“It was not the mischief of the injury itself, but rather the calamity of the fall. I find I am quite unable to rid my mind of the trepidation it instilled.”
He was quiet for a long moment. She braced for whatever came next. A gentle dismissal. A reassurance. A promise that Bess was harmless, which she knew, which everyone knew, which made no difference at all to the thing in her chest.
“Would you like to leave,” he said instead.
“I can send the children home with Anna’s list intact. Bess will be no worse for our absence.”
“No.” The word came out before she had decided it.
“The children have been promised.”
“The children can be disappointed. It is good for them occasionally.”
“Anna would write it in her register.”
“Anna writes everything in her register.” He took one step toward her, and only one, and stopped.
“May I walk you past her stall? That is all. Past, not to. You need not touch her. You need not look at her if you prefer. I will simply walk with you to the next stall, where there is a very sedate pony called Orpheus who does nothing except sleep and accept carrots.”
“Orpheus.”
Mel found, to her considerable surprise, that she was almost smiling. It was a small almost, and it did not reach further than the corner of her mouth, but it was there.
“Very well,” she said. “Past, not to.”
He did not offer her his arm and for that she was grateful. She would not have taken it, and then they would have had the awkwardness of the refusal to add to the morning. He walked on her far side instead, placing himself between her and Bess, a solid, quiet, seven-foot wall of duke against the possibility of an old mare developing sudden opinions.
They reached Orpheus who was fast asleep.
“There,” Rhys said. “As promised. Nothing whatsoever to fear from a pony who is presently dreaming.”
“He is an improvement on Bess.”
“He is everyone’s improvement on Bess. Bess has been known to sigh in a pointed manner.”
“Pointed sighing is a serious accusation in a horse.”
“She is guilty. I have proof. Mrs. Kemp will testify.”
A light peal of laughter escaped her which she quickly stifled, vanishing almost entirely into the stillness of the stable, yet it did not elude his ear. She perceived at once that he had marked it and a particular softening covered his features.
“Come,” she said, because she did not want to stand in the aftermath of that look any longer than was strictly required.
“Anna will have cited us for delay.”
She walked ahead of him back down the row and avoided looking at Bess.
Rhys walked ahead without any more conversation between them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The fourth week began, and still he did not leave.
Mr. Grieves’s letters grew more emphatic as there were estate matters requiring attention and social obligations he was neglecting. There were whispers in London about the Duke of Trevane’s extended absence and speculation about what might be keeping him in Cornwall.
Let them speculate, Rhys thought. Let them wonder. For the first time in fifteen years, he was doing something that mattered, and London’s gossip sheets could write whatever they pleased.
The evening study sessions had become the fixed point around which his days revolved.
