Page 35 of His Mad Duchess
Margaret plucked a grape from the silver dish before her, rolling it lightly between her fingers. “A useful sort of memory,” she said at last and popped it into her mouth.
He set his cup down. “The cook mentioned the fishmonger brought in trout yesterday. I thought we might have it for dinner.”
Margaret’s brows rose. “We?”
“I assume you’ll still be here.”
“I will. And trout will do nicely,” she said, though the faint warmth in her chest had nothing to do with fish.
They lapsed into quiet again. The sound of the mantel clock ticking away the minutes was oddly pleasant.
Then he said, “I also had the kitchen send for apricot preserves. I believe you prefer them to strawberries.”
Margaret looked up sharply. “You noticed that?”
“I notice more than you think,” he said without meeting her gaze.
“Well,” she murmured, “thank you.”
Another pause.
“If you’re walking today,” he added, “the wisteria along the west wall has just begun to bloom. You might like it.”
“I might,” she said, though the truth was she already intended to go.
By early afternoon, the sky had grown heavy with clouds, but the rain still held off. Margaret wandered down toward the paddock, drawn by the sound of hooves on packed earth.
The Duke was there, standing by the fence, one hand resting on the rail as he watched a groom put a bay gelding through its paces. He didn’t turn when she approached. She wondered if he’d heard her or if he simply knew she was there.
“I didn’t know you kept horses in training,” she said as she approached.
“I don’t,” he replied, still watching the animals. “That one’s my second favorite. He’s recovering from a pulled tendon.”
Margaret leaned on the fence beside him. “And does the horse have a name?”
“Of course. Sentinel.”
“A serious name for a serious creature,” she observed, eyeing the gelding’s proud carriage. “Do you always choose such solemn names?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Only for the horses worth naming. My favorite is called Bramble. He threw me twice before breakfast most mornings.”
She laughed. “And yet you kept him?”
“I was twelve. He was the only horse I was permitted. We understood each other.”
The thought of a younger version of him, stubbornly mounting the same difficult horse day after day, caught her unexpectedly—almost endearing.
The gelding’s hooves thudded softly against the dirt, and a breeze lifted a few strands of her hair, carrying the faint smell of hay and warm leather.
“You ride?” he asked.
“I have been known to,” she said lightly. “Though I imagine my definition of ‘riding’ is more sedate than yours.”
“Perhaps I’ll test that someday.”
“Perhaps,” she replied with a glint in her eye. Then, after a beat, she tipped her chin toward his groom, waiting nearby with a second horse. “Now.”
The single word seemed to startle him. It was certainly not only the daring of it but the calm certainty in her tone.
