Chapter Seven #2
She turned at once, skirts catching moisture as she crossed the lawn, driven more by instinct than thought.
As she rounded the side of the house and reached the yard, the full scene unfolded with jarring clarity.
A massive black stallion reared high, hooves striking at the air.
Grooms darted back, some shouting, others frozen in place.
The beast thrashed wildly, its eyes wide, its chest slick with sweat.
One man attempted to seize the lead, only to stumble and fall backward, barely avoiding a crushing blow.
At the center of the chaos stood Gabriel.
She stopped short. He was calm. Steady. He approached the stallion with measured steps, his hand outstretched, his voice low and composed, though she could not hear the words.
The stallion wheeled, its breath rasping, but did not bolt.
Gabriel waited, then stepped in again, speaking as though to a frightened child.
The animal stilled for a breath, then surged forward. Gabriel held firm.
Genevieve caught her breath. A misstep could shatter bone. A single mistake, and he would be trampled. Yet he did not flinch. His palm met the stallion’s damp neck, firm but unthreatening. Again, he spoke. This time, the stallion lowered its head.
The change was gradual but evident. The trembling eased.
The whites of its eyes no longer showed.
Another moment passed, and the horse stood panting, its sides heaving, yet no longer wild.
Gabriel stroked the thick neck once more, then took the reins from a trembling stable boy and handed them to the head groom.
Only then did he release a long breath, as though permitting himself relief now that the danger had passed.
She had not realized her hands had clenched until she felt her nails pressing into her palms. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through, each line of muscle visible beneath the linen.
These were not the contours born of idle recreation, but the strength earned through honest labor.
No polished gentleman of London, no matter his attire, could match the quiet command Gabriel had displayed.
Just then, he turned and saw her. The moment their eyes met; the openness vanished.
His mouth firmed. His shoulders straightened. The mask returned.
She stepped forward, only to halt as the head groom approached, his face drawn with unease.
“Milord, it was the strap,” he said. “The girth strap. Snapped clean through during exercise. He nearly threw you. If you had been mounted…“
“I was,” he said, inhaling sharply. “But I caught him before he could throw me. He bolted toward the fence. I pulled him up short, jumped down, and he was spooked again once we reached the yard.”
The groom shook his head.
“I checked it yesterday, milord,” he said, sounding as frustrated as he was nervous. “I checked it twice. There was no weakness. None. I assure you.”
Gabriel said nothing. He accepted the broken strap and turned it over in his hands.
Genevieve stepped closer and saw what he saw. The tear through the leather was unnaturally straight. Not frayed. Not stretched. Cut.
The change in his expression was fleeting but undeniable as she stepped to his side.
“That does not appear to be the result of wear,” she said.
He shook his head.
“It is not,” he said gruffly.
A horrible thought occurred to Genevieve.
“Then the others ought to be examined,” she said, almost whispering. “Quietly. Especially if you believe that someone intended harm.”
His gaze snapped sharply to hers. For a moment, he said nothing. She held his stare, silently willing steadiness from herself while her heart raced.
And then, he smiled. Not faintly. Not in guarded politeness, but with a true, unmistakable smile that altered the severity of his features. The left side remained unchanged, marked and still, but the right side softened. A warmth spread upward, reaching his eyes.
Her breath caught. It was not the smile of a practiced gentleman or polished coyness. It was real and unforced, and utterly breathtaking. Like the portrait I saw, she thought as her heart skipped.
“There is sense in what you suggest,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “I shall have the tack checked again, without making any fuss about it.”
She returned the smile, slowly. It felt unfamiliar on her lips, not because she had never smiled before, but because this one belonged solely to him.
She wished, suddenly and without reason that he would do it again.
She hoped that there might be more such moments between them. Moments unshaped by expectation.
Of course, their matrimonial union was not a conventional one. There could be companionship, cooperation, and perhaps even kindness, but nothing more. Still, a matrimony built on shared effort and mutual understanding ought not to be devoid of comfort. Surely, it did not displease him to smile.
“I shall go examine the other stalls,” he said. “You may return to your plans for the day.”
Genevieve shook her head, silently asking him not to send her away.
“I should like to help,” she said. “If that is quite well with you.”
He paused, then nodded, his smiling lips twitching.
“Then let us begin,” he said.
She followed him toward the stables, the sunlight catching in his damp hair.
A strange sensation unfurled in her chest. It was not quite longing, but something near to it.
They worked in silence for a time. It was a silence that did not demand filling.
And when he glanced toward her again, his lips curved faintly, she felt her own smile return, unbidden and unfeigned.
She felt as though she was truly his partner at that moment, and it was a thrilling notion.
Was he beginning to trust her, after all?