Chapter 2

“Papa! Look here! This wound healed up so nicely,” Rosalyn said to her father, who was talking to the stable master, Mr Hansley, at the entrance to the stables. The scent of hay and horses was strong in Rosalyn’s nostrils, and she loved it. It was the scent of her childhood, of her happiest memories growing up. She scraped a fall of blonde hair out of one eye and squinted at the scar she could see under the mane of the stallion.

“...and we need to order more bran. What is it, sweetness?” Rosalyn’s father called, turning from where he conferred with the serious-faced Mr Hansley.

Rosalyn turned back to what she was doing, which was combing one of their stallions, Bradford. “The wound on Bradford’s neck,” Rosalyn told her father as he came over to join her. “It has healed up so nicely. It’s just a small scar now.”

Bradford, a part-Arabian thoroughbred, had injured his neck running in the forest—a branch or something else had sliced into his neck as he ran past it. The wound had been cleaned and stitched by the village surgeon, who occasionally visited the Rothwell stable, despite his usual vocation regarding people. It had healed well: Besides a small, hairless line in his russet-red coat, one could see no other indication.

“It looks very good indeed,” Papa replied, smiling. “You’re doing a grand job at grooming him. I have never had the patience that you do. The horses respond well to it.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Rosalyn said with a smile. Her father never gave praise lightly, though he gave it often. She truly had a rapport with the horses, particularly the ones who spooked easily with other people. Their trust in her gave her more than it did to the horses themselves. She loved their closeness. The stables were her refuge, the one place in the world where she was absolutely herself. Since her mother had passed away five years before, she had spent more and more time there, seeking solace in the love that the beautiful creatures could give.

“Don’t exhaust yourself, dear. It’s a long day today,” Papa reminded her gently.

“I won’t, Papa,” Rosalyn said, biting her lip. She felt nauseous just thinking about it. His Grace, the Duke of Stallenwood, had asked for her hand, and Papa had agreed to it. And the duke was going to arrive that day to call on them.

It still stunned Rosalyn. Her family were barely known in Court circles and had never been part of London’s high society. Their income was modest, their estate holdings not exactly vast. Their horse breeding program was among the very best in England, though, and that was the sole reason, she imagined, for the duke and for her father to agree to the match. She could not imagine any other reason why a duke would involve himself with a relatively obscure and humble family.

I have never even seen him, Rosalyn thought fearfully, her fingers twisting the fabric of her sleeves in an anxious habit. She shut her hazel-brown eyes for a moment, her head hurting. She knew nothing whatsoever about the duke. He could be anything at all—old, young or somewhere in between; ugly, handsome or ordinary-looking. She was frightened of the very idea—frightened and apprehensive. And she was going to meet him in a few hours.

She tidied her thick, pale hair, trying to ignore the knot of worry in her stomach.

“I need to go in, now,” her father added gently. “Do not linger too long. It’s cold.”

“Yes, Papa,” Rosalyn said softly. It was cold, though it had yet to snow. In Sussex, it did not snow heavily—sometimes, not at all. Rosalyn could remember only a handful of years when it had snowed close to Christmastide. She lifted the brush from where she had left it balanced on the gatepost and continued her work.

“Hush, there,” she said gently to Bradford, the stallion, as she combed his coat. He snorted and stamped, and Rosalyn took a deep breath. Her own anxious mood was communicating itself to him.

“I’ll let you rest now,” she told the horse, stroking his head gently. As she went to the door of the stables, she heard voices. She tensed instantly, peering out. Her father was walking up the gravel drive with a strange man.

Her heart thudded wildly. The man must be the Duke of Stallenwood.

Rosalyn looked down at her gown. She was wearing a threadbare white velvet dress that she hardly ever used and she could only imagine how her hair looked. The duke stood ten paces away. She studied him, heart racing.

The duke was tall; an inch taller than Papa, who was not a short man. He had a slim but athletic build, his tight buckskin riding breeches showing firmly muscled legs and well-formed calves. His face was long and slim, his mouth a grim line. His hair was jet black. He wore knee-length riding boots and something about his stance made her think he rode often; his posture upright, his legs strong. His shirt collar reached up to his ears, white and stiff. His cravat was sparsely tied, as though he could not be bothered to expend energy on frivolity. She could not read the expression on his face—it was what she could only describe as icy.

“His grace the duke wished to view our stables,” Papa greeted her. She gasped, realising he had noticed her presence. The duke was looking at her. Her cheeks burned. “May I have the honour of presenting to you his grace, the Duke of Stallenwood?” Papa added with an awkward grimace.

