by Erica Ridley
Mince pies.
Eli’s stomach let out a mortifying growl of appreciation. Fortunately, Mr. Harper could not hear it.
The older man began to form hand-signs with fingers.
Eli shook his head and shrugged apologetically.
Mr. Harper pointed at a platter of cooled pies, pointed at a shelf of dishes, and then pointed at Eli, each movement more exaggerated than the last.
Eli nodded to show that he was capable of comprehending some things, and set about helping himself to a mince pie or three while Mr. Harper moved on to the next lump of pastry.
The quiet companionship was unlike anything Eli had ever experienced with his own father.
The marquess was the only immediate family Eli had. No siblings, no mother, just Eli and his father, and an enormous house full of silent servants.
“Marquess of Milbotham” was a courtesy title… and the only courteous thing about the man.
Audiences typically consisted of Father vociferously objecting to everything Eli did or thought, followed by a detailed description of what the perfect heir ought to be. This concluded with a list of mandates of how Eli was to comport himself going forward, as well as the consequences he would face should he fail to meet expectations.
No matter how hard he tried, Eli rarely met the marquess’s expectations.
Rather than give up, the constant punishments and recriminations had only served to make Eli all the more determined to follow his own path. He’d prove his worth to the botanists he so admired, to the people he strove to help, and now... to Miss Harper.
Daunting? That had never stopped him before.
No matter how impossible it seemed to please those whose opinions he valued, Eli had never given up. No matter how many times he failed, at least he would know he had tried. If a man wasn’t giving his all, then he was part of the problem.
Even when forced into an arrangement as distasteful as this one.
If Miss Harper had hated Eli before... He could only imagine what she thought of him now. Was he foolish to dream things might one day get better?
She strode into the kitchen just as Eli was washing his dish in the sink.
Gone was the mossy satin gown from the night before.
Her long limbs were clothed in men’s leather breeches. A wide-shouldered coat to aid range of motion hid her bosom completely. Her scuffed riding boots were outfitted with shiny spurs. A pair of kid gloves flopped out from her pocket.
She looked magnificent.
Eli, on the other hand, was uncomfortably aware of the unsuitability of his olive frock coat with its matching silk waistcoat. He looked like he was on his way to White’s for a glass of sherry and a round of cards, not about to stomp through a farm to inspect the stables.
“Washing dishes?” she said, as if there could be no greater offense. “Don’t think for a moment that your false kindnesses to my father will sway my opinions of you in the least.”
So far, so splendid.
Eli dried his hands on a cloth and tried to think of what to say. Any attempt to explain that he hadn’t been toadeating in hopes of recognition would be met with disbelief at best.
Mr. Harper made rapid hand gestures to his daughter.
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “He says he told you not to bother with the dishes, and it’s not his fault you don’t understand sign language.”
“Is there no maid?” Eli asked, and wished he hadn’t. The indelicate question would win him no favor.
“There are three,” she replied after she’d interpreted. “Plus two footmen and a half dozen stable hands.”
Eli glanced around dubiously.
She took pity on him. “We always give them the week of Christmas to be with their own families. Papa and I are not so helpless that we cannot manage ourselves for a few days, and besides, we rather like the reminder that we can always rely on one another.”
That... was... a wonderful sentiment, which would never in a hundred years occur to the Marquess of Milbotham, much less appeal to him if someone else were to make the suggestion.
Eli respected and admired the Harpers’ obvious shared love. He might also be the tiniest bit envious.
Mr. Harper gestured again.
“Papa wants to know if you’re excited to meet our horses.” Miss Harper cocked her eyebrows expectantly, as if the answer to this question was an obvious and foregone conclusion.
“Er,” said Eli. How could he answer without lying? “I’ve heard so much about them.”
Her eyes sparkled. She exchanged brief signs with her father before turning back to Eli. “Whatever you’ve heard is only the beginning.”
Yes. Precisely what Eli was afraid of.
As the son of the man who owned the largest, most celebrated horse farm in the southern half of England, one might presume Eli lived and breathed horses.
One would be wrong.
His knowledge of the beasts was more theoretical than practical. Oh, he’d tried, for all of the good it did him. As a child, he’d been thrown from the back of a horse more often than he’d remained seated.
Even back then, Eli would rather have been left alone with his books.
“What do you do when you’re not with your horses?” he asked.
Surely, he and Miss Harper could find some common ground.
She stared at him as though he’d sprouted a shaggy mane and plaited tail. “What is... ‘not with my horses?’”
Stiff upper lip. He smiled as if the question had been in jest.
“Well?” She crossed her arms. “Go and put on your riding clothes.”
What is... riding clothes?
“I thought I would observe today,” he said. “There’s no reason to rush matters.”
No reason except ten short days to win Miss Harper’s approval.
“Very well.” She dipped her hand into a bucket and withdrew a handful of carrots. “Follow me.”
God help him. So it began.
