“Papa said that you could ride him when you’re big enough.Mayhapwhen you are eight,” the duke said from behind them. Sarah spun round, his resonant voice striking sparks deep within her.
“Your Grace!” she said, hurrying to her feet. The duke smiled, gesturing with his hand that she should sit.
“I apologise,” he said softly. “I did not mean to disturb.” He was grinning at them. “Sit, Henry,” he added gently to his son, who was gazing up at him, gaping. “I was looking for my son,” he added. “The gardeners said that he had come in this direction. Sorry,” he added as she stared up at him, flustered, her cheeks burning. “I did not mean to disturb. Stay and sketch,” he added, gesturing to the scene. “It is a beautiful subject for an artwork.”
“It is,” Sarah added. Her cheeks burned as she studied him. He was clad in a dark brown tailcoat, and the breeches that fittedclosely to his legs were a trifle too akin to her fanciful vision for her ease. The thin buckskin clung to his muscular thighs, defining them in a way that made her heart throb. He was a disconcertingly handsome man. Her cheeks flared as she looked down at her sketchbook.
“I am sorry if Henry was troubling you,” he added softly. “We can leave if it disturbs your peace.”
“No,” Sarah replied instantly, her cheeks flushing again. “Pray, stay...if it pleases you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you. I would like to,” he said and Sarah almost stopped breathing as he leaned against the tree behind her. “It is good to have some fresh air.”
“Yes,” Sarah whispered. “It is.”
She looked down at her sketchbook and tried to focus. Her heart was racing, her skin aflame with awareness. He was just a few paces away and every part of her seemed to be aware of him, as though his presence crackled through the air.
“It is good to find a tranquil place to sit,” he murmured. “The house is...crowded of late.”
Sarah grinned. “Indeed, Your Grace, it is,” she replied.
She focused on her drawing, smiling to herself and wondering what was on his mind.
Chapter 9
“Look, Papa!” Henry yelled excitedly, distracting Robert from studying Miss Brooke. She was sitting with her head bent forward as she studied the book on her lap, her soft chestnut hair drawn back in a severe bun that revealed the pale skin of her neck. Her gown was by no means low-cut, but when she bent forward, he could see at least two inches of neck and the sight of the slight bumps of her spine made his breath quicken, though he could not think why.
“What, Henry?” he asked a little impatiently.
“A horse. Isn’t it good?” Henry was holding a piece of paper. Robert smiled, seeing the horse drawn on it in sensitive lines. It was a good horse; he had to agree. It looked, if he thought about it, a little like his own horse, Firesmoke. He raised a brow.
“A beautiful horse,” he said, glancing at Miss Brooke. “I take it you are the creator of that drawing?”
Miss Brooke blushed, the sight taking his breath away. She had very pale skin, and when she flushed, her cheeks went the color of blossom on a cherry-tree. She smiled and his heart twisted.
“Yes,” she said softly, her eyes darting to her book. “I am.”
“It is very good,” Robert said, clearing his throat. His voice was tight. “It looks familiar, almost. I could almost imagine you had seen my hunting-stallion.”
Miss Brooke beamed. “I am glad it looks a little like him. Henry wished me to draw him a horse, and I think that is the sort of horse he likes.”
“When I grow up, I am going to have a horse just like that,” Henry remarked. He was beaming up at Miss Brooke. Robert’s heart softened. He had not seen Henry respond to anyone like that. His nursemaid was the only adult of whom he remainedboth respectful and unafraid. He even sometimes seemed a little afraid of Robert himself. But he looked at Miss Brooke with undiluted delight.
“When you are grown up, I will have no say in what horse you have,” Robert said, teasing a little. “But until then, I would prefer you to have something a little smaller.”
“My horse is fifteen hands tall!” Henry informed his father proudly.
“I know,” Robert said with a small grin.
“And when I get big, then I’ll have a horse like yours!” Henry continued. “And I’ll ride whenever I want. Even at midnight if I want to.”
Robert chuckled. “You might not like that, son,” he said gently. There were plenty of reasons not to ride at night—the lack of visibility, predators, highwaymen and robbers. But the only important one to his son was that his father forbade it. His heart twisted. Sometimes, one forgot how influential one was to his children.
“I’d like that!” Henry told him, grinning. “At night there’s bats! And mice. And hedgehogs. I found a hedgehog in the kitchen gardens. He was this big!” He lifted his hands, showing a shape about eight inches across.
“He was quite big,” Robert replied with a smile.
“He was. Oh! Look. A robin!”