Rosalyn drew in a breath. The duke was staring at her, but his gaze was far from friendly, and her stomach tightened. His eyes were grey, the exact colour of the leaden sky, and his glance was coldly assessing, as though she was a horse for sale. She reddened, anger mixing with awkwardness.

“Your Grace,” she murmured. She had learned etiquette, and she knew the exact depth of curtsey appropriate to offer a duke. Yet as she did so, her knees were trembling. His expression was so cold, his grey eyes so assessing, that it scared her.

“Your Grace, may I present my daughter, the Honourable Miss Rothwell?” Papa addressed the duke. The duke inclined his head, the barest of nods, and bowed low to Rosalyn. His wintry gaze held hers for a moment as he straightened.

“Good afternoon, Miss Rothwell.”

His voice was neither high nor low, a middle-toned voice that was soft and resonant and which, for some unfathomable reason, tied her stomach in knots.

“Good afternoon,” she managed to say, though her heart was racing, her palms wet with perspiration.

The duke turned to her father. “Shall we go on, my lord?” he asked Papa coolly. “I wish to see your stable.”

How rude! Rosalyn thought angrily. He had not even had the courtesy to take tea with the family and already he was demanding a look at the stables. He had travelled for a week from the Midlands to Sussex, and, still, he could not find the manners to take a cup of tea first. She bristled and glared at him. He caught her stare, and she blushed. His own look was mild, as if her anger did not touch him.

He does not seem to care if we—some small, provincial family—are angry with him, Rosalyn thought crossly.

“Our stud stallions are on opposite ends of the stable,” her father was explaining as he led the duke into the stables. “At the door we have Wildfire, and Starlight is on the other side.” One of the horses near the door neighed as he saw Papa. It was Chestnut, his hunting stallion. He always greeted Papa like that. Rosalyn followed her father, unsure what else to do.

“Mm. Both are Arabian?” the duke asked mildly.

“They are,” Papa replied.

He seemed to have no idea of courtesy or decency. He had barely even glanced at her. She looked at Papa, willing him to say something. Surely, he should address the rudeness?

“You have your own breeding program with the two and your mares?” the duke asked.

Rosalyn opened her mouth, about to say that they had bred several fine foals already, but Papa spoke first.

“We have,” he replied almost nervously.

“Fine,” the duke said icily.

Chestnut neighed again and Papa went over to stroke him. Rosalyn looked up at the duke uncomfortably. He was standing close to her, and the enormity of the situation hit her like a fist. She did not know him at all. She could not think of a single thing to say to him. But in a few weeks, they would be living at Stallenwood Park together. He was a cold, silent stranger who seemed to be assessing and judging herself and her family at their small, provincial home.

She looked away, racking her brains to think of what to say.

“He must be two years old?” the duke asked coolly. She jumped. She had not expected him to say anything.

“Two and a half,” Rosalyn replied neutrally. She kept her voice firm, though she was secretly impressed, despite her anger, by his astute observation. It took a knowledgeable breeder to be able to guess a horse’s age, and she could not help but be impressed by that.

“Mm. You have owned him since he was a foal?” His eyes were impossible to read.

“A yearling,” Rosalyn replied. She could not help smiling at the recollection of Chestnut when he arrived. He had been almost full-grown, around the height of her shoulder; all long chestnut legs and swiveling ears and swishing tail.

“He is quite tall,” the duke commented.

“Mm. His sire was very tall. Smoke, his name was. A black thoroughbred.” She recalled the stallion—imposing and cool-tempered, quite different to their loveable chestnut foal.

“Who owned him?” the duke asked.

Rosalyn frowned. That was a secret of their own breeding program, not to be given lightly to a stranger. But then, she thought as a sudden flush crept into her cheeks, he was not a stranger. In a month’s time, he would be her husband.

Her easy rapport with him was instantly replaced with awkwardness. She looked down at her toes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were burning with heat as he looked at her and she realised that he must be thinking the same thing.

“Rosalyn, sweetness?” her father called her, saving her from having to reply. She looked up.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Mayhap you can show his grace your mare? You have done so much of her training yourself that I would hesitate to show her without you.”

“Marmalade?” Rosalyn blinked. Why should the duke see her horse, Marmalade? She was an eight-year-old mare, who Rosalyn had ridden since she was a teenager. She had begun riding her at fifteen, and now, after Rosalyn’s twentieth birthday, they had shared five years together. They were inseparable friends.

“Yes. She is one of our best mares.”

Rosalyn turned to the stall where her horse, Marmalade, stood, whickering a greeting to her over the doorway.

