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D
eirdre had finally managed to escape the house, and without anyone making her wait so they could walk to the village together. Not that she would have minded Hiram’s company, but she needed the time to clear her head.

The rain poured down in earnest. Her half boots would be a muddy mess, and though she had donned her oiled cape and had her brolly opened above her, every time the wind gusted she got a face full of water.

And naturally, when she reached the crossroads there was a carriage bearing down, ready to slosh by and send that entire puddle upon her. She backed up, hopefully out of splashing distance.

The carriage pulled to a halt. For a moment she thought it must be someone in need of direction—then she saw the dark scowl on the man that swung open the door. Pratt. “Have you got your days confused, my lovely?” Not giving her time to answer, he jerked his head. “Get in. And make it quick.”

She told herself to be grateful for the escape from the rain. Though he would likely deduct the price of cleaning up her mud from her next payment. With a glance over her shoulder to
be sure no one would see, she closed her umbrella and hoisted herself up.

The interior was dim and smelled of spice and rain. Pratt tapped the ceiling to order the driver onward, never taking his eyes from her. “I expect you have an excuse for missing our rendezvous yesterday.”

Her umbrella was dripping a lake onto his floor. “The Duke of Stafford came unexpectedly. I could not be spared.”

“The Duke of Stafford.” His glare chased away the light. “Why?”

As if she dared to interpret the mind of a duke. “On his way to Azerley Hall, he said. Thought to stop in for tea so he could meet the new baroness and Lady Melissa, whom your friend Cayton could scarcely take his eyes from.”

“Is it official, then? Whitby has accepted this performer’s daughter as his own?”

She nodded, not bothering to ask how he knew that much, lurking around as he always did. “Although . . . you know French, don’t you, my lord?”

His answer was the arch of a dark brow.

Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. But she had already smuggled the book out in her handbag, she might as well see it through. She drew out the leather journal. “Her ladyship had this with her. I thought . . .”

“Leave the thinking to me.” He snatched it from her hands though, and flipped to the first page. The way his gaze darkened, she couldn’t be sure if the words he found pleased or angered him. “This isn’t the baroness’s.”

“The singer’s. The baroness hasn’t even read it yet.”

There, his lips turned up.

Because she figured it would only improve his mood, she added, “I am to be her lady’s maid. His lordship will announce it after prayers tomorrow.”

“Moving up in the world, are we?” Yet his gaze said she was worth no more than ever. “Your instincts were good with this. And you’ll be even more useful now. Earn her trust. And pay especial attention to her relations with Abingdon—I won’t have him marrying her before I can so much as get a proper introduction.”

She hesitated, reached halfway out. “The journal, my lord. I need it back, to return to her things. She was looking for it yesterday. If you could just take a peek to see if it verifies the story she told . . .”

That quickly, his mood turned. “My French is not so flawless that I can just glance at it. I’ll read it at Delmore and return it when I am through.”

Unease clawed at her, but she knew better than to argue—it would only make him more determined. She cast around for something to distract him before he decided to keep it forever. “Lady Ramsey is throwing a house party in a fortnight’s time, at Whitby Park. You are to be invited.”

His smile reemerged. “Good.” Eden Dale was already coming into view, and Lord Pratt smacked the roof again, calling out, “Stop here!” Quiet and cold, he added to her, “Can’t be seen together, can we?”

“No, of course not.” If only she had her old bin of brushes and cloths so she could wipe up the mess. “So sorry for the mud, your lordship.”

“I have servants to clean it.” Quick as a snake, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to his side of the carriage, pressed his mouth to hers.

More poison than kiss, more shackles than embrace. She endured it—and promised herself a thorough scrubbing when she got home.

He chuckled as he pulled away. “I saw her, you know, the other morning. She is nearly as beautiful as you.” He dragged
his finger down the side of her face, from temple to chin. “It will not be a hardship to marry her. And even less of one knowing you come with her.”

Deirdre prayed he wouldn’t detect her shudder. She said nothing. But when he let her go, she lunged for the door and exited with more speed than grace.

His laugh joined with rumbling wheels and pounding rain as the carriage rolled on again.

She had left her umbrella inside. And deemed getting wet an even trade for escaping him.

The horse was black as midnight and skittish as a phantom. Brook knew the moment she stepped into the stables and clapped her gaze upon the stallion that he would be her mount of choice. She had little use for a docile horse—when she rode, it was to give herself over to wind and earth and sky, to lay bare her soul to the Father who had crafted both beast and land across which it flew. When she rode, it was to push herself to the edge of reason and safety.

When she rode, she lived.

The stable master slurred some response to her question of the horse’s name that she could scarcely understand, so thick was his accent. The groom interpreted with, “Him? Nay, milady, you don’t be wanting Oscuro.”

“Oscuro.” She whispered the name, but not as he had done, with the dreadful British enunciation. She accented it as the Italian dictated. Oscuro, the unknown darkness.

Perhaps the horse knew his name had been said wrong all this time, for he tossed his black mane and nickered. Of course, he also reared up and pawed.

She made for his end stall.

“He ain’t tame, milady!” The groom jogged to her side. “He
was bred for the races, but he wouldna tolerate a rider. Broke his trainer’s leg, he did. His lordship’s only keeping him to stud.”

And she didn’t intend to ride him today—she wasn’t daft. But she would. Soon. And the start would be getting him used to her presence. She halted a bit away from his stall, out of range of hooves but close enough for him to catch her scent. “He is well groomed for being unbroken.”

The man grunted. “It takes two of us to get him secured, and then we draw lots to see who risks getting bit or kicked. Stay clear of him, milady, I beg you. He’d better to have been named after the devil than darkness.”

