Cinderella And The Duke. Janice Preston
continued.
‘I elected to walk him to the farrier in the village rather than send to the Manor for a replacement.’
Rosalind studied the lane ahead of them, determined to give him no further opportunity to distract her. ‘I, too, was in the village earlier. I recall seeing a black horse in Mr Benson’s forge as I passed. That must have been you.’
He glanced down at himself, then at Rosalind, his lips curving. ‘Not me precisely,’ he said. ‘The last time I looked, I was not a black horse.’
Rosalind bit her lip against the urge to giggle. ‘My apologies, sir. I shall endeavour to select my vocabulary with more care in future.’
He grinned. ‘I find it does help to prevent misunderstandings. That is a remarkably fine animal you have there, Mrs Pryce.’
‘Thank you. He is beautiful, is he not?’ Rosalind patted Kamal with pride and affection. ‘He was a gift from my father.’
He had actually been a gift from her stepfather, but the less anyone knew of her connection to the late Earl of Lydney the better. It could only harm Nell’s reputation if it became known that she had not moved straight from her guardian’s protection to that of her aunt.
‘I assumed he must be a gift from your late husband,’ Leo said.
‘No.’ The less she said about her fictional dead spouse the better.
‘Have you been a widow for long?’
Rosalind shot a swift sideways glance at Leo before answering. ‘I would prefer not to talk of it.’
‘You are not in mourning, I see.’
She tweaked the peacock-blue skirt of her riding habit. ‘You are correct.’
She was uneasily aware that Leo was studying her closely. She kept her attention firmly on the lane ahead.
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘We moved here two weeks ago.’
‘We?’
‘My brother and I.’
‘Just the two of you, then?’
‘Yes.’
Thankfully, Leo fell silent. A sideways glance revealed a thoughtful expression. His questions... Rosalind’s nerves jangled. Why had she invited him back to Stoney End? For the sake of a wave of longing that had temporarily robbed her of her wits? None of the gentlemen at Halsdon Manor must connect her and Freddie with Jack Caldicot, the new Earl of Lydney and, through him, with Lady Helena Caldicot, on the brink of making her debut in society. Who knew what lords and knights and so forth Leo was acquainted with? Without doubt he must know Sir Peter. All these society people knew each other, or knew of each other.
Donning the mantle of a widow had seemed a sensible precaution when they fled Lydney Hall, in fear of pursuit from Sir Peter and Lord Bulbridge and, for the same reason, both Nell and Freddie had stayed hidden at Stoney End. They were far more memorable than Rosalind, with Freddie’s lameness and Nell’s silver-blonde beauty. One careless word and all their plans could come to naught. If it became known Rosalind had taken Nell from her legal guardian’s care to live here under assumed identities—even for so short a time as two weeks—it would surely create a scandal, which could ruin Nell’s chances of making the splendid match she deserved.
At last, the chimneys of Stoney End came into sight. Rosalind led the way into the stable behind the house.
‘You can tether Saga in there.’ She pointed to an empty stall. ‘There is an old blanket at the back, to stop him catching a chill.’
Leo loosened Saga’s girth as Rosalind led Kamal into his stall and started to unsaddle him.
‘Where is your groom?’
‘We do not have a groom at present, but a lad from Foxbourne Manor comes in twice a day to help.’
Before she knew it, Leo was inside Kamal’s stall, setting her nerves tingling again as he brushed past her to take over the unsaddling.
‘I can manage.’
‘I make no doubt you can, but a lady should not have to do this sort of work,’ Leo said, removing the saddle and starting on Kamal’s bridle. ‘Could your brother not take over during the absence of your groom?’
‘No. Freddie is... He is not strong.’
She moved back to give Leo space, still jittery over her reaction to his touch.
‘Does he not ride?’
‘Not at present. He took a fall shortly before we came here and he has not ridden since.’
Yet another thing she could thank Sir Peter for...him and his cronies...mocking poor Freddie and deliberately spooking his horse until it bolted in sheer terror. Pure rage at that memory burned in Rosalind’s heart. She hated that Sir Peter had won...had driven them from their home... She had failed to protect Freddie, deserted their loyal servants, abandoned Jack’s inheritance. But at least she had protected Nell from marriage to that lecher Bulbridge. Her come-out had been all planned for last year, before Step-Papa became ill. Surely Sir Peter could not object to Nell coming out with her aunt as chaperon?
Rosalind gradually became conscious of stillness and silence, and refocussed on the present to find Leo standing in front of her, Kamal’s bridle and saddle in his arms. He was studying her face and she quickly schooled her expression.
‘The harness room is at the back,’ she said, pointing.
‘So you only have Kamal to care for?’ Leo spoke over his shoulder as he went to the saddle room.
‘Yes.’
Rosalind turned to leave, but Leo lingered, gazing around at the empty stalls.
‘No carriage horses? No vehicle of any kind?’
‘Not at present.’
The Lydney carriage and horses were now at Nell’s disposal in London. She sensed Leo’s attention on her.
‘Come.’ She gestured to the stable door, eager to forestall more questions. ‘Let us go indoors and dry your boot.’
She felt him on her heels as she crossed the yard towards the back door. ‘I hope you will not object to entering the house this way?’
‘Not at all. Before we go in, however...’
Hard fingers gripped her upper arm, pulling her around to face him. Rosalind’s breath grew short as Leo gazed down at her and her cheeks heated. She swallowed and tentatively tugged her arm from his grasp. He released her immediately, but she remained pinned in place by the command of those silver-grey eyes. Up close, she could see the shadow of dark whiskers on his jaw and cheek. It gave him a dangerous, almost piratical, air and yet her fingers twitched with the urge to feel their rasp.
Leo touched the tip of her nose—gently, fleetingly—with his forefinger.
‘What is your name?’
His voice was low. Husky. Rosalind caught the faint scent of cologne—musky, with a trace of orange and cinnamon—beneath the smell of fresh air, horse and leather. Her insides swooped like a swallow in flight and her breathing hitched.
‘Rosalind.’ It emerged as a croak. She frowned, cleared her throat and spoke with more force. ‘Rosalind.’
‘Rosalind...’ The mellifluous way he rolled the syllables of her name created shivery waves over her body. ‘It is a beautiful name.’
His eyes darkened and Rosalind felt another quiver run through her, as though he had gently tugged on an invisible cord attached deep within her core. It was as though she were a musical instrument and a mere look, or the sound of his voice, could tease a tune from her body as surely as a harp would respond to the plucking of a string.
This will not