Page 56 of The Untamed Duke
Leaning low over Llyr’s neck, Grace reveled in the stallion’s strength, his uncanny intelligence. She trusted him in finding his way, flying over the uneven ground, navigating the massive boulders dotting the cliff edges. The sweet scent of heather mixed with the sea air creating a heady fragrance, and the crisp breeze swirled as if urging a faster, dangerous pace. Bursting between cracks in the rocks, star-like clusters of white and pink stonecrop flowers provided patches of color while kestrels circled overhead in a blush pink and blue cloud-streaked sky. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, shaking disturbing thoughts away while racing across the terrain to her destination.
Upon reaching the Bellmar Abbey ruins, she sat for a long time on a pile of upturned rough rocks. The ancient abbey consisted only of half walls and tumbled entryways. There was no roof—that disappeared at least four centuries ago—just ghostly rooms filled with wildflowers and rocks sprawling across at least an acre she’d explored many times over the years. Her house was built of the same cream-colored stones that were stacked and scattered about. And like the ones of the ruined abbey, those stones became a warm pink with the sun’s rays at dusk and with the early morning light.
While Llyr grazed, Grace stared out over the sea, absorbing the sunshine and salty air. The breeze tossed her hair about, pulling strands free from the braid it was twisted into. Sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she tasted the brine borne on the currents, and Llyr did as well. He lifted his head every so often, nickered in obvious enjoyment, then continued munching the thick grass and wildflowers scattered everywhere in a carpet of dark, emerald green.
How should she act the next time in Nicholas’s company? It would be difficult pretending ignorance of his rift with Sebastian; indeed, Grace wondered if she should even try. Perhaps he might be convinced of the benefit of sharing his side of things, but it was doubtful. Nicholas was extremely reticent in sharing anything of his past or feelings. Grace dejectedly wondered how an issue from so long ago, one she had no part in, could affect them now. It was disheartening. How could one ever hope for anything more than a superficial relationship when the man was so damaged and distant?
Neither the faint crashing of waves nor the swirling sea winds provided answers today. And that was confusing. She’d sorted her thoughts in this place more times than she could count. That it failed her now both angered and saddened her. And steeled her resolve. Bellmar Abbey, the quaint, cottage-like manor, with its drafty hallways, two cozy parlors, and rambling library, was the most valued component in this devil’s bargain. She must ignore the pounding in her heart each time she thought of Nicholas and focus solely on gaining full control of her estate or Willsdown Stables.
Whistling for Llyr, Grace took up his reins and gave his neck a swift hug. He smelled of the sea and of the sweet grass he’d eaten. Warm and solid beneath her cheek. Llyr allowed the embrace, turning his fine head ever so gently to snuffle her hair and lip at the fabric of her shirt. It was a sign of affection, in the manner horses cleaned each other’s withers. It meant she was his...that a bond existed far beyond that of horse and owner.
Grace’s eyes pricked with tears. “I won’t lose you, Llyr. Even if I have fallen for that man, I won’t lose you.”
The horse nickered softly in reply as if he understood his mistress's distress. He stood perfectly still while she clambered atop a pile of rocks and swung into the saddle.
Cantering up the wide drive of Bellmar Abbey, Grace noted with sharpened eyes the need for the east pasture fence repair. And the crumbling rocks surrounding the small fountain in the courtyard, the two uneven, broken steps at the front door. The paint there on the threshold was peeling as well. A fresh coat would be needed soon. Should a sale of one of the newly broke colts occur, those funds would be of great use. New dresses or ball gowns would gladly be forgone in exchange for the estate's repairs. It was one of the reasons a stay with Sebastian and Ivy at Beaumont would be advantageous. It was easier finding buyers from the many guests enjoying the earl’s hospitality. From there, she would visit her guardian’s estate in Hampshire and do the same, although she dreaded facing Tristan and his renewed courtship.
After unsaddling Llyr, she released him into his stall with an affectionate pat on the rump. Cutting through the east wing of the stables, which formed the shape of a 't', an unfamiliar nicker came from what should have been an empty box stall.
What the devil? Who else has decided to visit?
A beautiful blue roan stallion, larger than Llyr by at least a hand but fine-boned and clean of line, poked his head over the stall door. A thick, ash black mane tumbled on either side of his neck.
Grace looked about. The stable lads were busy with their chores, and Hugh was absent. Rifling through the tack stacked neatly atop a bench beside the stall, her heart stopped, then beat double time upon seeing the crest embroidered on the saddle pad.
Richeforte.
He was here. At Bellmar Abbey.
Her pulse raced with joy.
He’d come for her.
And he’s under the same roof as Sebastian.
Bloody hell.
* * *
Bellmar’s ancient housekeeper,Mrs. Cooper, met Grace in the center foyer. Leaning heavily on her cane, she shuffled determinedly, having experienced a bout of rheumatism just the day before that necessitated twenty-four-hour bedrest. Being a small household, the elderly woman’s assistance was not missed. She was a dear, sweet thing, part of the Bellmar staff for many years, and Grace saw no need to replace her.
“Lass, a gentleman awaits you in the large parlor. Name of Bickels. Or maybe it was Freckles…”
Grace sighed. Mrs. Cooper’s hearing was as feeble as her knees and back. “It’s Nicholas, actually, Mrs. Cooper. The Duke of Richeforte,” she half-shouted in the woman’s ear.
“You don’t say?” Mrs. Cooper exclaimed, looking suitably impressed before scowling. “Then why didn’t the blasted man say so to start with? I’m old, but I know the proper way of welcoming a duke. And this may be Cornwall, but we aren’t savages.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Cooper. I’m sure His Grace does not doubt our civility.” Grace headed toward the parlor, tossing over her shoulder, “Will you have tea brought in? And some scones? I haven’t had breakfast and feel a bit at odds.”
She dared not admit that the thought of Nicholas, here in herparlor,for God’s sake, had her stomach rolling in knots. A quick prayer was sent heavenward that hopefully Sebastian and Ivy had recently developed the habit of rising late. With any luck, Nicholas would be gone before the pair of them ever discovered this impromptu visit.
Entering the bright, cheery parlor, Grace’s heart fluttered with such ferocity, she believed it might fly up her throat and out of her mouth. Nicholas stood at the fireplace, casually inspecting various items displayed on the mantle. The sight of his shoulders attired casually in white linen muddled her thoughts. Dark tobacco brown colored breeches accentuated every muscle in his long legs and backside. Knee-high black Hessians completed the ensemble. Seeing his black broadcloth riding coat tossed over the back of a Sheraton chair, Grace considered how they were dressed in similar fashions, her own breeches a shade of fawn, her boots matching the black of his.
He reached for an item, and the shirt stretched even tighter across that muscular back of his. Grace wobbled a little, growing lightheaded. She’d traced those muscles with her fingertips, smoothing over the welts crisscrossing the broad expanse as if she could heal them.
Oh, she was in trouble. Trouble, indeed. Because seeing the duke reaffirmed everything she’d convinced herself was untrue.
Besotted. Infatuated. Entranced. Oh, blast. Every poetic word one might normally use for love described her current state with perfect, horrifying precision.
