Chapter Three
The next morning dawned cool and mostly clear. One glance from the window of her bedchamber told Amelia that she should have at least a few hours of sunshine before the grey clouds on the horizon reached them. The weather could be fickle in this part of the country, but she was used to it.
After dressing, Amelia left her chambers after a restless night, unable to shake the knowledge that the infuriating Kempton was beneath her roof, in a bed just one wing over from where she lay—something she never would have considered a possibility even a few days prior.
Had anyone suggested it, she would have believed them to be addled beyond help.
She and Faye descended the stairs, and she hated that she was so on edge in her own home.
The halls were still quiet, and the scents of breakfast were not yet wafting up from the kitchens.
She’d donned her specially-made riding habit and matching hat the color of burgundy wine, planning on finishing a quick letter before she went to the stables to ride and allow Faye to take her daily exercise.
The last thing she expected to find was Kempton in his charcoal grey waistcoat and shirtsleeves, already shaved and impeccably groomed, leaning against her desk as if he owned it.
To be fair, he looked rather at home standing behind the enormous piece of furniture.
He was posed like an imposing wartime general or a warrior prince, palms flat atop the polished cherrywood surface, bracing himself as his head hung and his eyes devoured the words on the parchment before him.
So absorbed in his task was he that he did not even notice her arrival until she cleared her throat.
His head snapped up, and he appeared momentarily confused by her presence, until he had the good grace to appear slightly abashed, however briefly.
“Have you need of the desk?” he asked, motioning as if he were offering to relinquish it to her, but he did not apologize for his presumptive behavior in taking over the study. Her study.
She suddenly decided that her letter could wait—she’d much rather get away from the man—away from the sight of his broad, well-formed shoulders and the rakish curl of his richly dark hair.
“That will not be necessary,” she answered brusquely.
“I was not expecting you to be up and about so early.”
“I might say the same of you.”
“I daresay it will be just the two of us until luncheon; Clara does not usually rise until the day is already well underway. She has adopted London hours.”
Amelia barely resisted a groan of disappointment. “No matter. I was about to leave for my morning ride anyway.” That would give her at least an hour or two of freedom from the man.
Unfortunately, her stomach made a helpless flip when he grinned.
“Perfect. I shall accompany you.” He proceeded to tidy the papers and set the neat stack on the far corner of the desk. Amelia couldn’t help but stare. It felt startlingly intimate to have their correspondence share a space.
She shook off that notion and said, “I do not have time to waste waiting for you to prepare yourself to ride. Faye is restless for her outing.” The hulking beast calmly blinked up at her master at the sound of her name.
The dog was anything but anxious. Yes, she looked forward to stretching her legs, but she was far from an unruly pup bounding in excitement.
Amelia’s teeth clenched; leave it to Faye to be her usual unperturbed self.
“Then aren’t we lucky that I am already dressed appropriately?
” He collected his deep blue riding coat from the chair and stepped out from behind the desk, revealing a pair of buff riding breeches and bespoke polished Hessians.
He offered her no opportunity to form an additional protest when he crossed the room, took her arm, and led her out the main door to the nearby stables.
The building was long and low, having undergone few changes over the decades, other than a few necessary repairs and improvements.
It had space for nearly two dozen horses, though it currently housed less than one-third of that amount.
James had adored horses and riding, and he’d amassed a collection of beautiful, pampered horseflesh.
Many of them had been sold off after James’s death, though.
It hadn’t been a decision Amelia made lightly, but she knew her husband would have preferred the animals go to owners who would appreciate them and give them the time they deserved.
Amelia was only one woman, after all, and even with her staff, that number of horses made no sense.
She did not host hunting parties, and she had no need to keep a stable full of horses for guests’ use; she had her favorite bay gelding, Rory, and he was all she needed.
If Kempton insisted upon accompanying her, Amelia was bound and determined to ignore his presence as much as possible.
