I cross my arms tightly over my chest and keep my eyes peeled on the man and the horse.
As he walks, the horse follows him. I don’t know much about horses, but I didn’t know they did this. It looks deliberate. Like an attempt to connect. Like an attempt to have fun. When Lord Augustus becomes aware of it, he stops and smiles before turning to face the horse.
“Gregor,” he says, voice velvet and fond. “Do you want to play with me?”
To my endless shock, it seems that yes, Gregor, the horse, the massive black stallion, does want to play with his human.
Lord Augustus takes several fast paces backward, and the horse nickers and trots after him without hesitation. He jumps to the side, running a few steps, and the horse follows, kicking its hind legs out behind it playfully as it moves. Lord Augustus darts back to where he started, and the horse seems to know what to expect from the game because it almost beats him there.
When they meet in the middle, Lord Augustus raises his hand calmly, gently, and the horse follows. It shifts its weight onto its hindquarters, lifting its front legs, and rears, throwing its head back and shaking its glorious mane in a million different directions.
Gregor remains on his hindquarters for a couple of seconds, almost vertical. Almost mythical. The moor and the paddock are resplendent behind him, dewy greens and chocolate browns. A stallion and an alpha dance together. The stallion lets out a sharp, shrill sound that should be upsetting, but isn’t. Instead, there’s something majestic about it. Something bone-chilling and beautiful. The alpha’s face transforms. Hard lines give way to soft ones. A gentle, barely there smile tugs at his lips.
A few seconds later, Gregor drops gracefully back onto all fours, and the magic is broken. As it happens, a comforting scent wafts my way. An earthy mix of musk, leather, and hay. I know I said I didn’t like the smell of horses, but this is no ordinary horse. Gregor is lovely, and he doesn’t smell like other horses do.
Lord Augustus rises to his feet as I enter the dining room and takes his seat again when I take mine, quietly resuming eating his breakfast without a word. I thought the meal would be less uncomfortable because of the sweet interaction I witnessed between him and Gregor this morning, but it isn’t. It’s as uncomfortable as always, maybe more so.
His eyes are darker than ever too. Slow to move and dull.
To distract myself, and possibly to prove to myself that I didn’t imagine the playful moment with Gregor, I turn my head when he isn’t looking and inhale quietly. I’m hoping for a horsey lungful that will remind me that Lord Augustus isn’t the mostintimidating man I’ve ever met and is capable of smiling when the planets align.
Sadly, he’s showered and changed, and all of Gregor’s musky goodness has been replaced with plastic nothingness.
7
Jensen
It’sbeentendayssince I arrived at Beaumont Craven House, and while I’ve made fantastic progress in the library, the same can’t be said for my relationship with Lord Augustus.
It appears that despite being fully recovered from my jet lag, I’ve made a habit of waking early in the morning to visit the stables. My early-morning excursions have achieved nothing but thoroughly confusing me. Lord Augustus is so different at dawn, so animated and alive, that every day, I manage to convince myself he’ll be different at breakfast, but he isn’t.
He’s the same. Dull, deathly quiet, and only dimly aware of my presence. Oh, he throws me a kind word or holds the door for me, now and again, but that’s only because he was brought up to have impeccable manners. He’s asked after my family once and about the quality of my sleep twice. I suppose I should be grateful for those breadcrumbs, but really, all they do is make the awkward silences we share most of the time much worse.
I’m at my wits’ end, and I can tell I’m teetering on the brink of giving him a piece of my mind. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out how badly that would go for everyone concerned. Mainly for me.
Lord Augustus has done less than nothing to give me the impression he’d appreciate being spoken down to.
The trouble is, I’m finding it harder and harder to separate the man who dotes on his horse from the blank, belligerent parchment that greets me a couple of hours later.
There’s something off about him, and I think I might have worked out what it is. I’ve noticed the lord adds an excessive amount of salt to his food, and when the meal calls for it, he squeezes so much lemon on his smoked salmon or avocado that it pools on his plate.
It occurred to me this morning, after a particularly tense silence, that he may be suffering from more than having no scent himself.
I don’t think he has any sense of smell at all.
And I’m not sure he can taste anything either. If he can, he can’t taste much.
I’ve never heard of such an affliction before. Alphas are known to have an overdeveloped sense of smell. They’re famed for it. I can’t imagine how an alpha could function without a sense of smell. It doesn’t make sense, but this theory is the only way I can explain how I’m able to creep up on him so easily.
It’s incredibly odd. So odd, I simply have to talk to someone about it. Lucien’s annoying face pops into my mind every time I think of telling someone about my theory. I hate it because now when I think of him, he seems different. His face isn’t a face that belongs to me anymore, or even to him. It’s a face that belongs to my brother.
Sadly, despite his stupid face, Lucien is the only one who knows me well enough for me to run this harebrained idea past without incurring harsh judgment.
I’ve spent the morning cataloging books and organizing them by subject matter and genre. While it’s slow going, it’s pleasant, easy work. There’s a physicality to it because of the size of the library and the sheer volume of books, but it doesn’t tax me mentally. I go into a happy place in my mind as I work, lulled into a calm sort of trance by the predictable, repetitive actions. I inspect each book for damage, and if I find none, I log the details in the new ledger I’ve started—the old one has yet to turn up—and find the book a place on a shelf in an appropriate section of the library.
Thankfully, I’ve managed to plead extreme busyness during the day, so Mrs. Thompson has agreed to serve my lunch in the orangerie, which is on this side of the house. It’s lovely because it’s far from the dining room, and thus offers the great advantage of keeping me well out of a difficult man’s way.
Typically, I give myself half an hour or so to let my food settle before getting back to work. Most days, I use that time to think unpleasant thoughts about certain members of the nobility, older alpha brothers, and former lovers turned brothers-in-law.
