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“A unique approach to landscaping.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Coburn cleared his throat with something like a squawk, and his arms crooked oddly at the elbows, flapping like wings. “His Grace’s family has always preferred a more, er, naturalistic design. You will find a bridle path, Your Grace, that has been cleared for your enjoyment, should you care to ride.”
“Overnight?”
Another squawk. “We seek only to serve.” He moved in quickstep beside her. “Nearly there, ma’am—ah! Here we are.”
Most country gentlemen looked to their stables as an adjunct of their display of wealth and constructed buildings along the lines of the great manse itself. The Duke of Lowell was not of that ilk. A plain, stone building loomed over a small forecourt comprised of the expected water troughs and mounting blocks, but there was a decided lack of flair; the cobblestone drive, which led to the coach house around back, was pristine yet without pretension, and like the rest of the land, the softening use of cultivated flower beds had been eschewed.
The stable master sauntered out of the wide door that presumably led from the barn, followed by a band of energetic stable lads. Forelocks were tugged as Coburn said, “Marshall will be more than happy to conduct you ’round the yard, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coburn.” She turned to accompany Marshall, his lads cavorting around her as if they had no control over their exuberance. “My own—the stables at my family home are like to this size, I would guess.”
“Hold your proverbials, missus.” Marshall bowed rather grandly and swept his arm to lead her over the threshold—
Into the yard of her dreams.
It was as if the massive courtyard went on for miles, with loose boxes lining three sides. She walked to the center and turned slowly around, noting the large tack room to one side of the entrance and what she guessed was the feed room on the other. The tiled floor angled to the middle where water was even now draining after morning stables wash down. The doors to each stall were wide, hinting at large accommodations for each animal; the paint was bright and sparkling clean; and each equine head that hung over their half doors shone with health, ears flicking in her direction as she moved from door to door. “Wonderful!” Felicity stood with her hands on her hips, a posture made easier by her jacket and trousers. “I doubt that even the royal yard is anything like to this.”
“Oh, well,” Marshall replied. “They’d have one of two things in common, I suppose. Will we sort you out with a mount? His Grace sent word you’re to have a hack if you like.”
One of the lads led a stunning, dark bay gelding, at least seventeen hands high, over to a mounting block. The horse had been groomed to a shine, and he turned a spirited eye to her as she approached.
“Here’s Jupiter,” Marshall said, tugging down the offside stirrup as Felicity did the same to the near side. “He loves a gallop, but he’ll ease up the second you ask.”
She took to the saddle and adjusted the stirrups. “I am very much looking forward to this outing.”
“You’ll enjoy yourself with this one,” Marshall said. “He’s not one for the roads now, missus. There’s no meanness or madness in him at all, but he does tend to go spooky when he’s on unfamiliar ground, if you take my meaning.”
“I am an accomplished horsewoman, Mr. Marshall,” Felicity replied. “There is nowhere I cannot go on a horse.” She tapped her heels on Jupiter’s side and was away.
* * *
“We have received word from our holdings in the Fens, and Lambe is hopeful as regards the state of the drainage works, which are at last begun after much protest. The frontage will be substantial…”
Alfred slouched in the chair behind his massive oaken desk, turned toward the window with his eyes on the park while Bates droned on and on.Unfair, he thought to himself. Bates’s voice was renowned, as was his own, for its mellifluousness, its timbre, its ability to melt the chemise off any willing female. His steward was known far and wide throughout their own brand of society for his magic touch with the ladies.
Had Alfred lost his own touch? He had gotten a good sense of Miss Templeton’s frontage, and it was all he could do last night not to toss her over his shoulder—hell, he wouldn’t have even made it to the ducal suite. He’d have taken her there on the floor, beneath the gaze of those damned china mutts in the Bassett Room, would it not have been the height of disrespect no matter what her essence did to him.
Ah, Goddess, the scent of her. It was well and truly embedded in his being, much less in his aristocratic nostrils, and added to everything—the freshness of her skin, the tartness of her tongue, the lushness of her vanilla and rosemary and sweet william scent—he now knew the fragrance of her arousal, and the sweet yet savory perfume had wound its way into his essential self until he could not tell where he ended and she began.
“…in reference to the tin mines in Cornwall, a new vein has been discovered, and Trevelyan wishes to be apprised of our thoughts regarding carrying on…”
Ha! He knew what his wolf thought regarding carrying on and had kept Alfred up the entire night whining and howling to take her, to mate her, to end any ridiculous excuse for a courtship ere it even began. This tentative approach was not the way of the Alpha. He thought of the rough-and-ready crowd from North America behind that revolution in the late 1700s—as if they would loll about on their haunches waiting to be accepted. His Russian forebears, theversipellesof the Steppes, would sooner rip out their own throats than hang about waiting for the favors of a mere human.
He rubbed his eyes. His kind needed little sleep, but he was weary to his soul. Forcing, taking, violence—these were the very things he was attempting to purge from his pack, his beloved miscellany. Even the mice had barbarous tendencies when their backs were to the wall; even the lowest predator would turn if pushed too far. When it became clear that he would not find one of his own kind and must needs take a human to mate, he had consoled himself that the blend of their species would go some way toward taming the dark sides of their natures. Now he feared that he would be sent feral by his lust for hisvera amoris. He had thought achieving the bond would unfold in an elegant process, as elegant as the name itself. Instead, he was more like his beast than he had been in his entire existence. He was less than pleased.
“My brother…” Alfred heard the catch in Matthias’s voice, the combination of rue and impatience, of nostalgia and vexation that colored the relationship of the Bates twins. Alfred knew taking Matthias as his Second was the least of it, but he felt a measure of regret as regarded the way it exacerbated the siblings’ discord.
“Your brother?” Best to get whatever it was out of the way.
“Is insisting that as his heir, I join him for the foreseeable future learning about the management of the Rendall holdings.”
Well, that was ridiculous. Matthias had forgotten more about stewardship than Nathaniel would ever know. His Beta was charged to the Lowell Pack and would be for the length of his life. Nathaniel knew it, and yet he would continue to prod the sore spot until—until what? The human version of the tale of Romulus and Remus sprung to mind.
“I shall write to him myself,” Alfred said, “and to your father, since Nat is behaving like a child, and remind them of the impossibility of that thoughtless request.”
How he regretted his thoughtless question about Miss Templeton’s parents. The wave of grief she exuded was as fierce as if it were only yesterday she lost them. He knew he was rather rough around the edges, but one of his breeding knew better, was better, than that. No stranger to such regret himself—he thought of his sister, how he had failed her, and was heartsick with remorse—his gauche query had resulted in pain for his mate.