Horses were her heaven and his hell, but Miss Harper was clearly upholding her half of the ten-day bargain. Eli’s thoughts on the validity of the bargain notwithstanding.
He filled his pockets with carrot bits and followed her out into the cold.
Everything was covered with a fine layer of snow. The only hints of color were the hills of evergreens, sparkling as the sun made their frost-tipped needles glisten.
It was a far cry from Eli’s usual days spent in Chelsea Physic Garden and the lush surrounding nurseries. Cressmouth in the dead of winter was not where a botanist would choose to take a holiday.
Frozen blades of grass crackled beneath their boots as they set a path toward the stables.
Normally, Eli’s heart would be pounding alarmingly—and it was—but, this time, not solely due to his increasing proximity to horseflesh.
Miss Harper’s curves were not the least bit hidden in her soft, supple buckskins. Her tall form and muscular legs were displayed to full advantage. The swing of her hips made the effect very feminine indeed.
It almost made him forget where they were headed.
Eli swallowed hard. He had bigger imminent concerns than whether he’d eventually win Miss Harper’s approval.
First came Duke.
Duke was not just a champion stud horse. He was the horse. Everyone wanted him. No one but Miss Harper could even get close.
On this topic, Duke and Eli were of one mind.
Eli preferred not to get close to any horses. The old familiar terror infused his muscles with torpor, whilst his heart fluttered fast enough to take flight.
Duke was not in the stables.
The stallion was standing just on the other side of a very ordinary, very jumpable fence. Although he would not be kept with other stallions, three intimidating geldings stood in a loose huddle behind him.
Duke was the tallest by three hands and weighed several stone more.
Miss Harper’s eyes shone. “Beautiful, isn’t he?”
“Glorious.” T
he word cracked in Eli’s too-dry throat. The stallion looked like danger personified.
She wouldn’t lead him out here to be trampled to death, he assured himself. Miss Harper hated him, but she didn’t want him dead.
Probably.
He hoped.
“Well?” she prompted. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”
“Someone else should introduce us,” he muttered. “Duke outranks me.”
She smirked. “All horses do.”
Very well. Eli could see he was going to have to do something.
Keeping a safe distance, he chucked a bit of carrot over the fence and into the midst of the horses.
The three smaller horses looked down at the piece of carrot, then back at Eli.
Duke never took his gaze from Eli for a second.
With a sigh, Miss Harper strode forward, and vaulted the log fence. She caressed Duke’s cheek before offering him a large, unbroken carrot.
He nibbled it from the palm of her hand.
“This handsome fellow is the famous Duke.” She gave him an extra carrot, then fed another treat to each of the following horses in turn. “These other dashing bucks are Rudolph, Mr. Edward, and Charley. They’re gentle as lambs. The local children love to ride them.”
Eli took a hesitant step forward.
All four horses took several steps back.
“I’m impressed,” said Miss Harper. “I expected Duke not to like you, but you seem to actively repel all of my horses.”
Eli took another tiny step forward.
Mr. Edward and Charley took off running across the snow-covered field and vanished off behind the stables.
Miss Harper burst out laughing, one gloved hand held up high to cover her face.
Eli flinched.
Her instinct to hide her smile was at least partly his fault. He’d hoped that was in the past. The thought that one deplorable moment had eroded her confidence for the rest of her life twisted his stomach into a hard little knot.
She caught him looking and dropped her hand.
The smile was long gone.
“What are the top five winter footing issues to avoid when tending horse hooves in below freezing weather?” she demanded.
“Top… five?” he echoed faintly. He could think of three, at best.
She rattled off detailed answers and fired new questions faster than he could retrieve long forgotten equine trivia from the recesses of his mind.
The more his answers disappointed, the faster and more obscure the questions became. She had clever, practical solutions for every situation.
If Miss Harper thought her superior knowledge would snuff out his interest in her, she had misread him entirely.
Nothing was more attractive than a clever mind.
She let out an aggrieved huff. “I see I cannot leave you alone with horses. You’re a danger to them and to yourself. That is, if you manage to get close to one.”
That was... an accurate representation of the facts.
Harsh, but true.
Not for the first time, Eli wished he were the equine savant his father had hoped he would be.
How lovely it might be if their situations were reversed! If Miss Harper were the timid young lady seeking Eli’s help on her first ride. He would be forced to place his hands on her midsection, and help her up into the saddle...
She needed no help.
Miss Harper coaxed Duke to the topmost log of the fence, which she used as a stepping-stool to launch herself atop the enormous stallion.
Before Eli’s disbelieving eyes, she pranced Duke about like a prized pony, making intricate patterns in the snow as they danced this way and that.
He had never seen a better horsewoman than Olive Harper.
Woman, full stop.
Horseman, full stop.
Eli didn’t have words to describe the ease with which she led Duke through his paces, showing off to magnificent effect. They were not horse and rider, but rather an all-powerful Centaur, sent to Earth by the gods as a trick to play on mere mortals.
The man who married Olive Harper would be a lucky devil indeed.
