Gibson’s raucous chuckle. On the rare occasions when a person didn’t kowtow to Nick as a matter of course, Gibson greatly enjoyed the experience.
Alicia patted her horse’s sweaty neck. She was dressed in breeches and an ancient shirt. Her hair was contained—more or less—beneath a cloth cap. Long strands had escaped and framed her face in a disorderly tangle. How Nick could have mistaken her for a lad, even at a distance, he was at a loss to explain. His eyes lingered, enjoying the sight of her breasts struggling against the fabric of her shirt as her breathing slowly returned to normal.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Good morning, Mr. Gibson.”
Gibson ineffectually tried to smother his surprise. People rarely noticed him when he was in Nick’s company. And if they did happen to acknowledge him, they certainly didn’t bother to address him by name.
“Good morning, miss.” Gibson doffed his cap.
“I didn’t realise you were an early riser, Your Grace.”
She made it sound like an accusation.
“Is there any reason you should be privy to that information, Miss Woodley?”
“None whatsoever. I can assure you that your routine is of no interest to me whatsoever.” She spoke with a casualness that bordered on discourtesy, concentrating upon stroking her horse’s muzzle and barely sparing a glance for Nick. “I merely wondered if a specific requirement had caused you to rise so unfashionably early.”
“I thank you, no. Your aunt has made me entirely comfortable. I merely desired an early glimpse at Shalimar and,” he added, looking at the horse she was holding with open admiration, “I’m not at all disappointed.”
“Oh, this isn’t Shalimar.”
“Then who—”
“This is Fabian.” She planted a soft kiss on the horse’s nose. “And he’s all mine.”
“Yours?”
“Indeed yes. My father and I bred him but I’m his owner.”
“Then you’re very fortunate, Miss Woodley.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “I think so too.”
“Does Fabian stand at stud here?”
A shadow passed fleetingly across her eyes. “No. My uncle doesn’t require his services. You see, he has a few flaws.”
Nick suppressed a chuckle. Why was he not surprised? He’d seen for himself the hotchpotch collection of animals she favoured and couldn’t imagine her being content with a Hanoverian that didn’t excite her compassion. He looked more closely and realised immediately what the problem was. Too much white. An overlarge and irregularly shaped white star and two hind white stockings. But worse, as the horse shifted its position, Nick noticed a large speckling of white beneath its mane. At first glance he’d mistaken it for sweat.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, following the direction of his eyes. “Fabian’s colour is all wrong. We’re not entirely sure how that happened, but since Shalimar’s his sire, we could only surmise that the fault lies somewhere in his dam’s history.”
“That would explain it.”
“Indeed, but the owner of the mare wouldn’t accept it and refused to pay our fee.”
“And so you kept the foal.”
“Yes, and seeing how attached to him I’d become, Papa insisted upon registering me as his owner. That was just a few months before he died,” she added, her eyes clouding at the recollection. “And so I was left with a stallion no one wished to introduce their mares to.” She lifted her shoulders. “All I could do was break him and keep him as a pet.”
Nick was tempted to ask why she didn’t have the horse gelded. But it was too delicate a subject to discuss with a young lady. At least in public. But when he was next able to snatch a few words with her in private, perhaps he’d introduce it then. His lips twitched at the prospect. Such a discussion could only lead in one direction. As good a means as any of commencing her erotic education. She might know a great deal about the workings of a stud farm, but
Alicia patted her horse’s sweaty neck. She was dressed in breeches and an ancient shirt. Her hair was contained—more or less—beneath a cloth cap. Long strands had escaped and framed her face in a disorderly tangle. How Nick could have mistaken her for a lad, even at a distance, he was at a loss to explain. His eyes lingered, enjoying the sight of her breasts struggling against the fabric of her shirt as her breathing slowly returned to normal.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Good morning, Mr. Gibson.”
Gibson ineffectually tried to smother his surprise. People rarely noticed him when he was in Nick’s company. And if they did happen to acknowledge him, they certainly didn’t bother to address him by name.
“Good morning, miss.” Gibson doffed his cap.
“I didn’t realise you were an early riser, Your Grace.”
She made it sound like an accusation.
“Is there any reason you should be privy to that information, Miss Woodley?”
“None whatsoever. I can assure you that your routine is of no interest to me whatsoever.” She spoke with a casualness that bordered on discourtesy, concentrating upon stroking her horse’s muzzle and barely sparing a glance for Nick. “I merely wondered if a specific requirement had caused you to rise so unfashionably early.”
“I thank you, no. Your aunt has made me entirely comfortable. I merely desired an early glimpse at Shalimar and,” he added, looking at the horse she was holding with open admiration, “I’m not at all disappointed.”
“Oh, this isn’t Shalimar.”
“Then who—”
“This is Fabian.” She planted a soft kiss on the horse’s nose. “And he’s all mine.”
“Yours?”
“Indeed yes. My father and I bred him but I’m his owner.”
“Then you’re very fortunate, Miss Woodley.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “I think so too.”
“Does Fabian stand at stud here?”
A shadow passed fleetingly across her eyes. “No. My uncle doesn’t require his services. You see, he has a few flaws.”
Nick suppressed a chuckle. Why was he not surprised? He’d seen for himself the hotchpotch collection of animals she favoured and couldn’t imagine her being content with a Hanoverian that didn’t excite her compassion. He looked more closely and realised immediately what the problem was. Too much white. An overlarge and irregularly shaped white star and two hind white stockings. But worse, as the horse shifted its position, Nick noticed a large speckling of white beneath its mane. At first glance he’d mistaken it for sweat.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, following the direction of his eyes. “Fabian’s colour is all wrong. We’re not entirely sure how that happened, but since Shalimar’s his sire, we could only surmise that the fault lies somewhere in his dam’s history.”
“That would explain it.”
“Indeed, but the owner of the mare wouldn’t accept it and refused to pay our fee.”
“And so you kept the foal.”
“Yes, and seeing how attached to him I’d become, Papa insisted upon registering me as his owner. That was just a few months before he died,” she added, her eyes clouding at the recollection. “And so I was left with a stallion no one wished to introduce their mares to.” She lifted her shoulders. “All I could do was break him and keep him as a pet.”
Nick was tempted to ask why she didn’t have the horse gelded. But it was too delicate a subject to discuss with a young lady. At least in public. But when he was next able to snatch a few words with her in private, perhaps he’d introduce it then. His lips twitched at the prospect. Such a discussion could only lead in one direction. As good a means as any of commencing her erotic education. She might know a great deal about the workings of a stud farm, but
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