“Easy, lass,” Rosalyn murmured, stroking her nose. Marmalade followed her without the need for a bridle, which was, Rosalyn realised, why her father had asked her to lead the mare out. Marmalade followed her like that, but she would not follow anyone else.

“Fine. Fine,” the duke praised as Marmalade trotted past him. She was a beautiful horse. She was fifteen hands tall—a good height for a thoroughbred mare—and she had a broad, deep chest and strong legs. She carried her head proudly, her thick mane tossing and her white coat glossy in the late-morning light. It was a sunny day, but it was icy cold out in the paddock. Rosalyn’s teeth chattered as she drew her shawl closer around her shoulders.

“She is eight years old,” Papa was explaining. Rosalyn stopped focusing on them and focused instead on Marmalade. She held up her hand and the horse came to sniff it, tossing her head back in imitation of Rosalyn, who tossed back her own. Rosalyn ached to run because if she did, Marmalade would run with her, showing off her even gait. But the thought of running in front of a stranger made her flush. The duke was so cold and remote that he would almost certainly be shocked by any breach of etiquette.

“Easy, sweetling,” she said to Marmalade, reaching up to stroke her forehead. “Are you going to rear for me?” She lifted her hand, practising a signal that she had taught her horse—or tried to—long ago, when she was fifteen and Marmalade was three. She had exercised for countless hours with the horse, but she had only ever done this particular thing a few times, and Marmalade had only managed to understand her gesture once before. This time, Marmalade reared up on her back feet and then brought her front feet, muscled and heavy, crashing down onto the earth in front of her.

“Whoa! Good girl! Good girl!” Rosalyn praised. A delighted grin spread across her face. The duke slipped from her notice, and she reached up to stroke her horse’s head, hugging her neck in delight and appreciation of the unexpected gesture. Marmalade snorted, snuffing in Rosalyn’s hair. Rosalyn stroked her head again, then glanced across at the duke.

He was staring straight at her.

Rosalyn went cold and looked away hastily, her heart thudding in her chest. Embarrassment and confusion washed through her. His gaze was focused, unreadable.

Why is he staring? she asked herself. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, heart thumping hard. Maybe he was staring because she looked untidy. She glanced down at her tatty dress and worn-out boots.

Her father was saying something—she could hear his low voice as he talked, but she could not make out the words. She did not hear the duke reply and she risked a glance at them as she turned to lead Marmalade out. The duke’s gaze met hers again. He stared for a second and then looked down, as if he had noticed that she had seen him staring. She was closer when he looked up, and his expression was utterly unreadable. Whatever he was thinking, she simply could not guess.

Those grey eyes are so cold, she thought with a shiver. She risked a glance at him from the stable door, studying his features more closely. His mouth was a thin line, his chin hard. His jet-black hair was cut severely short. His nose was slim and well-formed, and his face was hard, his cheekbones high and very slight wrinkles framing his mouth at the corners. She shivered again and looked away.

“Thank you, sweetness,” her father called to her gently. Rosalyn understood that he wanted her to take her horse back to her stall. She went through the door, fighting not to look back, and stabled Marmalade and then went outside again. Papa was still talking, his posture suggesting that it was a serious matter. Rosalyn’s heart thudded hard.

Her father looked up, smiled and waved her closer. She walked over reluctantly, swallowing her fear and tension about being so close to the duke. She avoided his eye, looking instead at her father.

“His grace and I will go to the house to talk,” her father said awkwardly. “If you would prefer to stay at the stable, then you are of course welcome to do so.”

Rosalyn swallowed. “Of course, Papa,” she said swiftly. “I will remain here. Good day to you both,” she added, though her throat was so tight that she could barely get the words out.

“Good day,” the duke said coldly.

Her father smiled; his brown eyes set in wrinkles that showed whenever he grinned. She knew he was trying to reassure her, his concern evident in his dark eyes. Then he turned and walked with the duke towards the house. Rosalyn stayed where she was for a few minutes, then rushed back into the stables.

“Should I go to take stock of the feed, my lady?” Mr Hensley asked her. Rosalyn jumped. She had thought she was unobserved. She nodded.

“Yes. Please, Mr Hensley. I will complete my grooming of the horses.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Rosalyn remained rooted to the spot, too flustered to move. He is here to finalise the arrangement with Papa , she thought, her stomach churning. It was an arrangement that involved her—no, more than involved her; she was at the very heart of it.

“That man has no decency,” she said softly but angrily. He had come to see the stables, that was all. He had barely spared a glance at her.

Except that he did. He was staring at me for half the time, she reminded herself. She shivered and tucked her hair into its bun. He was probably shocked by my tatty appearance, she thought sadly. His gaze had given nothing away, but she hesitated to call it an admiring stare.

