“Peut-être que Miss Fitzwilliam peut aider à cet égard.” Perhaps Miss Fitzwilliam can help in that regard.
Isabella gave a nod. “Peut-être. Je vais demander.”
Octavius allowed a grin, realizing Lady Craythorne had at least seen to teaching her daughter some of the skills she would need to manage as the wife of an aristocrat. “Do you paint?”
“Poorly.”
“Embroidery?”
“Fair. I know all the stitches, of course. I just don’t have the needle and threads to practice it here.”
The duke realized he hadn’t seen to it she had a sewing basket. Since Jane had never stepped foot in Huntinghurst, there probably wasn’t one she could use.
“What about drawing?”
Isabella angled her head to one side. “I can do a very good representation of a horse,” she offered.
Octavius sighed. “Of course, you can,” he replied, realizing he should have expected the response. “Have you other... talents a lady might find useful?”
Straightening, Isabella nodded. “I know the recipe for making shortbread biscuits,” she announced.
Octavius frowned. “Since your cook would be the one to make biscuits, that hardly seems useful.”
“But, what if she takes ill and cannot make them?” Isabella countered. “I shouldn’t expect a scullery maid to know how.”
Giving his head a shake, Octavius decided to try a different tack. “How do you spend your evenings here? When it’s too dark to be out in the stables? What do you usually do after dinner?”
“I read, of course,” she replied. “Your library has excellent references on horses and horse breeding.”
“How many have you read?”
“All of them. Some twice.” She didn’t mention the other books she had read, some with topics she was sure she wasn’t supposed to have known anything about just yet.
Octavius blinked, realizing that she probably knew more on the subject than he did. “Are horses really all you think about?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically.
Not about to admit she thought of him far more than she should, Isabella gave a shrug. “I do concern myself with the running of the household. When Peters doesn’t seem to know how to direct the maids. There’s no housekeeper, you see—”
“I didn’t see fit to hire a replacement for the last one.”
Isabella’s eyes widened. No wonder there hadn’t been a housekeeper at Huntinghurst for the entire eighteen months she had been there. “She didn’t get along with Peters, either?” she questioned.
Octavius rolled his eyes. “Something like that,” he allowed, suddenly wondering if perhaps the butler was as vexing for the women of the household as Isabella was to him. “Since you have already been acting in the capacity of châtelaine, and given your age—you’re hardly a ward—perhaps it would be best if we consider that your position here.”
Isabella blinked. The mistress of the castle? She stared at the duke for a moment. “I would be honored,” she replied with a nod.
The duke wondered for a moment if he was making a mistake but finally nodded in reply as he pushed away from the table and moved to stand. “I have some correspondence to see to,” he said then. “I will see you at dinner.”
Nodding again, Isabella rose and dipped a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she said as she took her leave of the dining room.
If she was expected to dance with duke after dinner, she wanted to be sure she had something appropriate to wear.
Chapter 26
A Visit to the Stables
Later that night
Having spent the entire afternoon in his study at Huntinghurst, Octavius emerged from the walnut-paneled room in search of sunlight and a bit of fresh air. He headed out the back door and made his way to the stables, not particularly surprised to find another horse tethered to the side of the orangery.
Leading two horses out of their stalls, Mr. Reeves gave a bow as the duke entered.
“How long has he been out there?” Octavius asked as he waved toward the yearling.
Mr. Reeves cast a glance in the direction of Perseus, giving his head a quick shake. “Half-hour at most, Your Grace. Truth be told, can’t say I thought it would do much good, making a horse stand still for a time like that, but it seems to help.”
Octavius furrowed a brow. “In what way?”
The groom allowed a shrug. “Calms ’em when they’re in their stall for the night. Don’t rub their tails as much, neither.”
Giving a grunt, Octavius nodded and made his way into the stables, his quick steps taking him past a series of empty stalls, all mucked and ready for new straw. Only one stall at the end was occupied, a bay mare and her colt watching him intently from where they stood. The colt retreated behind his mother, but his lowered head allowed him to peek out from beneath her belly.
“Aphrodite? Is that you?” Octavius asked in a quiet voice as he reached for the latch.
The mare regarded him for a moment before moving toward him, her head lowered.
“It is you,” he whispered. He knelt so he could better see her colt. “You always throw the best looking colts,” he added, reaching out to place a hand on her withers. Aphrodite knickered in response, which had the colt poised for a quick retreat. “Have you named it yet?” he asked, as if the horse might provide him with a response.
“Anteros, if Your Grace is in agreement,” Master George said from where he stood in the middle of the building, a pitchfork in one hand.
Octavius turned his attention to the stableboy, his head angled to one side. “I don’t think the name has been used for one of her colts before,” he agreed.
“Lady Isabella has been keeping track of the names, Your Grace. She’s good at that.”
“Is she now?” the duke replied, his attention going back to the colt. He wondered how Isabella was keeping track. Back when he paid any mind to his stables, he kept detailed pedigrees for each and every horse. Pedigrees he then sent on to the Jockey Club in Newmarket. He had to if he had any intention of entering a horse in the racing circuit.
