Chapter Three #2
"Oh, you beautiful creature." She scratched behind his ears, found the spot where his jaw met his neck, and felt him lean into her touch with a sigh of pleasure that seemed almost undignified for such a majestic animal.
"You're not vicious at all, are you? You're just particular about your company, and I understand that completely. Most people are terribly tedious."
Sovereign made a sound that might have been an agreement.
"Miss Harrow." Henry's voice was awed. "He likes you."
"We've reached an understanding." She continued scratching, working her way down Sovereign's neck as the stallion's eyes drifted half-closed in bliss.
"You are lonely, aren't you, darling? Everyone's afraid of you, so no one gives you the attention you deserve.
No one scratches the itchy spots or tells you you're magnificent… "
"Sovereign has bitten three grooms this month."
The voice came from behind her—deep, cool, familiar and Eliza's hand froze mid-scratch.
She turned.
The Duke of Northmere stood in the stable aisle, immaculate in riding clothes that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. His boots gleamed, his cravat was perfect, but his expression was... unreadable, which was somehow more unsettling than outright disapproval would have been.
"Your Grace." She dropped into a curtsy, acutely aware that she had hay in her hair and horse slobber on her gloves and had been caught doing something that probably violated several sections of the sacred Schedule. "I was just…We were…That is to say…"
"Taking my ward for an unauthorised walk and befriending my notoriously ill-tempered stallion?"
"...Yes."
Something flickered in his gray eyes. It might have been annoyance or amusement. With the Duke, it was impossible to tell.
"Sovereign doesn't tolerate strangers," he said, moving closer. His gaze flicked between Eliza and the horse, who had pressed his nose against her shoulder and was showing no inclination to remove it. "He barely tolerates me, and I've owned him for four years."
"Perhaps he's been waiting for someone who speaks his language."
"And what language would that be?"
"Loneliness." The word came out before she could stop it. "He's magnificent and powerful, and everyone's afraid of him, so they keep their distance. But underneath all that, he just wants to be understood."
The Duke went very still.
Eliza realized, belatedly, that she might not have been talking only about the horse.
The silence stretched between them, thick with something she couldn't name. Sovereign huffed against her shoulder, impatient for more scratching, and Henry stood frozen at her side, watching the adults with the wide-eyed wariness of a child who knew when tension was brewing.
"You ride," the Duke said finally. It was not quite a question.
"Yes."
"Astride?"
The word hung in the air between them—improper, scandalous, thrilling. Ladies did not ride astride. Ladies rode sidesaddle, demurely, decoratively, in a manner that demonstrated their femininity and their complete inability to actually control a horse.
Eliza had never had much patience for being decorative.
"When no one is watching," she admitted.
She expected disapproval. She expected a lecture on propriety, on the behavior expected of a governess in his employ, on the importance of setting a proper example for his ward.
Instead, something flickered in his gaze, something that looked almost like... respect? Interest? The barest hint of heat, quickly suppressed?
"The gray mare," he said. "Misty. She's gentle but spirited and has good stamina for the moors." He paused. "You may ride her. Astride, if you wish. The eastern paths are private enough that no one will see."
Eliza stared at him. "Your Grace?"
"You're good with horses." His voice was gruff, as if the compliment had been dragged from him unwillingly. "I'd rather my stock be properly exercised than standing idle because society finds female competence inconvenient."
"I... thank you."
He nodded once, sharply, and turned to leave. Then stopped and turned back.
"Miss Harrow."
"Yes?"
His eyes dropped to her hair—to the curl that had escaped its pins and was now hanging over her shoulder, catching the dusty light of the stables like a copper flame. He looked at it for a long moment, his jaw tight, his hands flexing at his sides.
Then he dragged his gaze away, as if the effort cost him something.
"You have hay," he said. "In your hair."
And he walked out of the stables without another word.
Eliza stood motionless, one hand still buried in Sovereign's mane, watching the space where the Duke had been. Her heart was pounding, her cheeks felt warm, and something was fluttering in her stomach that had no business being there.
"Miss Harrow?" Henry tugged at her sleeve. "Are you alright?"
