Ten Days with a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  “If you’re going to be my shadow,” she said, “climb over that fence and follow.”

  He did not. Of course he did not. There was snow on his side of the fence and mud on hers. The world might end if a speck of dirt were to mar his glossy Hessians.

  Olive smirked.

  His Town sensibilities played to her favor. Papa couldn’t claim she had not tried, if it was Weston who refused to come near. She was winning.

  Eight days from now, victory—and the Harper farm—would be hers.

  “Can we talk about this?” he asked.

  That wretched gravelly voice slid like a caress down her spine.

  She stomped over to him, taking care to spray up as much mud as possible.

  “What might you say that I don’t already know?” she asked. “You’re not here to court me. You’re just using me to get something that you want.”

  He blinked. “True.”

  She stared at him, momentarily struck speechless. They’d both known it was true, but she hadn’t expected him to admit it.

  “We’re in this mock courtship because of our fathers,” he pointed out. “I never claimed it was fair. I know it isn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Well, that just... disarmed every argument she’d been planning to make.

  “Are you always this honest?” she muttered.

  “Not always,” he replied.

  Hmm. An unsettlingly honest reply for a liar.

  “Do you want to see the stables?” she forced herself to ask.

  A line creased his brow. “Are there horses in it?”

  “Of course there are horses in it. It’s a stable. If you’re afraid of getting your dancing slippers dirty—”

  He was over the fence before she could finish her taunt.

  Over the fence and standing right in front of her.

  The toes of his boots flanked hers. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. Her eyes exactly at the height of his lips. Close enough to feel the heat from his body overwhelm her like a gust of hot wind on a summer’s day.

  “Oh,” she whispered, her voice little more than a puff of air.

  They were at stalemate.

  She could not scamper away, lest he realize how much he affected her.

  Nor could she be expected to spend the morning standing here at kissing distance, pretending her heart wasn’t beating out of her chest.

  “As you wish,” he said, that warm dark voice gliding over her skin. “Show me the stables.”

  Yes.

  He’d given her the perfect excuse to break the moment, to turn away.

  Now that he had, however, she remembered what had happened the last time they were alone together in a stable. It was not an experience she hoped to relive. Come to think of it, it would be best if they avoided mention of horses altogether.

  But he was right about something else, too, damn him. She didn’t have anything else in her life besides horses. Olive was the farm, and the farm was her. She couldn’t allow him close to Duke. If she was meant to stall him somehow until the ten days ran out, it would have to happen in moments like these.

  “You jumped that fence very… smoothly.”

  What? What kind of salvo was that?

  She spun around before anything worse could happen, and strode swiftly toward the stables. This was her land. She was safe here. He was the outsider that would be leaving soon, never to return. Duke would never accept him. Neither would she.

  Eight more days. Nothing more.

  He hung back as she walked through the open stable doors.

  She rolled her eyes. “I won’t make you vault over the stall doors. If you want to see a particular yearling, I promise to let you in.”

  There. That was rude enough, wasn’t it? Reminding him that here, she was in charge. Nothing would happen unless she allowed it.

  Her jibe had the opposite effect.

  Confidence poured into him like sunshine. He swaggered into the stables as though he had won the game, and this was his land already.

  Olive tightened her lips.

  Blackguard.

  Their fathers might believe that every woman needed a man, but she would show Weston she didn’t need him.

  She picked up where she’d left off during the tutorial the day before. Olive had started with the basics. Footing, clipping, exercise. Now she moved on to situations that were specific to Cressmouth. What were the differences in care between a blanketed horse and an unblanketed one? How should salt be fed differently? What about the care of teeth?

  They were barely past the third stall and already it was painfully obvious she knew everything about caring for her animals in this climate and Weston knew nothing at all.

  Instead of giving her the smug satisfaction she expected, she was filled with more questions than answers. London had winter, too. Weston was heir to the largest and most profitable horse farm for miles around.

  What the devil was going on down there?

  “I’ve never broken a wild horse,” he told her. “The papers say you’re one of the best in the country.”

  She glared at him. How was she supposed to mock and belittle him when he led with her strengths and his weaknesses? Instead of feeling like she had the upper hand, her footing felt less secure with each step.

  “Our newest was a challenge,” she admitted. “Belligerent at first, but now he comes when I call.”

  Weston looked impressed.

  “Go on,” he said encouragingly. “Show me up. I want to see Rhiannon in action.”

  Her muscles tensed.

  Was that a compliment or an insult? She narrowed her eyes. Rhiannon was a Welsh fairy goddess with dominion over animals, which might sound lovely to be compared to.

  Rhiannon was also so closely tied to horses that she was sometimes portrayed as one in the accompanying illustrations.

  She gave him a close-lipped smile. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’re legendary,” he replied without hesitation. “Prinny tried to purchase one of your horses and failed.”

  Oh. That.

  Olive was so used to being famous in her small village that she sometimes forgot she’d become infamous outside of it.

  “You believe I’ve been boasting.” She knew the answer. They both did.