“Oh, yes, sir. She’s quite particular about details. Knows her horses, that one.”
Arching an eyebrow at the comment, Octavius angled his head and finally allowed a nod. “I suppose that means she spends a good deal of time with them.”
George nodded. “Oh, she does, Your Grace. Every day.” He paused a moment. “Well, except when it’s raining too hard. Then she keeps to the house. Otherwise, she’s out here or riding.”
Octavius considered the stableboy’s comment for a time before allowing a nod. “You don’t... mind her spending so much time in the stables? Getting in your way?”
George shook his head. “She’s never in the way, Your Grace,” he claimed with a shake of his head. “When I came down with an awful cough last month, why, she made me stay in bed, and she mucked the stalls.”
Blinking in shock at hearing the boy’s tale, Octavius allowed a sigh of frustration. “I do hope you afford her all the courtesies she’s due as a lady,” he said, his voice rather stern.
“Oh, but I do, sir. But sometimes, when she’s training the beasties, it’s hard to think of her as a right proper lady. If you catch my meaning, Your Grace.”
Octavius rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Aphrodite. Her colt had latched onto a teat and was helping himself to a late lunch. “I don’t suppose you think of her as a lady, either,” he accused.
Aphrodite pretended to ignore his question, a soft knicker her only response.
“He’ll be a racer,” George stated, his attention on Anteros. “Lady Izzy says prob’ly the longer distances.”
Frowning at the stableboy’s use of a nickname, Octavius gave a shake of his head. “I guess we’ll know in a few years,” he responded. After a moment, he asked, “If I let Perseus loose from the orangery, what will happen?”
George allowed a shrug. “He’ll come to his stall straight away. I just put some hay in there,” he rep
lied. “He sorted how to work the latch to let himself in. Then he’ll head out to the front pasture for the rest of the day.”
Octavius angled his head. “He won’t... run off?”
Giving a short laugh, George shook his head. “None of your horses run off, Your Grace. None of them would risk the wrath of Lady Izzy. Uh, Lady Isabella, I mean to say,” he corrected himself.
The wrath of Lady Izzy?
Well, Octavius knew he had at least one topic of conversation for dinner that evening.
Chapter 27
A Dance After Dinner
Later that night
The dinner service was impeccable, Octavius thought as he watched a footman remove the remains of the dessert course whilst another delivered a glass of port to him and a glass of champagne to Isabella. Although conversation had been a bit stilted with the young lady—especially after his question about what constituted ‘The Wrath of Izzy’—they had finally reached a level of comfort where conversation seemed to flow with ease.
“I never beat them,” Isabella said suddenly. “I don’t whip them, either.”
Octavius frowned, wondering why she felt it necessary to put voice to the claims. “I didn’t think you did,” he replied.
“When George talks of ‘The Wrath of Izzy’, he’s merely referring to my raised voice,” she explained. “I... I tend to... curse when a horse is being particularly difficult. Before I tie it up to the orangery.”
Doing his best to suppress the grin he felt coming on just then, Octavius said, “I see.”
“I am not the only one who curses in your stables,” Isabella said in a quiet voice.
“I rather imagine not.”
Isabella sighed. “You’re about to admonish me for something. I can tell. Just... just say what ever it is that has you vexed.”
“You really don’t have to muck stalls when Master George is ill,” Octavius replied quietly. At the moment, it was difficult to imagine her doing so, what with the way her hair was styled and the manner in which she was dressed. Despite its lack of lace or furbelows, her sapphire dinner gown made her appear every inch a lady. The white kid gloves she had worn into the dining room had been surreptitiously removed, revealing long fingers devoid of rings. One wrist featured a gold chain with a horse charm dangling from it, though.
Isabella’s eyes widened, as if she wondered who might have tattled on her. “I know,” she responded. “But I don’t mind. Really. Miss Fitzwilliam does what she must with her stables at Fair Downs,” she added, as if she were using Constance as a model for how to run a stables.
“Miss Fitzwilliam is not the daughter of an aristocrat,” Octavius responded just before he took a sip of port. He was rather surprised the port had been delivered to him while Isabella was still in the dining room. He had expected she might excuse herself and make her way to the parlor, but then he realized she would have no one to keep her company there.
“There are days I completely forget I am one,” she replied, just before she took a sip of champagne. Her eyes widened before she allowed a grin. “Now I understand what Monsieur Perignon meant.”
Octavius cocked an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the French monk who discovered champagne?”
Isabella nodded. “It is said he claimed drinking champagne was like tasting the stars,” she murmured.
Octavius allowed a grin of his own. “At least you have an appreciation for champagne. Given your work in the stables, I feared you might have taken up drinking ale with your dinners,” he teased.
Isabella gave him a quelling glance. “Ale is far too sour for my taste,” she countered. “But I appreciate a glass of claret with dinner now and then.”
“As long as you’re not helping yourself to the scotch... ”
“Of course not!” she replied in mock horror.
