Chapter 11
“You’ll crease the paper if you keep gripping it like that,” Margaret said, reaching for her tea.
Across the long table, the Duke glanced over the edge of the Times, one brow faintly arched. “Do you always comment on a man’s breakfast habits?”
“Only when they are alarming.”
He made a quiet sound, not quite a laugh but not far from it, and returned to his reading.
It had been several mornings like this now, the two of them taking breakfast together without strain. In the beginning, his silences had been the sort that felt like walls—tall, cold, unassailable. Now, they seemed more like pauses, spaces in which a person might answer if they wished.
The morning sun spilled across the long table in bright gold, catching the silverware and making the steam from her tea curl like ribbons in the air.
Margaret spread marmalade on her toast. “So? What catastrophe merits such a grip this morning?”
“Grain tariffs,” he said, setting the paper aside. “Tedious and overcomplicated.”
“Ah,” she said, with mock gravity. “A matter of life and death.”
He took a sip of coffee, and she was almost sure his mouth twitched. “You mock, but the wrong decision could cost the county a great deal.”
“And you will make the right decision, naturally.” She bit into her toast. “You strike me as the sort of man who always does.”
“That sounds suspiciously like flattery.”
“Observation,” she corrected, taking another bite and chewing slowly.
They fell into a quiet stretch, the clink of cutlery and the soft tick of the clock filling the air.
“You’ve been staring at that cup for an awfully long time,” Margaret said after a while, her voice mild as she reached for the butter dish.
Across the table, the Duke looked up from his coffee. “I was thinking.”
“About?” She poured another cup, not looking at him but entirely aware of his attention.
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to answer. “Whether the estate should lease the east fields this year.”
“Ah.” She took a small bite. “Grave matters for before eight o’clock.”
“One must start somewhere.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “And you start with land management. Most people start with bread.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, though he said nothing.
They fell quiet for a few moments, the clink of cutlery and the faint crackle of the fire filling the space between them.
Margaret grimaced at the heat of the tea. “And what conclusion have you reached about the fields?”
“That it may be better to plant barley.” He sipped his coffee then added, “The soil there holds moisture better than I remembered.”
“I’m impressed. Most men remember birthdays or the price of a good hat. You remember the moisture of a field’s soil.”
“It’s my business to remember.” His tone was even, but there was an undertone as if he were amused despite himself.
Margaret plucked a grape from the silver dish before her, rolling it lightly between her fingers. “A useful sort of memory,” she said at last and popped it into her mouth.
He set his cup down. “The cook mentioned the fishmonger brought in trout yesterday. I thought we might have it for dinner.”
Margaret’s brows rose. “We?”
“I assume you’ll still be here.”
“I will. And trout will do nicely,” she said, though the faint warmth in her chest had nothing to do with fish.
They lapsed into quiet again. The sound of the mantel clock ticking away the minutes was oddly pleasant.
Then he said, “I also had the kitchen send for apricot preserves. I believe you prefer them to strawberries.”
Margaret looked up sharply. “You noticed that?”
“I notice more than you think,” he said without meeting her gaze.
“Well,” she murmured, “thank you.”
Another pause.
“If you’re walking today,” he added, “the wisteria along the west wall has just begun to bloom. You might like it.”
“I might,” she said, though the truth was she already intended to go.
By early afternoon, the sky had grown heavy with clouds, but the rain still held off. Margaret wandered down toward the paddock, drawn by the sound of hooves on packed earth.
The Duke was there, standing by the fence, one hand resting on the rail as he watched a groom put a bay gelding through its paces. He didn’t turn when she approached. She wondered if he’d heard her or if he simply knew she was there.
“I didn’t know you kept horses in training,” she said as she approached.
“I don’t,” he replied, still watching the animals. “That one’s my second favorite. He’s recovering from a pulled tendon.”
Margaret leaned on the fence beside him. “And does the horse have a name?”
“Of course. Sentinel.”
“A serious name for a serious creature,” she observed, eyeing the gelding’s proud carriage. “Do you always choose such solemn names?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Only for the horses worth naming. My favorite is called Bramble. He threw me twice before breakfast most mornings.”
She laughed. “And yet you kept him?”
“I was twelve. He was the only horse I was permitted. We understood each other.”
The thought of a younger version of him, stubbornly mounting the same difficult horse day after day, caught her unexpectedly—almost endearing.
