Chapter 17

Rosalyn blinked, opening her eyes in the dimly lit room. She had slept deeply, utterly fatigued from the cold, the long coach ride, and the conflicting yet exquisite emotions that stirred within her. She sat up, looking around.

There was a soft glow in the grate where the fire had burned low, and a slight gap in the curtains showed pale dawn light. She slipped out of bed and reached for her nightgown, shivering in the cold bedroom. Her maid had hung a dark brown velvet dress on the wardrobe for her, and Rosalyn tugged it on, reaching behind herself to fasten the buttons. Then she thrust her feet into her outdoor boots, which had been drying all night by the hearth. She felt restless and she wished to go outdoors.

“Good morning,” a male voice greeted her as she hurried down towards the entranceway. She stiffened, body tensing. It was not the duke. She did not recognise the voice and so she said nothing until she reached the foot of the stairs. Then she stopped and blinked in surprise.

“Lord Winbrook,” she greeted, addressing the man with red-brown hair, whom she had caught staring at her on more than one occasion. He seemed to be some sort of acquaintance or relative of the Duke of Stallenwood. She had never exchanged more than two words with him, yet he often glanced her way, and he smiled at her after he had performed his charade. His gaze on her was intense and he bowed low.

“Good morning, Miss Rothwell,” he greeted her again. “I see you also found it difficult to find rest last night.”

“Mm,” Rosalyn said, making as noncommittal a reply as she could think of. “I woke early.”

“As did I,” Lord Winbrook replied. “I took a stroll about the grounds. It is extremely cold out there,” he cautioned as she lifted her pelisse from its peg. A member of the household staff must have hung it before the fire to dry because it was crisply warm when she shrugged it on.

“I imagine so,” Rosalyn said a little briskly. She did not like the way he stared at her or attempted to make conversation despite her evident lack of interest.

“I would recommend that you remain indoors, miss,” he said with a worried frown.

Rosalyn lifted a shoulder. “I shall not be long,” she said as lightly as she could, opening the front door as she spoke. She stepped out into the snow.

“You might catch a fever,” Lord Winbrook said as she turned to shut the door. She raised one brow, trying to be calm, though her heart was thudding in her chest, and she ached to run off.

“I suppose I might. You also might have,” she reminded him. He grinned.

“Well said, miss. Well said.”

“Good day,” Rosalyn said, a little more firmly than she usually would, and shut the door. She hurried out into the snow. She shivered, though not only from the cold. The man’s behaviour was most unsettling.

She walked across the path. It was freezing cold. She shivered again and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her pelisse. She had forgotten her gloves. A light dusting of snow covered the path, and she stepped into it, her footsteps crunching as she hurried past the lawn towards the hedge-lined path.

Lord Winbrook had disturbed her and, while she would usually have taken a brisk walk around the lawn and gone in—perhaps staying for a moment or two to admire the snow-dusted foliage and the icicles on the tree—she walked towards the stable.

Just a moment with the horses, she promised herself. That is all I need.

Horses had always been her first source of comfort. Whenever she was sad or disturbed, she went to find them. She stepped into the stable and breathed in, smelling the rich, dusty hay and the pleasant, warm smell of living creatures drowsing in the stable’s warmth. A horse whickered, and Rosalyn walked instinctively towards the stall.

“...and you’re much better now. Much better,” a male voice murmured.

Rosalyn moved back, pressing herself against the wall. It was a refined voice, rich and resonant and clearly mature. It might be the stable master, she reminded herself. She stood where she was and listened.

“You’re a good girl. Such a good girl.”

She drew in a breath. It was the duke’s voice. He was in the stall at the end. She guessed he was talking to Buttercup, the mare who had been sick earlier in the week. She stepped out of hiding, turning in the aisle to go out again. She did not want to disturb the duke. She froze as he called out to her.

“Miss Rothwell? Is that you?”

“Um...yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, turning to face him. She reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear. She had not yet taken the time to arrange her hair, planning to go back to her room and style it before going down to breakfast. It was tied back in a ribbon, that was all.

“Come and see Buttercup. She has made such progress. The medicine must be quite effective.”

“I would not wish to intrude,” Rosalyn demurred, reluctant to disturb the duke on his morning rounds in the stable. Perhaps, like for herself, this place was his refuge.

“Come,” he said gently, gesturing to the stall. “You are not intruding. I have invited you to step inside.”

