Taming The Duke. Jackie Manning
steal a look at him beneath her floppy hat brim. “I asked that I not be quartered in the manor house.”
Dalton peered down at her. “Your lodging is separate from the manor. In fact, the cottage is so far away that I’ve requested my carriage, my lady.” He was relieved to see her relax slightly. Damn, she was the most peculiar thing. But if she was willing to help Bashshar, he shouldn’t care if she wanted to bed down with the cattle.
The young groom arrived with the handsome black curricle pulled by a sprightly set of grays. The groom handed her up to the front seat while Dalton took the reins. Within minutes, the carriage clattered down the well-trimmed path along the gardens, past the numerous outbuildings, over a stone bridge and through a grove of trees. On the other side, the sheltered path curved toward a small cottage surrounded by trees and hedges.
Alicia stared at the thatched-roof bungalow. Dalton watched her brown eyes widen; her full lips formed an O of surprise before she masked her feelings. “Is this where I am…?”
He felt relieved at her pleased reaction. “I hope you find the quarters suitable, my lady. If not—”
“I’m certain the cottage will be most suitable.”
Dalton didn’t know what benefit she’d gain from sleeping away from the manor house, and he really didn’t care. “If you change your mind—”
“I’m here to be with Bashshar. He’s all that interests me at Havencrest. I had already instructed the groomsman to bring my trunks to my quarters.”
“Then if there’s nothing else you require…?”
“No, your grace.” Alicia covered her mouth with her dainty hand and as if on cue, yawned. “It’s been a frightfully long journey. I’m quite tired.”
Dalton turned to walk away, then paused. “Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, I’ll introduce you to Bashshar.”
“Why not now?”
“Because it’s late, and I don’t want the horse overly excited.”
“Good evening.” She bobbed a short curtsey and strode toward the cottage.
Dalton hid his smile as she dismissed herself without his permission. “Good evening, my lady.” No doubt the lady knew such behavior in front of a duke was considered a faux pas. Dash! He had hoped her distaste for him might have mellowed.
Dalton climbed into the curricle and headed back toward the manor. By now, maybe Olivia had learned something about this perplexing female.
Before he drove the carriage over the bridge, he gave in to the impulse to sneak a glance at her. She was standing at the cottage door, watching him.
Dalton smiled. Damn, she was an odd thing. And he couldn’t help wonder, again, what caused her to take such an instant dislike to him.
Alicia watched the elegant carriage pause before slipping out of sight. Aye, Wexton was as polite and charming as Lucifer—and just as handsome. In his elegant evening attire, he was all that and more. She nibbled her lower lip. Although she had risked his anger, he had not only tolerated her wishes, but appeared challenged by them. She took that as a victory. He’d met her demands, and built a fetching little cottage. The whitewash was still damp in places, and she’d wager that the roof thatch was so fresh it would shine like spun gold in tomorrow’s sunlight.
She hesitated before opening the door. How she’d hoped that the fluttery feelings in her stomach, when she was near Wexton, would have faded by now. How strange she felt when he stared at her with his penetrating blue eyes.
In the darkness, the sound of horses’ soft nickering from the nearby stables provided her with a familiar comfort. A wave of curiosity rose as she yearned to investigate Wexton’s prize-winning stock. Far and wide, men spoke of the duke’s horses, which were among the most splendid in England. She should wait until morning when the animals wouldn’t be so unsettled by a stranger in their midst. But her insatiable curiosity wouldn’t permit her to wait one more minute. The building was so huge, surely if she looked around for only a few minutes, no harm could come from that.
A short while later after she had settled in, Alicia slid the livery door open. She gasped, unable to believe her eyes. Walls of white alabaster marble rose to meet frescoed ceilings where every few yards lanterns flickered from ornate grillwork. White-graveled aisles led to the individual horses’ quarters past the immense tack room with dozens of hooks holding bridles, harnesses and rows of saddles. “My stars!”
To the right, a hinged sign above the passageway announced the stable hands’ wing. She peeked inside one of the empty chambers. The room was immaculate and its furniture clean and proper. The stable hands’ quarters were larger and more comfortable than her chambers at Marston Heath!
She hurried to take a glance at some of the horses. Lifting a lantern from its hook, Alicia strode past the tack room toward the horse stalls.
“Wha’ ye doin’?” A lad, not much older than her ten-and-four-year-old sister, poked his head out from the last stall. She had apparently awakened him by the look of his tousled red hair and sleepy eyes.
“I’m inspecting the quarters,” Alicia replied. “Who are you?”
The boy warily studied her plain dress and riding boots. “Name is Penn. I’m one o’ the stable boys.” He scratched his head and frowned. “Ain’t never seen ye before.”
Alicia bit back a smile. “I’ll be working here for a while,” she said instead.
A golden horse, similar in size to her own stallion, stuck its head over the stall gate and neighed a welcome.
Without a thought, Alicia peered over the rail, eager to see the animal’s conformation. Suddenly, from the far end of the stable, came a piercing cry, followed by a chorus of whinnies from the other horses.
“What was that pitiful sound?” Alicia asked.
Penn’s freckled face paled. “Nothin’.”
“Nothing?” Alicia pushed past him and rushed toward the racket. The agonizing sound reminded her of the day, last spring, when one of her mares had broken loose and wandered along the river. Alicia had followed that fearful bellow until she found her horse, stuck in the mud, just in time to save her from a pack of wild dogs.
The racket in the stable stopped as quickly as it had began. Raising the lantern, Alicia rounded the next row of horse stalls. At the end of the wall stood another box stall, walls too high to peer over.
Alicia forgot everything as she dashed toward the cubicle, hung the lantern on a peg and lifted the stout beam that held the door fast.
“Don’t go in there, Miss,” Penn yelled. “E’ll kill ye.”
Ignoring the stableboy’s warning, Alicia stepped inside and closed the door behind her. In one corner stood a massive black stallion, trembling with fear. The horse’s piercing black eyes were ringed in white as he backed into the corner, watching her with apprehension.
Alicia gasped. Somehow she knew this Thoroughbred must be Wexton’s Bashshar. Dismissing thoughts of the man, she moved away from the stall’s door to give the animal a sense that he wasn’t cornered.
He tossed his massive head; the lantern’s soft glow emphasized the fiery glints along his satiny black coat. The stallion pawed the ground, ears laid flat against his head, teeth bared.
Alicia’s need to comfort far outweighed her fear. In a low clear sound, she began to hum, while in her mind she pictured a soothing image—wind rippling through swaying willow branches. At a safe distance from the horse, she stood still, allowing him to become accustomed to her scent. Although Alicia thought the stallion might rear, she held her ground and continued to hum.
She looked for some outward sign of his distress. Raised white scars zigzagged across the animal’s left flank, shining in the lantern light. She grimaced but leaned closer. The laceration had occurred within the month,