"Perfectly alright." Her voice came out slightly breathless. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Perfectly alright. Just... surprised."
"His Grace doesn't usually give people things."
"What do you mean?"
"He doesn't... He doesn't offer things or allow things. He gives orders and expects them to be followed." Henry's small face was scrunched in confusion. "But he just gave you something: The mare and permission to ride astride. That's..." He struggled for the word. "Unusual."
Unusual. Yes, that was one word for it.
"Your brother," she said slowly, "is a very confusing man."
Henry nodded solemnly. "Everyone says so."
Sovereign bumped her shoulder again, demanding attention, and Eliza turned back to him with a laugh that came out shakier than she intended.
"You…" she told the horse, "…are a shameless flirt. Don't think I don't know exactly what you're doing."
Sovereign's expression suggested that he knew precisely what he was doing and saw no reason to apologize for it.
Eliza scratched behind his ears and tried very hard not to think about the Duke, but she failed, of course.
***
Alistair made it halfway to the house before he had to stop.
He braced one hand against the trunk of an oak tree, breathing carefully, deliberately, the way he did when his control threatened to slip.
His heart was hammering against his ribs, his blood was running hot despite the autumn chill, and his hands, those traitorous hands that had wanted to reach out and touch her hair, were shaking.
What was that?
He replayed the scene in his mind, searching for the moment when everything had gone sideways. He had entered the stables expecting to find Thomas preparing Sovereign for the morning ride. Instead, he had found her.
Eliza.
No…. Miss Harrow, the governess, an employee. A woman whose copper hair and green eyes and complete lack of deference had no business occupying his thoughts.
He had come to the stables for his morning ride—a ritual he maintained with religious dedication, regardless of weather or obligations. The predawn hours on horseback were the only time he allowed himself anything approaching peace.
He had not expected to find the governess there.
He had certainly not expected to find her making friends with Sovereign.
Sovereign, who had bitten every groom in the stable at least once, was pressing his nose against Eliza Harrow's shoulder like a lovesick colt while she scratched his ears and told him he was beautiful.
All that power, deliberately leashed.
She had said it about the horse, but Alistair was not foolish enough to miss the parallel.
He closed his eyes, but the image was already seared into his memory.
Eliza in the dim light of the stables, hay in her impossible hair, and her hand gentle on Sovereign's neck.
Her voice, soft and steady, speaking of loneliness as if she knew exactly what it meant to be magnificent, isolated and desperate for someone to see past the walls.
She had looked at his horse and seen his soul.
It was intolerable.
And then she had turned to face him, and her cheeks had flushed pink, and she had tried to explain herself with that adorable, flustered breathlessness, which made him want to…
He had wanted to step closer. To reach out and tuck that errant curl behind her ear. To feel the texture of it between his fingers, to see if it was as soft as it looked, to…
No.
He pushed away from the tree, forcing his breathing to steady. This was ridiculous. She was the governess, and she was absolutely, categorically off-limits.
When no one is watching.
Those words echoed in his mind, laden with implications he could not afford to consider. She rode astride. She did it in secret, when she thought herself unobserved, defying convention and propriety for the pure joy of it.
He should not find that attractive. He should find it concerning, inappropriate, yet another sign that Miss Harrow was entirely too unconventional for her position.
Instead, he had offered her a horse, and he had told her she could ride astride.
He had created a situation where he would now be forced to imagine her doing so, copper hair streaming behind her, cheeks flushed with exertion, thighs gripping the horse's flanks with confident strength…
Stop it.
Alistair pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and counted to ten. Then to twenty. Then to fifty, because apparently even numbers could not save him from himself.
He thought of his father and of the wild, consuming love that had destroyed him. Of the lesson Alistair had learned at twenty-five, watching his father choose death over life without his mother.
Love is weakness. Attachment is dangerous. Control is the only thing between destruction and you.
He had lived by those words for six years. He had refused to let anyone close enough to matter. He had kept his emotions locked away so tightly that sometimes he wondered if he still had any at all.
And now a governess with hair like flame and a mouth like a challenge had walked into his life, and in less than three days she had somehow gotten past walls that no one else had even approached.
It could not continue.