Octavius regarded her for a time before he leaned forward. “How are you? Getting on here, I mean?” He had struggled through the entire dinner wondering when she might put voice to a grievance. They had certainly argued enough times during his visits, although it had always been about the horses. If he could stand it, this might be his longest trip to Huntinghurst since her arrival. On the occasions of his other visits, he had always found an excuse to leave after a day, as if he thought spending any more time would give her an opportunity to unleash a string of complaints having nothing at all to do with the stables but with her lot in life.
Or beg for some frippery. Or a bauble. Jane had done that on occasion. He had always been happy to oblige her, of course. She was his very best friend. His wife. He had been determined to keep her happy.
Octavius had to give his head a quick shake, knowing if he allowed his memories of Jane to continue, he would be lost in thought for a long time.
Isabella blinked at hearing the question. The duke had never before asked how she found life at Huntinghurst. “I am... well, Your Grace.”
“Huntington,” he stated. “Or... Hunt,” he offered. “It seems unnecessary for you to refer to me so formally after all this time.”
Apparently trying out his name in her mind, Isabella allowed a frown. “Hunt seems terribly... informal,” she murmured.
“No more so than ‘Izzy’,” he countered with an arched eyebrow. “Which is how Master George referred to you earlier today.” He pushed his carver away from the table in anticipation of standing.
Isabella allowed a grin as she did the same, realizing they were about to go for a walk. “He’s become somewhat of a younger brother to me.” From the duke’s quelling glance, she knew he didn’t approve. “He’s an orphan, so he doesn’t have any family of his own,” she argued as she surreptitiously shook out her skirts and pulled on her long gloves. She made sure to pick up her glass of champagne when she noticed the duke lifting his glass of port from the table.
“As long as you don’t have him moving into one of the guest suites,” Octavius murmured as he offered an arm.
“Of course not. Besides, he’s rather happy with his room above the stables,” she replied. “He said he used to sleep out of doors after his mum died.”
“Which is why I had Mr. Reeves see to a position for him. The urchin seems to know his way around a horse, and he’s certainly willing to work.” Watching for her reaction, Octavius was pleased to see Isabella’s surprise at his comment. Ever since she had mentioned the word ‘tyrant’ in her most recent missive, he found he was determined to prove he was anything but.
They made their way to a nearby salon, where Octavius deposited their glasses onto a sideboard. “When was the last time you danced, my lady?”
A frisson passed through Isabella at the thought of dancing with the duke. With just the two of them, they could hardly perform a longways dance, which meant...
“The waltz?” he added with an arched brow.
Isabella’s eyes widened. “Well, I’ve watched my mother dance it with Craythorne,” she replied.
“You’ll need to know it when you return to Society,” Octavius said as he stood before her. “Your left hand here, your right hand here,” he ordered as he held out his arm and set a hand at her waist. Isabella gave a start, but did as she was told. “The count of the music is a bit different,” the duke warned. “One, two, three, one, two, three. When I do...” He pushed against the hand he held in his. “You step back with your right foot.” Isabella did as instructed. “Now your left, and then on the next count, bring your right foot to your left.”
Tempted to look down, Isabella found she couldn’t when Octavius lifted her chin with a hooked finger. “Head up. I’ll be watching over your shoulder so we shan’t bump into anything.”
Isabella held her head high. “Aren’t we a bit... close?” she asked as he had her repeat the first three steps.
Octavius waved a hand between them, making a square pattern. “This is the space that will keep us separated,” he said, interrupting his murmured, ‘One, two, three’. “You’ll not step into this space, nor will I. Now you’re going to step for
ward with your left foot...” He pulled her hand at the same time he gave the instruction and stepped back. “Your right foot comes forward, and now bring your left foot to your right.”
Stutter stepping a bit, Isabella finally understood what he meant. “So, it’s backwards from the first three steps,” she hedged.
Octavius considered her words. “Yes, except you’ll be moving forward whilst I move backward.” He had her do the steps again, continuing his quiet counting. “Now do those six steps all together.” He began the count and Isabella held her breath as they completed the shape of a box. “Very good,” he said as he gave a glance about the room. “We could just do this here, but it’s a far more elegant dance if I lead us about in a larger circle.”
Before Isabella had a chance to respond, he had her performing a slow version of the dance, his lead taking them in an arc about one side of the salon.
“It’s much more enjoyable with music,” Octavius said as he steered them around a low table.
“Perhaps Connie can play for me whilst I practice,” Isabella murmured, mentally counting.
“Does she play piano-forté?”
Isabella blinked. “I... I don’t actually know. I suppose I shouldn’t assume such a thing.”
“Do you play?” he asked, returning them to their original location.
“Of course. Although I have not done so lately. I’ve been spending most of my time with the horses.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Perseus!” she exclaimed, just then remembering she had left the poor beast tethered to the orangery. Whirling to head for the door, she intended to run from the salon and out to where Perseus was tied up when she was suddenly spun backwards and around and found herself pressed against the front of the duke. “Oh!” she gasped, blinking when she realized he hadn’t let go of his hold on her hand.
“I let him go an hour before dinner,” Octavius said, gazing down at her large eyes. Brown eyes. Dammit, but they seemed to swallow him whole just then. Mesmerize him so that he could do nothing else but stare into them. Do nothing else but kiss the lips that were left slightly open from her expression of shock.
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