  His expression was serious. “If I tell you I can walk, am I boasting or stating a fact? Why should your abilities be any different?”

  Had there ever been a more confounding man to argue with? If there was an instruction book on Being a Mortal Enemy, Weston was breaking every rule.

  He was also within arm’s reach again.

  Not quite as close to her as when he’d jumped the fence, but not so far that a quick tug of her wrists wouldn’t send her tumbling against his chest.

  Her pulse fluttered.

  He hadn’t tried to touch her. Was he going to?

  Would she stop him?

  She wasn’t certain she was breathing. She’d become a marble statue of herself. Frozen, waiting, wondering what might happen. Dying for him to touch her and terrified that she might let him.

  Olive didn’t allow others close for a reason. She didn’t allow Weston close for an even better reason. To let her guard down now was to allow him within hurting distance.

  Again.

  “Go inside,” she said while she still had control over herself. “I have work to do, and don’t need you underfoot.”

  At first, he didn’t move. She feared him about to call her bluff by proving how much a damnably large part of her wanted him to stay.

  Wanted this to be real.

  But they both knew it wasn’t.

  “Very well.” He made a gorgeous leg. Such elegant manners should have been incongruent with the sight and the smell of the stables. Instead, it felt courtly. “You’ll know where to find me.”

  That was it.

  No argument; no pressure. She stated a wish and he complied.

  Olive was suddenly certain that if her wish had been to feel his lips
on hers once more, he would have complied with that as well.

  She was not that foolish. Not anymore. She’d kissed him once, and the experience was more than enough for one lifetime.

  The thought of doing it again... She lifted her fingertips to her lips as he walked away.

  Weston had hurt her.

  He was uniquely capable of doing it again and having it hurt worse because this time, Olive should know better.

  She’d been innocent before. Falling into the same trap twice would feel like her fault. As though she’d invited him to destroy her all over again.

  It had been a stable just like this one.

  Ten years ago, on a trip to London, she’d experienced a moment that had defined who she was to this day.

  Summer. Children’s steeplechases. Shiny medallions for the best girl and the best boy of each age group. Olive had been fourteen then, and as excited as if it were Christmas.

  She and Papa had arrived too late to watch the boys race. Weston hadn’t won. Some other lad did. Papa said Weston’s father must be frothing at the mouth. Losing was what he deserved for all of the evil Milbotham had wrought.

  Olive took his word for it. She’d never met the marquess or his heir. This was her first competition. Her first time around other children who loved horses as much as she did.

  It didn’t go well, even before the girls’ steeplechases began.

  She was strange and different and awkward. Too tall, too gangly. Ugly, they told her. Worst of all was her smile, with her too-big teeth. It was a wonder she didn’t frighten the horses away.

  When her turn to race came, she did what she always had done: closed her mouth tight and flew like the wind.

  She won. Handily. She could barely think from the cacophony of shouts. Papa was out there. He’d watched her win.

  By the time the medallion was pressed into her hand, she was giddy. It was proof she was talented, worthy, of value. She couldn’t wait to show her father.

  With a smile she couldn’t suppress and legs barely strong enough to hold her, she passed behind the stables on her way to circle back to where the spectators awaited.

  She didn’t go far.

  There was a boy watching the competition from the shadows.

  Olive erased her happy grin at once, but the boy didn’t seem to mind it.

  He had never seen anyone ride like she did, he said. He was impressed. She had dazzled him.

  His words dazzled Olive. No one but her father had ever spoken to her so prettily before. She angled toward the track and to comment on the next group’s race aloud, as if she were a judge and not a girl with a brass medallion clutched in her sweaty palm.

  The boy laughed at all of the right times. She was so witty, he said. Clever and talented. His fingers brushed hers.

  Startled, she turned to look at him, and his face was right there. She knew what he was going to do before he did it. She could have moved away. Instead, she leaned into him.

  Her first kiss. To date, her only kiss. It had been bliss.

  At first.

  A large group walked around the corner, catching them in the act. Mostly children, but a few parents as well. Olive’s was one of them. So was the boy’s father.

  “Get away from my son,” he’d screamed, as though she were a cockroach on his Christmas pudding.

  Olive was frozen in place, but the boy jerked away.

  The Marquess of Milbotham, whispered the crowd. That’s his heir.

  No. Impossible.

  The boy knew who she was. He’d just watched her win a competition.

  “I’d rather my son kiss an actual horse,” snarled the marquess, “than a worthless chit who just looks like one.”

  Shock stole the words from her throat, and she turned to the boy in supplication.

  He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and sneered. “You’re just a Harper.”

  “A Harper what?” drawled the marquess.

  The boy’s next words were louder. “A Harper horse.”

  The children erupted in laughter. They surrounded Olive, baring their teeth and making horsey noises until she burst into tears and barreled through them and into the safety of her father’s arms.

  Papa couldn’t hear the taunts. Try as he might to urge her to confide in him, she had never repeated what they’d said.