“Well, I don’t want his admiration,” she told her horse firmly. He was horrid, cold and frosty and she did not like him at all. She bit her lip. He was going to be part of her life soon. An inescapable reality was looming closer every moment.

“Heavens help me,” she whispered, her fingers moving involuntarily to the little pearl cross that she wore around her neck—it had belonged to her mother, and she wore it always, a talisman to keep her safe. Her fingers closed around it where it lay under her dress, over her heart.

“Sister?” a voice called. “Sister? Where are you?”

“Sebastian! I’m here,” Rosalyn called, recognising her brother’s voice. She went towards the door in time to see him striding up the path towards the stable. He was dressed in a black tailcoat, a high-necked white shirt and long dark grey trousers. Of all the family, Sebastian was most often in London, and he dressed accordingly.

He smiled, a grin lighting up his long, thin face. He looked exactly like their father—or, exactly like he must have looked twenty years ago. At twenty-five, Sebastian was the eldest of the siblings and managed the estate alongside Papa, though he took more interest in investing and finance than Papa ever had. He looked into her eyes and a worried expression shadowed his features.

“Are you quite well, sister? You seem troubled.”

“No, I am quite well,” Rosalyn said quickly. As the eldest sister and the one who had managed the household since their mother’s passing, she was accustomed to appearing more cheerful than she felt.

“Come on. Let’s go indoors,” Sebastian said gently.

Rosalyn walked with him out of the stables. She looked up at him, overwhelmed with gratitude for his being there. “I am so glad you’re back from London,” she said softly.

“So am I!” Sebastian grinned. “I feel like when I was at school. Escaping Eton for the Christmas season was one of my favourite parts of the year.”

“Yes! It was grand to have you home for Christmas,” Rosalyn said, sighing too at the memory.

“I am glad you felt that way,” Sebastian said with a chuckle. “I could be a terror when I came back for the holidays.”

“Remember the time you climbed the oak tree and got stuck?” Rosalyn asked.

“I did not get stuck,” Sebastian said, sniffing as if affronted. “I simply rested up there.”

“For an hour?” Rosalyn teased.

They both laughed.

“It was not just me. We were both frightfully naughty when we were children—not just me,” Sebastian commented with a laugh. “Remember when we stole flowers from the garden at the neighbour’s house in London? Or when I stole mince pies from the kitchen?”

“They were so hot,” Rosalyn recalled. “They had just come out of the oven. And we tried to eat them.”

“Yes!” Sebastian was laughing heartily, a big grin lighting his face. “The cook heard us screaming and that rather gave us away.”

Rosalyn laughed aloud, her shoulders shaking with amusement as she remembered. “You screamed so loudly! And then we were both laughing.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Those were grand times.”

“Mm.” Rosalyn closed her eyes for a moment, recalling her childhood Christmases. Sometimes there had been snow—usually not more than ankle-deep—but they had sledged and played outside for hours. Inside the hall, greenery and candles adorned the rooms, and the kissing bough—a ball of greenery with red apples suspended in the centre—was hung at the back of the ballroom. Her heart twisted as she recalled how joyous she had been, watching her happy parents laugh and smile at each other.

“You tried so hard to hold us together after...after...” Sebastian coughed. Rosalyn swallowed. She guessed that he had thought of Mama, just as she had. Her heart ached.

“I did. Thank you, Sebastian,” she said, her throat feeling tight. He was one of the only members of the family who acknowledged that—that she had tried so hard to be strong when Mama had passed away, that she had done her best to do what Mama would have wanted and to keep the family as cohesive and strong as it had been when she was alive. As it happened, she did not need to try that hard—apart from Papa withdrawing into silences, which he still occasionally did, they had remained as close as ever. She gazed up at Sebastian, her heart filled with love.

“You are so strong, sister,” Sebastian said gently, his gaze holding hers. “So much stronger than you know. You carried us all for a while. Those are very capable shoulders.” He shoved her playfully on the shoulder, lightening the mood.

Rosalyn smiled up at him, unable to speak for a moment. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you, brother. You have no idea what that means to me.” She had needed to hear those exact words. Perhaps she could do it. At least for the rest of the evening.

Sebastian just smiled. “Now,” he said slowly, “I reckon we ought to go indoors. It’s chilly out here.”

“Yes,” Rosalyn replied, becoming aware that she was shivering and that it was, in fact, extremely cold. She walked with Sebastian to the door and drew a breath, then stepped into the room. She was strong, and she could face whatever awaited, as long as there were horses and a stable to keep her sane where she was going. Or she would try to face the cold, horrid duke, and forget about him until she had to.