She grinned, a wry smile. “Indeed, Your Grace, that is so.”

“Quite so.”

His smile was wry, and his one eyebrow lifted in amusement as he looked at her. His long, thin face was still, his gaze intense.

Rosalyn’s heart thudded in her chest. It was there, the look that had so confounded her the day before. It was admiration. She could not deny it to herself any longer. She gazed up at him, losing herself in the grey depths of his eyes.

One of the horses neighed, making him look away, startled.

“Oh. Firelight? Is that you?” the duke chuckled. “Whatever is the matter now?”

Rosalyn laughed. He sounded just a little impatient, though the love he felt for the horse was evident. It was just like her voice must sound when she talked to her own mare, Marmalade. At the thought of Marmalade, her heart twisted. She had no doubt that she was being well cared for at home, but she missed her sorely.

“I should take them out for exercise today,” the duke confided as she came to join him next to Buttercup’s stall. “At least, my horse needs it.” He chuckled, gazing over at the stall. “That big fellow is used to being out and about. He hates being shut away in a stable for long.”

“He looks like an intelligent creature,” Rosalyn commented, looking over at the horse. “I imagine he finds it very tiresome in here.”

“Quite so,” the duke replied. “Intelligent, brave and as stubborn as a mule. Not so, eh, old chap...?” He turned to his horse.

The horse neighed and stamped, and it seemed as though he had understood the duke’s minor insult. Rosalyn chuckled.

“He is a sweet fellow.”

“Mm.” The duke stepped back to rub the stallion’s nose, then came back to where the mare, Buttercup, had stuck her head over the gate of her stall and was swishing her tail, waiting impatiently. He smiled and rubbed her nose, then tickled her behind the ear. “There you are. You are such a dear, dear creature.”

The horse snorted and shut her eyes. Rosalyn’s heart twisted. She was quite old, her reddish fur showing white at her muzzle. Her coat was not particularly shiny. Her eyes were big and limpid and full of wisdom and patience. Rosalyn stroked her head, feeling drawn to the wise old dame of horses.

“She’s beautiful,” she said softly.

The duke smiled. “She is one of the only horses who has been here since my father’s time.” He swallowed. “I remember her from when I was a boy.”

“How old is she?”

The duke shrugged. “She must be more than ten—fifteen, perhaps?” he frowned. Rosalyn felt her eyes widen.

“That’s a considerable age for a horse.”

“It is,” the duke replied. “She’s an old dear.” He rubbed the horse’s nose again. “I am so glad she is better.”

Rosalyn smiled. “So am I.”

The duke walked down the aisle to the feed room and put his hand into a bag, then drew it out filled with rolled oats. Rosalyn watched as he fed half the handful to Buttercup and then went to Firelight’s stall and fed him. The big, red-coated horse gobbled the oats, lipping the duke’s fingers as he ate. Then he stamped, as if to ask why he was not getting more.

“Greedy thing,” the duke teased him. Firelight snorted.

Rosalyn’s heart twisted as she chuckled with mirth and pleasure. Seeing the two of them interacting was something special. The duke was vulnerable with his horses in ways she had never seen him be with people. He showed them a side that she had never seen before. He seemed to trust them more than he trusted others.

And yet he has shown care to me, she thought, drawing in a breath. When her horse had bolted, or even when she had been cold outside, he had shown a caring, gentle side.

“I shall need to come back here at a later hour,” the duke said, gesturing to the tack room. “Firelight needs a proper brushing. It is one thing for the stable hands to attend to him, but when I do it, it is different. We both need it. That connection.”

“I understand you completely,” Rosalyn said, nodding. “I groom Marmalade too.”

“It is not just about cleaning them and caring for them. It is a way of speaking to them,” the duke explained.

“Yes. I tell Marmalade I love her, but grooming is a way of showing it.”

The duke nodded. “Quite so.”

He held her gaze. Rosalyn stared up into his grey eyes. They were mesmerising, the colour like the snow-clouds that blanketed the sky. His skin was pale in the light from a lamp on the wall.

“Few people understand so well what I mean when I talk of my love of the horses,” the duke said softly. His gaze was soft, his expression serious.

“Few people understand how deep and meaningful the bond can be. Marmalade is like no other—she listens, and she does not judge.” Her eyes dampened as she thought about her beautiful horse, so many miles away in the south.

The duke nodded. “Quite so. Firelight knows so much about me.”

