Page 18 of Married Off by the Duke
Emma tried. The horse trotted a short distance, then halted. She lost her grip on the mallet. Again.
“Better,” Max called out. He, of course, was maddeningly competent at getting recalcitrant herbivores to do his bidding.
“I can’t do this!” Her wail ended in a giggle, though. “I’ve been trying all afternoon, yet my horse has barely traveled halfway down the field. She just wants to eat grass.” Emma patted the mare’s neck. “Some polo pony you are.”
“She’s a fine pony. Gentle temperament. You’re not being firm enough with her.”
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You won’t.”
Max held out the mallet she’d dropped, but Emma shook her head. “I’m getting down.”
Her legs didn’t work properly. She had, in fact, donned trousers for this excursion. It felt strange to be out in public dressed so scandalously. She’d attracted more than a few second looks.
Her foot wouldn’t come free of the stirrup. Max caught her by the waist while she kicked free, sliding her brazenly down his chest, and he didn’t let go once her feet were securely on the grass.
“Steady on.”
“You can let go now.”
Max chuckled. She didn’t want to acknowledge the pang of loss when his hands slipped away from her hips.
Each morning for the past week, she’d awakened early to his sleeping form curled around hers. She’d fallen asleep after every single outing. Between the exertion of her job at Kiefer’s and the busy afternoons Max planned for her, which on several occasions extended into the night, she kept dozing off during the coach rides home. He would carry her to her room, remove her outer garments and corset, and climb into the narrow bed wearing his trousers and undershirt.
Scandalous.
She knew he was doing it, at least in part, because he expected her to say yes to his upcoming marriage proposal. Any whispers of impropriety would be papered over by their subsequent nuptials. Despite this, Max was always careful to slip out of her room and return to his own chambers before her maid arrived with Emma’s breakfast tray.
In between, they kissed and touched and talked, laughing about their adventures of the day before and dreaming up new ones.
Imagine waking up like that every day for the rest of your life.
She could. All too well.
Emma had never been so happy. She didn’t trust this feeling. He was a duke. There would be nothing to stop him from seeking out a paramour once he tired of spending time with his mousy little ward.
She was still an illegitimate nobody, even if he’d apologized for saying that to her face.
A week ago, she’d been certain they wouldn’t make it through their negotiated courtship period without murdering one another. Now, Emma was starting to worry she wouldn’t be able to muster the courage to resist him once the week was up.
“Are you ready to watch a real game?” He took the reins to lead her recalcitrant pony off the field.
“I can’t keep abusing this poor animal.” Emma winced with each step. The first time she’d tried riding astride was two days ago, during their race at a private track where one of Max’s fancy friends bred thoroughbreds. He’d let her win. Twice. She’d thought the soreness would fade, but if anything, it was worse two days later.
She changed into a skirt and returned to the field, where eight men on horseback had assembled. They wore colored uniforms to indicate who belonged to which team.
All of this was new to her. Polo was not an activity she’d ever had an opportunity to participate in, even as a spectator.
After each seven-minute playing period, or chukka, the players changed horses. He played in the third position, which, he’d explained with evident pride, was the most demanding role.
Her gaze flicked to his tall, broad form. His horse was necessarily the largest, which put him at a disadvantage when it came to making quick turns. He had to anticipate the other players and guide his mount accordingly by making split-second decisions. Emma couldn’t ignore the flutter in her midsection every time he scored a goal and flashed her a grin.
At the midpoint of the game, she and other spectators were invited onto the field to push divots of grass back into place. Max, breathing hard, strode over to her.
“Are you enjoying the spectacle?”
“Very much. You’re an excellent player.” Self-consciously, she examined the sod and toed another clump of grass into place. “I see now why I struggled to manage the horse and the mallet. You make it look easy, but it’s quite a trick to put it all together.”