Instead, she paid attention to her dog, who, realizing her routine was not going to be interrupted by their houseguests, began to perk up some.
As was customary, Amelia’s horse had been readied.
The gelding stood excitedly beside the groom, his ears twitching and as he worked the bit in his mouth.
His giant hooves thumped from side to side in anticipation, affording Amelia one more opportunity to brush off the marquess.
“Rory does not do well standing about after he has already been saddled; I will be unable to wait for you to have your mount readied,” she said to Kempton.
Just as she finished speaking, however, an enormous, dappled stallion was led out from the stables, his polished black leather tack already in place.
Drat.
“Shouldn’t your mount be allowed to rest after your journey? You wouldn’t want to overtax him.” It was a weak effort, but she had to try.
“Nonsense,” Kempton said. “Maximus grows anxious if he does not have at least one good, hard ride every day.” He winked.
He actually winked at her.
Amelia did not appreciate his crude double entendre. Was he attempting to flirt with her as well?
He must not realize he was doing so.
She was her, after all, and likely the very last woman with whom he wished to flirt. Perhaps it was simply second nature for him at that point.
Rather than dignify his comment with a response, she turned to her mount, patting the great bay beast on his thick neck. Rory, like Faye, was beginning to quiver with anticipation.
“Allow me.” Kempton came up behind her and made a cradle of his hands to help her up into the saddle.
Deciding it wasn’t worth the argument, Amelia allowed him to assist her, though she didn’t give him so much as a nod of gratitude.
He launched her with ease, and Amelia could not mask her amusement at his expression of shock when she settled herself astride instead of sidesaddle.
Clearly, he hadn’t noticed the difference in her horse’s tack, nor had he seen the cleverly concealed split in her skirts.
She’d had her riding habit specially commissioned shortly after her marriage.
James had been such an avid horseman and—while he hadn’t wholeheartedly approved of the unconventional garment—he’d recognized the need for them if she were ever going to be able to safely keep pace with him on their frequent rides.
It had also been the lesser evil when she’d threatened to have breeches made for herself instead.
She’d always appreciated James’s indulgences of her quirks.
After saying his peace and sharing his opinions, he would often capitulate to whatever Amelia desired.
He’d liked giving her gifts and playing along with her whims. He’d been a sweet, kind, generous man who’d often said he could deny her nothing when she’d done him the great favor of agreeing to become his wife.
That had always sparked a little kernel of unease beneath her breast—a reminder that their marriage had not been for love, despite its wealth of mutual respect and appreciation.
Though wonderful in its own way, it had not been the marriage she’d imagined.
Amelia blinked and banished her musings, turning her attention back to the marquess at her side.
Kempton held onto her booted heel longer than necessary or even proper, guiding her foot into the stirrup, his large hands enclosing the dainty bones of her ankle.
“Close your mouth, else you might swallow a fly,” Amelia said to him in a tone dripping with smugness. With that, she whistled to Faye and kicked Rory into motion.
Dorian leaped back to avoid being trampled by Amelia’s horse.
The animal was large—far larger than a woman of her size should have been able to handle—yet she did so with such confidence and grace.
She’d always been an accomplished horsewoman, and the years seemed to have only improved upon that fact.
Her unconventional clothing likely contributed to her steady seat.
Dorian shook his head and, in one swift movement, he vaulted onto Maximus and took off after her.
They thundered out of the castle’s gates and down a path worn into the grassy hills, past cairns both small and large marking the bends and curves of their journey.
He was quickly in awe of the confident, elegant sight she made, knowing the only reason he would eventually be able to overtake her was the sheer size and power of his mount.
Were they on horses equal in size and breeding, she could easily have outpaced him.
The long-legged deerhound loped along with them, tongue lolling joyfully out the side of its wide jaw.
Watching Amelia ride had always been a thing of beauty, but the fluidity and grace and ease with which she moved now made it appear as if she were one with the horse. It was mesmerizing.