“I used to tell Marmalade all my secrets when I was a girl,” Rosalyn nodded. “She has been with me since I was sixteen.” She smiled, her eyes damp.

“That is a very special thing,” the duke said softly. His gaze held hers and Rosalyn smiled. His expression was intense but tender, and it made her flush with warmth. They had stepped back from Firelight’s stall towards the door, and she shivered. The draft that blew in from the snow outside was icy. The duke frowned.

“You’re cold,” he said softly. “You have no gloves! Miss Rothwell...you’ll give yourself a fever like that.” His tone reprimanded her gently.

Rosalyn smiled a little teasingly. “You, too, are bare-handed.”

He raised a brow. “I am not,” he said, and patted his pocket, where she could see the ends of leather gloves just under the flap. He grinned smugly.

Rosalyn laughed. “I see that I am wrong.”

“Quite so. Now, I am going to escort you to the house. I regret that I must stop at the kitchen...I must give some instructions to our stable master,” he explained. He gestured to the door that led out into the snow, and she stepped out, curling her hands into the sleeves of her coat.

The duke followed her. They walked down the pathway, their steps crunching on the snow. He reached the steps and bowed. “I shall see you upstairs in a few minutes,” he said gallantly.

She smiled and dropped a brief curtsey. She would have given a formal curtsey just days ago, but now—especially after their heartfelt talk about horses—it felt wrong somehow.

“I shall see you upstairs in a moment. I promise to leave some pastries and tea for you.”

“Just a little,” the duke teased.

“A pastry. Or two. At the most,” she called teasingly. He laughed and she frowned in amazement at herself. Only a few days ago, she had been positively wary of the man. Now, she teased and joked as she did with nobody else.

What in Perdition’s name has possessed me? she asked herself, giggling as she walked into the hallway and up the stairs. If it was madness, it was of the most delightful sort.

She stepped into the breakfast room and stopped. Lord Winbrook was there and he stood up, bowing to her. His dark eyes held her own as he straightened from the bow.

“Good morning, Miss Rothwell,” he greeted her.

“Um...I...I need my shawl,” she stammered. She had not taken the time to rearrange her curls, forgetting all about her dishevelled appearance. She gazed down, relieved that her dress had not become wet around the hem when she walked through the snow outdoors.

“Of course, you must fetch it, then,” he demurred. Rosalyn turned in the doorway and fled to her room.

“Whatever is the matter? Why does he unsettle me so?” she asked herself. She hastily arranged her hair, tucking it up into a simple bun and tying it with a dark-coloured ribbon. Then she donned her shawl and hurried to the breakfast room.

Lord Winbrook was still there, but—she was pleased to see—so was the duchess, and two other guests, an elderly couple who nodded and smiled at her in a friendly way.

“Tea, Miss Rothwell?” Lord Winbrook asked. He reached for the teapot and poured some for her. Rosalyn flushed with embarrassment.

“Thank you,” she managed to say.

“A pleasure, Miss Rothwell.”

Rosalyn looked away. She could not think of something to say, desperate to escape from the table where Mr Winbrook sat watching her with an attentive look. As she cleared her throat, about to excuse herself on grounds of feeling off-colour, her father walked in.

“Sweet Rosalyn! Good morning,” he greeted her with a fond smile and came and sat down at the table beside her.

“Good morning, Papa,” she said quietly. “Did you have a pleasant rest?”

“I slept so deeply I was surprised to wake as early as I did,” her father said with a smile. “Yourself?”

“I slept well enough,” she replied quietly. When she glanced across the table, Lord Winbrook was talking to the elderly man and ignoring her. She leaned back, her posture relaxing with her relief.

She and her father chatted about the snow and the ride in the coach—Father had not gone, but had walked around the garden and he had heard all about it from Georgina and Isabel. She was laughing happily as she heard someone walk in and saw the duke come over to the last unoccupied seat at the table.

He inclined his head in a slight bow when he looked at her and she smiled. She tensed as the duke’s gaze moved coldly to Lord Winbrook, who sat opposite. Lord Winbrook gazed at the duke and she shivered at the look in his eyes. It was hateful. She looked away, feeling shocked.

Whatever is the matter with them? she asked herself.

It made little sense, yet she knew she disliked the young viscount, and she fervently hoped to avoid his attempts at conversation. He unsettled her, though she could not say why, but if she could manage to steer clear of him for the remainder of the festivities—whatever the duchess had planned—she would be most content.