a sweet fellow.”
“Mm.” The duke stepped back to rub the stallion’s nose, then came back to where the mare, Buttercup, had stuck herhead over the gate of her stall and was swishing her tail, waiting impatiently. He smiled and rubbed her nose, then tickled her behind the ear. “There you are. You are such a dear, dear creature.”
The horse snorted and shut her eyes. Rosalyn’s heart twisted. She was quite old, her reddish fur showing white at her muzzle. Her coat was not particularly shiny. Her eyes were big and limpid and full of wisdom and patience. Rosalyn stroked her head, feeling drawn to the wise old dame of horses.
