Page 29 of In Compromise with the Earl
“In many cases, yes,” Aphrodite said bitterly. “But to have it thrown directly in your face like that…it still stings. There are times when I wish—I sorely wish there was no shame at all so I wouldn’t have to bear it or force a smile through the insults, but it’s my cross to bear, isn’t it?”
For once, Oswald connected the sneers he received with others when he was in town to the scorn she received from others and felt his stomach twist. “You’re not the only one bearing the brunt of another’s inexcusable transgressions.”
Her eyes flickered up and a slight tick to her lips gave him an indication that she had pulled herself from the grief she had almost allowed to take over. “You’re right. I don’t know why I am so bothered when her family could have worse skeletons in their closet.”
“Maybe,” he said quietly.
Aphrodite sighed. “I think I need to clear my head. Excuse me?”
“Yes,” he nodded.
As she left, he realized that the truth of mutual jealousy between them was clearly troubling. As before, his rationality told him not to mix with her too much, to protect himself and insure he spent time with the other ladies who did not have the capability of sinking under his skin so easily.
Raking a hand through his hair, he went back to the Manor, and bypassed the drawing and sitting rooms to head to his chamber. He pulled off his jacket, almost ripped his strangling cravat off and did away with his shirt. After splashing some water on his face, he went to don a dressing robe, when something out his window caught his eyes.
It was Aphrodite, in her breeches and shirt, racing pell-mell down the paddock like a seasoned jockey. He stood—mesmerized. The chestnut stallion could easily rival Goliath in size and power, but she handled him as if he were a doll. She reined the horse in with perfect skill and turned to allow him to trot. While being far enough away to not see her face, he saw when she reached up and undid the tie in her hair, letting the blond locks tumble down her shoulders.
Directing the horse to another run, she sped off, her hair and loose shirt billowing behind her. One handedly grasping the reins and the other holding the crop, she raced back and forth, her body and mount moving as one fluid motion.
He knew others prized women who were elegant on the dance floor, but he loved this more—she looked angelic. He propped his body on the wall and crossed his arms, a wan smile flitting on his lips as he watched. By the way she worked the horse, he remembered the times he had done the same, trying to outrace the worries that lingered on the edges of his mind.
Finally peeling himself away from the window, he went to pluck a book off of his end table and located some documents he had brought along about his Estate. Half a futile hour later, he laid the documents to the side and went to the window again. Aphrodite was sitting on a fence post, her lithe body held by the smart tuck of her boots on the rungs while her horse nosed at the grass.
He threw on a shirt and, before he could question himself, headed out to the paddock to meet her. She lifted her head as he strode closer and stopped a foot away. “You do ride stallions.”
Her lips quirked while she lifted a hand and brushed his wind-tossed hair out of his eyes. “One thing you should know about me, Oswald, is I don’t make a practice of lying.”
His name on her lips sent a shiver down his spine. “So earlier, you were not jealous?”
“Not as much as you were,” she smirked. “To calm your sensibilities, there is not a spark of attraction between Lord Easton and me. I do and will consider him a good conversationalist and, in the future, a firm friend.”
The horse’s nose bumped into the back of Oswald’s arm and he turned to feel a hot breath from flaring nostrils coast across his hand. Reaching up to pet its head, he asked, “What his name?”
“Troy,” she said. “And he’s probably hunting for apples. Here…” she held one to him, “go ahead.”
Taking the fruit from her, he was not surprised when the tips of his fingers tingled. Turning to the horse, he held the apple flat on his palm, “When did you start riding?”
“I was five,” she said. “Started with Welsh ponies and then worked my way to Quarter Horses. Soon enough I found thoroughbreds and never looked back.”
“Ah,” Oswald noted. “You ride like a natural.”
“It did not come easily. When I got over seven hands, I nearly fainted because I was afraid of heights,” she laughed dryly. “But it was something I wanted so I forced myself to get over it. Seems like that method is not as handy as it was when it comes to other problems.”
“I suppose mastering the shame your father dropped on your shoulders,” Oswald said. “I know the feeling, and I used everything I could to blot out Claire’s memory from my mind. Nothing worked.”
“Like what?”
“Drowning myself in Blue Ruin for months on end,” he said. His sensibilities would never forgive him if he mentioned the bawdy houses or the times when he had nearly killed himself with laudanum.
Her sigh was audible. “I’m sorry.”
With the horse crunching through the core, Oswald turned to her. “I suppose we’ve both been betrayed in a way, my wife with her infidelity and your father with his responsibility to protect you.”
“I gave up on my father protecting me,” she said grimly. “I don’t need him.”
Closing on her, he reached out and nudged her head up. “Yes, you do.”
Her eyes flashed. “No, I don’t! I have not for years.”
