Page 14 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
Ones she’d learned to avoid in the most violent way possible.
She realized she hadn’t answered his question. “I—I can’t.”
“It’s all right. I’ll come to you and take his other lead. But I’ll need you to give me the umbrella.”
He’d assumed her hesitation was caused by the unpredictable horse, and in truth it should be. Were she any other woman, with any other past, two thousand pounds of horseflesh would, indeed, be more petrifying than two hundred pounds of man.
The truth of it was, she’d rather take her chances withan unruly equine beast, than to approach the man who belonged to the fury contained in the depths of that voice.
A fury imperceptible to most anyone, but not her.
She’d never again be caught unawares. For ten years since, she’d trained herself to listen. To find the thread of vibrations beneath societal niceties and appropriate fallacies.
And beneathhisgentle direction lurked an unfathomable bleakness… and a banked ferocity that might singe through her soaked clothing and burn the flesh below.
She was about to reply when the train let out one last shrill from its whistle and a simultaneous release of steam from beneath.
The stallion leaped sideways, away from the white clouds billowing up from the mist. His shoulder knocked Alexandra from her feet and into a post.
The weight of the beast lifted immediately as he bucked away, taking her breath with him.
She crumpled into the steam and fog, her mouth open in a silent cry. Her lungs screamed, but her ribs refused to relent as she gulped for air.
She lay on her side, besieged by pain and panic and an encroaching darkness. Wishing, struggling,prayingfor a breath. She felt lost in the mist, worried that she’d sink beneath it forever and simply disappear.
Black spots danced in her vision. Or was it black boots and dark hooves?
Sweltering curses rose above terrified neighs.
Creature pitted against creature. Beast against beast.
Eventually, the man won.Of coursehe won.
Man was ever the better beast.
CHAPTERTWO
Alexandra didn’t breathe. Hooves clopped away. Disappeared. Boots stomped their own thunder into the planks beneath her ear.
Faint strings of rapid, angry conversation permeated the fog.
“Find me the sod… secure him in the railcar… painful execution.” That voice.
“Impossible… grace… was back in London…” Another voice. Harried. Afraid.
“What fucking imbecile… whistle in the middle of such a crisis…”
“… the conductor cooling… couldn’t see her… the storm… terrible… grace.”
Impossible grace. Terrible grace? Consciousness threatened to desert Alexandra as she tried to make sense of the broken conversation.
Grace was often both impossible or terrible.
But it wasn’t meant to be, was it?
Grace was salvation. Divine forgiveness. Would she be granted either?
Likely not.
