That was the first time he did not respond immediately. When he spoke again, his tone had changed slightly.
“That is not what I expected you to say.”
“What did you expect?”
“Confidence, or disdain—possibly both. I cannot say I understand it, for I rather think that my household is marvelous, but you may feel as you please.”
“I am not in the habit of performing for your benefit,” she said.
“That is becoming increasingly clear.”
Tempest lowered his head when Anne stepped closer, and she rested a hand against his neck, speaking softly to him under her breath. The Duke watched without comment, as though he hadexpected the horse to be the most important thing in the room and was slowly realizing that was no longer the full truth.
“You handle him differently from the others,” he remarked after a while.
Anne did not look away from Tempest. “Because he is not like the others.”
“I mean,” he said, “he listens to you as though it is the only reasonable choice available to him.”
Anne’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second before continuing its movement along Tempest’s neck. “Of course he does. He trusts me every bit as much as I trust him, so why would he not listen to me?”
“And trust,” the Duke said quietly, “is inconveniently difficult to force.”
Anne gave him a brief look. At least he was aware that Tempest was not like a man and could not be bought with money and power.
“Is that your professional opinion as a racehorse owner?”
“My professional opinion,” he replied, “is that I should have remained in bed this morning. I will never have success with him, unlike you.”
That was precisely what she had needed to hear. It was not as though she demanded to be considered important, but if there was one thing she knew with full certainty, it was that she was the only person Tempest trusted.
The Duke leaned slightly against the stall beside her, careful to keep some distance between them. For a moment, he simply watched Tempest settle under her touch.
“You are more at ease here.”
“It is quieter.”
He looked at her then, properly. “I mean,” he clarified, “you do not look like someone preparing to become a duchess.”
“And what does a duchess look like?”
“I am still deciding.”
The answer might have been a jest under different circumstances, but it did not land like one.
Anne turned back to Tempest, her hand resting more firmly against him now, as though grounding herself in something familiar.
“I am not becoming anything,” she said quietly. “I cannot. I will not.”
“Good. I have not asked that of you, and I do not expect it either.”
“That will change once I have no say in the matter. I am quite certain of it.”
She had meant to say it half-jokingly, but it came out stronger than she had intended. For a moment, she could have sworn that she saw affront on his face, but it disappeared quickly.
“It would do you well if you did not treat every person you meet as though they were your mother,” he advised.
“That is hardly fair.”