Oscuro pawed the air again, showing off his musculature and powerful frame. “He wants to run free.”

“Aye, and he can never be off the tether, or he’ll be over the fence and gone. Leave him be, now. We have a mare, just as handsome, same coloring—share a sire, they do, but this one’s trained for the sidesaddle. Her name’s Tempesta, but she’s got patience to match her spirit.”

Brook turned to face the groom—slowly, so as not to startle Oscuro. “I don’t care for the sidesaddle. I will be riding astride.”

Temper flashed in his eyes. “The young ladies always ride sidesaddle, milady. Lady Melissa is a most excellent horsewoman too. I’ve accompanied her many a time. Let me saddle Tempesta for you and we can go. His lordship said we ought to show you all the estate.”

She tried on her sweetest smile. “I do appreciate the offer . . . what is your name?”

He heaved a sigh, but the fight didn’t leave his eyes. “Francis, milady.”

“Francis.” He seemed immune to her grin, but she brightened it anyway. “I am happy to take the horse you recommend—though with a traditional saddle. But much as I appreciate your offer, I don’t need an escort today. I’ll not go far.” Not
too
far.

Francis’s returning smile looked about as warm as last week’s unrelenting rain. “I’ll fetch the horses, milady.”

Horses, plural. She sighed as he strode away and then turned slowly back to Oscuro. He kicked at the stall. She nodded. “I know how you feel,” she said in Monegasque. “I have not been alone for over a week, save for when I sleep, and I am about to kick something too.”

She was enjoying the time with her family. Aunt Mary was welcoming, if a bit aloof, Regan sweet as could be, and Melissa’s offense on her sister’s behalf seemed to be fading. But Brook had not been so surrounded by people . . . ever. The prince had given her the run of the palace, and more often than he liked, she slipped out without a chaperone and took herself to ballet lessons or for a spicy
salsiccia
. Or to find Justin, if he was in Monaco.

Footsteps sounded behind her, along with a sigh she knew quite well already. “Naturally, you find the dangerous one.”

Her grin, she had discovered, worked quite well on her father. She flashed it at him now. “He is the handsomest. Are you the one who gave them Italian names?”

Whitby hummed, nodded, and held out his palm. Oscuro ignored him, but given his behavior otherwise, it was surely the equivalent of a whinny of greeting from any other horse. “Not all of them, of course, but it seemed to suit him and his sister. Francis said he is saddling Tempesta for you.”

“
Oui
. F—”
Father
, she almost said, but stopped herself. She had not called him such yet, and she would not now, when she was trying to wheedle him into something. “Francis said he must come with me.”

Her father lifted his brow. “This is a problem?”

She splayed her hands. “Do
you
always like company on your rides?”

“I am a man.” No doubt he tried to keep his expression clear—but she thought she detected amusement in it.

Now Brook planted those hands on her hips. “And I inherited your disposition.”

“You’ll never let me live that down.”

“You’d never want me to.”

Yes, definitely amusement. It made his lips twitch. “And you’ve only been home a week.”

She flashed her grin again. “Imagine when it’s been a year.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, sent his gaze over her shoulder, and rocked on his heels. “An hour, and you must stay on Whitby land.”

“Two hours.”

His brows lifted. “But the boundary?”

“Accepted.”

“Done.” He held out a hand.

She shook it, unable to stifle the laugh as she did. “You are an admirable negotiator.”

“Ha! You are an unabashed flatterer. Francis!”

Brook scurried to keep pace as he strode down the open space between the stalls. “He seems to think I need a sidesaddle, too, if we could correct him on that at the same time.”

Her father came to an abrupt halt and turned to her with that expression of fond disbelief he had given her at least forty times in the last seven days. “You ride astride?”

“Have you ever tried to ride sidesaddle?”

A short laugh slipped out. “The prince taught you?”

“Grand-père . . . allowed it.”

Whitby’s eyes went to slits again. “Let me guess . . .”

“Justin taught me.” A phrase she had uttered a matching forty times. “It is all his fault, really, every bit of unconventionalness . . . Is that a word?”

A snort was his only answer. He took two more steps, then halted again. Lifted a finger. “
How
, if you don’t mind me asking, do you ride astride in a skirt?”

Brook kicked a leg out a bit, revealing the split that was all but invisible when she stood still.

He pressed a hand to his brow and moved onward. “My daughter is wearing trousers.”

“Oh, there’s no need to sound so horrified. They are not trousers exactly.”

His grunt disagreed. “Your mother would kill me.”

“Nonsense. She wouldn’t have let a little thing like a split skirt upset her. Although now that you mention it, trousers would be far more efficient.”

“Heaven help me. Next thing I know you’ll be joining the suffragettes.”

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and grinned up at him. “I’d rather learn to drive. Justin taught me a bit in his Rolls-Royce in Monaco.”

“Of course he did.”

“But not nearly enough. Have you learned how? You could teach me.”

He sent her another look she had already learned—one that said her grin had reached the limits of its powers. For now. “I employ a chauffeur.”

“So I should learn from
him
?” They reached the stall where Francis worked on another midnight-black horse. This one greeted them properly, to the point of snuffling at her father’s pockets. Apparently in search of sugar, since he produced a cube of it.

“Try it and I’ll lock you in your chamber as your Justin recommended. Francis—no sidesaddle for the baroness. And she has my permission to ride alone.” He raised a finger and leveled it at her nose. “Two hours. On our land. Or I dig up the key—it is surely around somewhere.”

“Mrs. Doyle no doubt knows where it is.” And, she suspected, would happily hand it over. Brook had yet to earn more than
a polite turning of the lips from her. She held out a hand for Tempesta to sniff. Getting a damp snort of approval, she rubbed the mare’s ebony nose. “But about the driving.”