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“Why would you want such an animal?”
“I looked into his eyes,” she murmured. “And I knew that nothing would ever kill his spirit. I’ve seen horses like him before. He was angry—and justifiably so. Gelding him would not have worked, and he would eventually have been sold off for labor and hitched to a mill wheel somewhere. Could you have allowed such a thing?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. “But it still seems an awful risk, considering his previous owner’s warnings.”
Her lip curled in distaste. “The dolt who owned him knew nothing of how to handle horses. He won Primero in a game of chance and hadn’t given any thought to the kind of care and handling such horses require. His groom was a ham-handed lack-wit who’d only seen to carriage and draft horses, and his stables were shameful.”
“Well, he seems to be content here, at least.”
She nodded, her smile returning. “We understand each other, Primero and I. I never lock his stall, and nor do I allow anyone else to close him in.”
“You don’t keep him in at night?” asked Withington.
She shook her head. “What would be the point? The walls and fences here could never hold him, and we both know it. Thus, he is free to roam the pasture at will. Even so, he always returns home in the evening and morning, without fail, and comes whenever I call.”
“He stays for love of his mistress,” Julius said, watching as she rubbed behind the horse’s ear.
“I should like to think so,” she answered, staring into the horse’s liquid brown eyes. Primero chuffed softly, eliciting another smile.
Julius’s heart contracted at the sight. “Perhaps we could take a ride together the next time I visit?” he suggested. “I’ll bring my Handel. He’s an Andalusian also, though not quite as big.”
She turned to face him. “You enjoy riding?”
“Next to botany, it is one of my favorite pastimes,” he answered. “Our family has several Andalusians, thanks to my grandfather being an avid admirer. He thought them the finest of all breeds. I should enjoy watching you put Primero through his paces and seeing how he compares. If he’s as good as you say, my father might be interested in him.”
“I shall never sell Primero. Not to anyone. Ever.”
“Not to buy—to breed,” he amended softly.
Victoria flushed. The way he’d said it…
Despite being a delicate female, she knew all about the subject of breeding as it pertained to producing foals. She’d even witnessed the act on a few occasions, though she’d never told anyone. As she’d said, Primero went wherever he wanted, including the meadow where her mares went to feed on fresh grass.
According to some conversations she’d overheard, humans “bred” pretty much in the same manner.
“We’ve been looking for new blood,” continued Cavendish, breaking her chain of thought.
“I’ll think on it,” she blurted, her mouth uncomfortably dry. “As to your suggestion of a ride”—she flushed again at her unintended insinuation—“perhaps we could make a day of it, the four of us? Or maybe Papa
might like to host a hunt later this month?”
Slim chance of that happening, she thought, kicking herself. Amelia loathed hunts, complaining of the dirt and grime, the smell of equine sweat, the baying of the hounds. She’d only suggested it out of desperation, needing to say something that didn’t make her sound like a blithering idiot.
“Why not?” replied her sister, surprising her. “We’ll ask him this evening. Now, I think we should return to the house, don’t you?”
“Of course. One moment more.” Victoria turned back to Primero, smiling. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a small apple and offered it to him. He lipped it from her palm and then butted her shoulder, wanting more. “No more for now,” she admonished, patting him. “You’ll get fat and slow if I keep spoiling you so.”
Stepping forward, Withington reached out to stroke the horse along with her, but Primero would have none of it. His ears flicked back and he bared his great teeth, snapping at the offending hand.
Yelping, Withington hopped away and proceeded to make certain all of his fingers were still attached. He held up his arm in horror. “Bloody—I’ll be buggered! He tore my cuff!”
Victoria looked to Primero. Indeed, there between his teeth dangled a swatch of silk and lace. “Primero, you naughty boy!” she scolded as the horse neighed triumph at having effectively routed the enemy. Then to Withington: “I told you to be careful. He’s very particular regarding whom he allows to approach.” She adjusted her tone to sound a bit less waspish. “Give him time. I’m sure you’ll be great friends, eventually.”
Fingering his torn cuff, Withington cast her a dubious look, but nodded. “I’m sure we will. In time.”
“I’ve warned you, Victoria,” sang Amelia softly, her expression smug as Cavendish extended his arm. “Come. The hour grows late.”
Damn. Papa would be livid. Victoria held Withington back for a moment. “I am truly sorry. Primero isn’t usually so badly behaved as long as I’m with him, but Amelia was present. He knows she dislikes him, and the feeling is quite mutual. I will gladly pay to have your jacket repaired.”
