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She withdrew her hand from his arm. ‘I’ve no wish to pay over the odds for a horse. I want a horse with spirit, but not one that everyone else is competing for and therefore will cost me dearly.’
‘Practicality in all things.’
‘I learnt how to budget after my husband died.’ She lifted her chin with a proud tilt. ‘How can I tell the difference between a good horse and a bad one?’
‘Look for the little clues—how they hold the bit, place their hooves or react to small noises—as well as the big items such as the way they move or their teeth.’ He smiled down at her, preparing to be indulgent now that she’d agreed not to buy that horse.
She nodded seriously. ‘Anything else?’
‘My father used to say to look at the neck. You can tell a lot about a horse by the way it carries its head. It is probably an old wives’ tale, but it has held me in good stead. There is something about a horse’s neck.’
‘Do you judge people in the same way?’ She turned and Kit looked at her long swanlike neck. He wondered that he had ever thought her severe and lacking in beauty. Every time he saw her, he found something else to admire. Her charms might not be as on display as some, but he found himself thinking about her at odd times of the day, remembering different features.
‘I like your neck.’
She laughed, a tinkling sound that filled the air with light. He could listen to it all day. ‘I shall take that as a compliment.’
A horse crossed in front of them and he took the opportunity to move closer than strictly proper. ‘I intend to show my appreciation later.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Of course and you know I never break my promises.’
He basked in her smile, but their current arrangement was unsatisfactory. Finding odd ways to meet and conducting their affair away from prying eyes was sensible, but he wanted to spend more time with her. He tried to tell himself that it was purely physical and, once they spent time together, he’d start to see her faults. He’d become bored or she’d become demanding. Right now the key to that was finding a suitable horse.
‘We will find the proper horse for you today. Traipsing all over Northumberland is not going to happen. There will be more suitable horses over here.’
‘Kit?’ Hattie said, confused. Kit’s mood had suddenly changed. He had to understand that the horse needed to be her choice, not his. He didn’t answer, but continued to walk away from her.
She hurried after him. ‘Where do you think you are going?’
A scrawny boy in rags leading a chestnut horse caused him to draw up and she caught up with him. His face appeared very serious.
‘What is the problem?’
‘I spied Mr Dent and wasn’t sure if you wanted to be seen with me.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. He was considerate. ‘Mrs Hampstead is sitting with a cup of tea and Harvey, my groom, is about ten paces behind. Everything is above board. I did think about that eventuality. Wherever you go in the Tyne Valley, you are sure to run into someone you know.’
‘What about the grey?’ He pointed towards where a large placid horse stood.
Hattie peered more closely at the ragged boy and then the chestnut horse shook her head and she knew. She knew precisely what Kit meant by looking for the little things. ‘I want the chestnut unless you have an objection?’
‘The chestnut? But that one is a bit more spirited than I would like.’ He put his hand under her elbow. ‘You might like to take another look at the grey. I think the chestnut may have been mistreated.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you say that?’
He nodded towards the boy who soothed the horse with his hand. The horse calmed instantly. ‘Instinct.’
‘But horses recover from ill treatment.’
‘Some better than others.’ He nodded. ‘It takes time and patience. The boy has a way with horses that most people can only dream about. All you have to do is watch him and see how he moves.’
Hattie’s heart constricted at the sight of the boy’s pinched face and the way his ragged clothes hung off his frame. ‘Oh, Kit. He looks half-starved. Can you do anything? We ought to buy him a pie.’
She fumbled in her reticule.
‘I was willing to buy the horse for you. The boy is another matter.’
‘Buy the boy?’ She stared at him in astonishment. ‘Is this Sir Christopher Foxton, the man who does not get involved, talking?’