  But every word, every whinny, had imprinted indelibly on her soul.

  She’d lost her innocence that day, as well as her prized medallion. It had slipped from her slick fingers during all of the pushing and neighing.

  The medallion was the one thing from that day that she wished she still had. Solid proof that the others weren’t better than her.

  It was the first time she’d ever won anything and the last time she let something she wanted slip out of her hands.

  To the devil with Weston and Milbotham both! No wonder her father was at war with that family. From that day forward, they were Olive’s sworn enemies, too.

  She swore never to let anyone humiliate her like that again.

  But of course it wasn’t that easy. One couldn’t simply decide never to be an object of ridicule.

  Not with Weston and Milbotham out there, whispering into every gossip’s ears.

  Word of her hoydenish ways reached Town long before Olive arrived four years later for her come-out.

  It did not matter that every gown in her trunks was the pinnacle of fashion. Instead of the “horse farm heiress,” scandal columns dubbed her the “horse-faced heiress.”

  The appellation caught on overnight.

  Olive was a pariah.

  She didn’t lose her Almack’s voucher—she was never granted one to begin with. Ballrooms were for young ladies, not horses. The Weston family spread the tales triumphantly. Not that much effort was necessary—the caricatures were not kind.

  She left London after one week, rather than endure six months of a social season she wasn’t invited to.

  Weston and his father had tried to destroy her, but instead they had given her purpose.

  Olive couldn’t beat anyone with beauty, but she could be the best bloody horsewoman England had ever seen. The world might not desire her, but they would dream of having her skills.

  And soon enough, they dreamed of having her horses.

  No, she would not sell to Prinny.

  No, she would not do business with the families of the people who had taunted her. Who had pushed a child, and mocked, and whinnied. As if she were nothing more than an animal. As if she were nothing at all.

  The Harper blood horses were infamous not just because of their superior attributes, but because they weren’t easy to obtain. Olive could charge what she liked, because her customers were paying as much for exclusivity as they were for fine horseflesh.

  She wouldn’t sell to Lady Jersey, they could tell their friends smugly. But she sold to me.

  That’s right. To the devil with the patronesses. The beau monde could have their little world.

  Olive ruled hers.

  She was a woman now. No longer the cowering, frightened child who had run off in tears of mortification. Olive was strong, and fierce, and capable.

  And this time, she would not let Weston win.

  Chapter 5

  The Third Day

  This time, Eli was awake before dawn. He awaited Miss Harper out by the horses.

  Well, not too near the horses. He kept a healthy distance between himself and the completely inadequate wooden fence demarcating their territory from his.

  Happily, his carrot-tossing aim was improving by the day. Most of the pieces landed in the vicinity of the horse he was aiming to treat without the need to venture close.

  When a cube of orange carrot landed in the soft snow in front of Duke, the big stallion gave a great sniff. Not at the carrot—at the wind, which came from behind Eli and appeared to be carrying his scent with it.

  Rather than dip his head to eat the carrot, Duke charged toward the fence.

  Eli dropp
ed most of the remaining carrot where he stood in a desperate attempt to scramble backward, though he knew from experience he had no hope of outrunning a rampaging horse.

  Rather than leap the too-short fence, Duke halted with nothing more than his nostrils over the top and gave another loud sniff.

  Eli wasn’t fooled into coming closer. He weighed the last bit of carrot in his clammy palm and tossed it underhand in the direction of the fence. It landed just on the other side.

  Duke lowered his head, ate the carrot, and sauntered away, as if Eli’s presence no longer held any interest.

  Eli took a deep breath and willed his galloping heart back to a canter.

  He had a mission.

  Both his father and Miss Harper’s father were expecting their heirs to put forth their best efforts in good faith, but that wasn’t why Eli was out here in the snow, risking life and limb to throw carrots at an ill-humored stallion.

  With unsteady fingers, he straightened his cravat and smoothed his lapels. He wasn’t here for his father, who considered Miss Harper’s feelings on the question of marriage to be just as irrelevant as Eli’s.

  He was out here tempting fate because he cared about Miss Harper’s feelings. He wouldn’t make this any harder on her than he had to. Although Eli would rather be anywhere but a horse farm, Miss Harper adored these beasts above all else.

  So here he was.

  Where was she?

  From an inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a pencil and a new notebook. He’d started to record scientific observations about the flora of Cressmouth.

  So far, the entries bore little resemblance to his detailed studies of healing plants in the Chelsea Physic Garden. Instead, it had become a diary of horseflesh. Although Eli had no desire to ride any of the bloods, he could admit Duke was indeed an impressive animal.

  Eli kept a list of the geldings, mares, and yearlings, and had documented Miss Harper’s comments on the care and feeding of her charges in wintry climes.

  What he would do with such information was murky at best. If wishes came true, he would never need to enter a stable again. But Eli felt useless when he wasn’t researching. He was so used to annotating and cross-checking and curating observations for review that he didn’t know what to do without a notebook and pencil in his hands.