As the gossips were fond of saying, there was no hope of “taming” Miss Harper, which in Eli’s opinion was the best part. She was wild and free and reckless and capable. She didn’t need anyone to rescue her. She was the adventure.
She waved her gloved fingers at him, then took off over the snow-covered field, a brown blur flying over hills of white until she disappeared behind a thicket of trees.
Eli grinned to himself. Ten days suddenly didn’t seem long enough. Perhaps he would enjoy parts of this.
While he waited for her to return, he idly tossed bits of carrot at the lone remaining horse from a safe distance.
Rudolph gazed at him suspiciously, nudging each cube of orange carrot with his nose without taking a single bite.
Caution was good. Caution was wise.
Miss Harper was a goddess and gods could be tricky.
Eli did not wish to undo the kiss he’d shared with her all those years ago. He wanted to redo it.
He hated that he could not rewrite past history, no matter how hard he tried. Eli could beg for forgiveness all he pleased, but they both knew he didn’t deserve it.
It was a miracle she was even out here, spending her valuable time... with...
Eli burst out laughing and chucked the last bits of carrot at Rudolph. “She’s not coming back, is she?”
Rudolph shook his head with a disgruntled snort and ambled away.
Round one, to Miss Harper.
Chapter 4
The Second Day
Dawn streamed from the horizon the following morning as Olive paid her usual early morning call upon her horses.
She took a loud bite from the tip of a carrot before feeding the rest to Duke.
Sharing the carrots was their secret custom. She couldn’t allow anyone to catch her at it, though today there was no need to worry on that score. The servants wouldn’t return until the first of January, and as for Elijah Weston... No ton gentleman worth his salt would dare rise before noon.
Olive had the horses to herself, just as she liked it.
There were many more to attend to than the four bloods she’d introduced Weston to, of course. In addition to mares, the Harper farm boasted dozens of yearlings, many of which had caught the interest of wealthy tourists, and would travel to new homes after the Yuletide.
Olive loved every one of her horses. She adored training them, riding them, and caring for them in ways both large and small, from tending to daily maintenance to assisting with difficult births.
This farm was her life.
She would not allow a ghost from her past to ruin it.
“Miss Harper?” called a low, gravelly voice. “Are you in the stables?”
Of course she was in the stables. The question was what the devil Weston was doing out and about at dawn. This was her home.
She belonged here.
He did not.
Olive rolled her shoulders back and took a calming breath. It would not do to appear overset. To admit she was still skittish from his last rejection, and probably always would be. Her weakness would give him power.
Only when her mental shields were firmly in place did she walk out of the stable doors with her head held high.
She came to an immediate halt.
Weston had that effect on her; she couldn’t help it. Though to be fair, anyone would look twice at the apparition lurking just on the other side of the fence.
He was a ton fribble ripped from the pages of Le Beau Monde and placed here among fields of snow like a paper doll come to life.
Everything about his person was completely unsuited to working on a horse farm in winter. The too-light coat, the shiny tasseled Hessians, the... Did he think to tame Duke whilst wearing a top hat?
The effect should have invited her ridicule, not her ardor, but here she was. Standing in air cold enough to see one’s breath, wit
h every inch of her flesh oddly heated, as if the sight of him caused a blush to travel her whole body.
He was not a farmhand, but rather a Trojan horse. His pretty exterior masked danger and deception. She knew his treachery better than anyone.
But it didn’t stop her breath from catching all the same.
She shoved her gloved thumbs into the waistband of her breeches and strutted forward. It was not the action of a proper lady. Olive was no one’s idea of the ideal wife. She’d been told so her entire life. It was best to disabuse him of any notion of her melding seamlessly with the haut ton.
“Did you bring any carrots?” he called out. “I have some, in case you need them.”
Well, that took some of the wind out of her sails.
Weston had made no comments about her manly appearance today or yesterday. Come to think of it, nor had he commented upon her very ladylike appearance when he darkened her doorstep on Christmas Day. Perhaps he didn’t care what she looked like.
Or perhaps he’d made his opinion clear enough a decade ago, and his feelings on the matter had not changed.
“Go and put on your riding clothes,” she said. “You’re embarrassing me.”
But it was his sculpted cheekbones that flushed scarlet. “I didn’t bring any.”
“Well, you’re too big to borrow mine.”
And too big to fit into her father’s.
She frowned.
Why was a ton fop as burly as a farmhand? What witchcraft had his tailor performed to make Weston’s tall, hulking figure resemble that of a dandy?
A dandy wearing… gray. Weston’s attire was well-cut, but not meant to stand out. He had not come here intending to win her. He’d expected her to be handed over to him like a lump of coal. Olive’s opinions did not matter to him in the least.
“Go inside,” she said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
He crossed well-tailored, muscular arms over a well-tailored, burly chest. “You left me standing here yesterday and never returned. Fool me once...”
Yes. She snorted humorlessly. He’d taught her that lesson himself.