The gelding’s hooves thudded softly against the dirt, and a breeze lifted a few strands of her hair, carrying the faint smell of hay and warm leather.
“You ride?” he asked.
“I have been known to,” she said lightly. “Though I imagine my definition of ‘riding’ is more sedate than yours.”
“Perhaps I’ll test that someday.”
“Perhaps,” she replied with a glint in her eye. Then, after a beat, she tipped her chin toward his groom, waiting nearby with a second horse. “Now.”
The single word seemed to startle him. It was certainly not only the daring of it but the calm certainty in her tone.
He turned his head toward the gelding, a steady chestnut with bright eyes, then back to her. “Now?”
She only smiled.
With a half laugh, he nodded to the groom, who dismounted at once and held out the reins. “As you wish, Madam.”
Margaret’s brows lifted at his question. “You mean to lend me that creature?” she nodded toward Sentinel, who stamped and tossed his head as though insulted. “Or… Bramble.”
Sebastian gave a short laugh. “Hardly. He is old and a testy one at that. If he scents your inexperience, he’ll try it again. Also, Sentinel is still mending.” He turned in the saddle and signaled to the waiting groom. “Bring out Havisham and Bramble.”
The man jogged off toward the stable yard. Margaret tilted her head. “You keep spares, then?”
“Not spares. Companions,” he corrected, though his mouth curved. “But Havisham has better manners than Bramble or Sentinel, which is more than I can say for myself on occasion.”
She arched a brow, but there was a faint spark of amusement in her eyes. “Then perhaps I should prefer Havisham.”
When the groom led up a tall chestnut gelding with a steady eye and a great black stallion with a glossy coat that caught the light like polished jet, his head tossing high, Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly.
The old black stallion’s nostrils flared with imperious disdain. Every inch of him declared himself master of the field, untamed even beneath the saddle.
“Bramble,” Sebastian said with unmistakable pride, as though presenting a monarch. Then, with a glance toward Margaret, he guided the chestnut closer to her.
“There,” he said. “He’ll treat you more kindly than my Bramble ever would.”
Margaret accepted the reins, her fingers steady though her heart quickened with excitement. The gelding pawed once at the ground as though aware he had a new rider to test. She smoothed his neck, speaking low, and the animal stilled beneath her hand.
Sebastian watched, his brow raised. “You flatter beasts as easily as you do men. Shall I give you a hand up?”
“I hardly need one.” But she said it with a half-smile. Gathering her skirts with careful fingers, she set her boot to the stirrup and, with surprising grace, swung into the saddle. A faint flush colored her cheeks… whether from the effort or his watching, she could not have said.
He inclined his head, something like admiration flickering in his gaze. “Well then. Shall we?”
Her brow arched. “Shall we what?”
“To that oak there.” He tipped his chin toward the great tree standing proud at the edge of the meadow, its branches spread fully. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Unless you’d rather I give you a head start.”
Margaret’s answering laugh was bright, unguarded. “Keep your head start. You’ll need it.”
Before he could reply, she urged Havisham forward. The gelding leaped into motion, smooth and eager beneath her, and for one startled beat Sebastian found himself chasing rather than leading.
He pressed his heels to Bramble’s sides, the stallion stretching into a gallop. The wind tore past his ears, the ground rolling away beneath, and to his astonishment, Margaret held her seat with remarkable ease, skirts whipping, her laughter carrying back to him.
By the time they reached the oak, they were nearly neck-and-neck. Bramble’s stride devoured the last stretch, but Havisham did not falter, and Margaret sat him as though she’d been bred to the saddle.
She pulled up, cheeks flushed, eyes alight. “Well?”
Sebastian reined in beside her, breathless despite himself. “I’m not sure which shocks me more—that you dared or that you nearly bested me.”
“Nearly?” she teased, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “I thought I had you.”
He laughed then, a full sound that felt strange and good in his chest. “Careful, Margaret. Another challenge like that, and you’ll find I don’t give quarter twice.”
“Then you’d best prepare,” she said, her grin quick and defiant, “because I do not mean to.”
A few drops of rain spattered the fence, cool against her glove. He glanced upward. “We’d best head back before the weather decides for us.”
She gathered her reins, still flushed from the run. “Pity. I was beginning to enjoy myself.”
“So was I,” he admitted, a little too readily.