Chapter Twenty-One

Christian arrived at Amstead Gardens well after midnight. He had driven Loki at a fierce pace, desperate to outrun the horrible scene at Campbell House.

Flora did not want to marry him.

After everything they had shared together; the long conversations, the merry laughs, the passionate embraces, and stolen kisses, she had turned down his marriage proposal. Remembering the look of sadness on her face had him clutching his gloves in frustrated rage.

Why on Earth would she turn down his proposal? He was a marquess who could trace his line back to the conqueror. He owned an impressive estate, with even more impressive stables. She should have agreed to marry him for Asad alone.

But you told her she would not be permitted to work in the stables.

He pushed that uncomfortable thought aside. He could not expect his bride to work in the stables like a common stablehand. She was more than free to ride every day, whether with him or on her own, and she could attend races and auctions with him. But his mind immediately replayed the accident with Sandstone, and his blood turned to ice. Flora had not been half as important to him then as she was now, but the accident had left him shaken and determined to hold on to her with both hands. How would he feel if she were his wife?

He would not allow his wife to be in harm’s way. It was out of the question.

Leading Loki into his stall, he removed his saddle and bridle and settled into the familiar post-ride routine. He was so engrossed in his actions, the rhythmic movements of the brush over the gelding’s coat just as soothing to him as it was to Loki, that he was unaware he had company.

“Is there a reason you skulked back after dark? Alone?”

“Because I did not want to hear any of your nonsense,” he said, raising his head. “What are you doing here? Should you not be abed?”

“I was checking on Sassafras. Her time approaches.” Baniti considered him from the half door, his arms draped over the top of the wood. His demeanor was relaxed, but his gaze was critical. “I was waiting for you. As it was, Mrs. Mubarak would not let me come to bed until I knew. Where is she?”

“With her family.”

“That’s good.” The trainer quirked his mouth. “But shouldn’t she be here?”

“She does not want to be.”

Those six words gutted him. Flora did not want to be with him. He had offered her everything he had to give, and it was not enough. Like Cedric, she had decided that happiness lay elsewhere.

Baniti made a clicking sound in the back of his throat. “There is more to the story, yes?”

Christian shrugged, exhaustion making it a chore. “I asked her to marry me, but she declined.”

“That’s…not possible.” The Egyptian man frowned. “There’s a word for that, no? Unpossible?”

“Impossible.”

“Yes, that’s it.” The older man shook his head. “I cannot think of any reason why she would refuse to marry you.”

“I can think of many reasons,” Christian grumbled, turning back to Loki.

“But she loves you.”

He went still and closed his eyes. If only Flora did love him, for if she did, there would not be a terrible ache behind his eyes and a wretched pain in his chest.

Forcing down a swallow, he said, “Not enough, it seems.”

Baniti snorted. “Perhaps it is you who does not feel love for her.”

Christian jerked his head to the man, his vision clouded with red. “Does love feel like a thousand tiny stab wounds that are just deep enough to draw blood but not slay? Does it feel like you are trying to draw in breath but your lungs will only expand just so because your heart has crowded them out of your chest? Does it feel joyous and yet strange and frightening and painful?”

Baniti took off his hat and scratched his head. “In the beginning, yes. Love feels remarkably like that.”

“Well there you have it, then.” Christian patted Loki on the neck and turned away. Stopping outside the stall, he stared at the ground. “She’s a lady. A wealthy, titled lady. She did not belong here, anyway.”

“Poppycock!” Baniti’s eyes flashed. “I understand if you must tell yourself untruths to ease your mind, but do not share such nonsense with me.”

Throwing his hands out, Christian growled, “A duke’s daughter does not belong in the filth and stench of the barn. She could so easily be injured…or worse. She belongs where she can be admired and cared for.”

The older man stared at him for a long moment before his face fell. Pivoting toward his home, he waved at arm at Christian as he walked out. “If all Englishman think like you do, is it any wonder she disguised herself as a man to work here?”

Christian’s throat worked as his gaze followed the man’s retreating back until it was swallowed by darkness.

Baniti was right. As soon as he had discovered Flora was a lady, she ceased to be his equal and became an ornament to dote on and cosset. With a clarity born from distance, he could see why she would be reluctant to share her identity. She knew that the freedom she enjoyed and the respect she earned as William would be no more.

He thought back to Inverray’s interactions with her. It was obvious that he cared greatly for his sister, but he also seemed confounded by her. How many times had he caught the marquess staring at Flora with a crinkle in his brow? He suspected that, because the man did not understand her, he attempted to define and manage her. But if Christian had learned anything from the time Flora had spent at Amstead Gardens, it was that she would no sooner allow herself to be managed than a cat would allow itself to be leashed.

Yet you tried to do the same thing.

With drooping shoulders, he turned toward the manor house. It was too late to reconsider his actions. Flora had rejected him, and in the end that was all that really mattered.

…

Flora had never been much of a crier. She had learned at an early age to mask her emotions with caustic remarks and bored rejoinders, because to admit to feeling actually led to…feeling. But try as she might, she could not mask how distraught she felt in the days after the Campbell ball.

She loved Christian and yet she could not marry him.

She declared she did not care if he was forced to marry another.

She had been craven. She had been gripped with confused fear.

She had wept so hard her voice had been reduced to a hoarse croak.

Thus she eschewed all visitors and simply sat in her chambers, alternating between bouts of tears and ones of fiery rage toward Christian…but more often toward herself.

Flora had been so selfish. Only after replaying the scene in her mind over and over did she truly understand how much she had risked in her subterfuge. She’d always been aware of the damage she could potentially do to her reputation—and, to a lesser extent, to Niall’s—but she had not allowed herself to consider the full effects on Christian and the Gardens. And when her sharp tongue had betrayed her, and Christian had needed her to protect all that he had rebuilt, she had fled instead. Now he was being forced to marry another because she could not look beyond herself and her own pride.

The memory of the contempt that had fallen over his dear features when she had rejected his proposal kept her awake at night. Flora was certain that she had never really known herself until that moment.

Impatient with her own solitary thoughts and feeling of helplessness, she decided she needed advice. And to get that advice, she needed to leave her lair. But leaving the house undetected required patience. Rather than departing to his usual committee meetings or to see to matters at Westminster, Niall had worked from the study for the last several days.

Which was inconvenient when she was determined to avoid him.

Various MPs and campaign members had been underfoot at all hours of the day, causing Flora to keep to her rooms. Not that Niall hadn’t tried to coax her to join him for breakfast. Or dinner. Or this campaign event. Or that soirée. Her curt denials had not deterred him, and she was desperate for her sister’s advice.

Yet, while Niall had been overbearing in his attentions, Juliana had been delinquent in hers. Flora was not certain of her diabolical sister’s motives, but she guessed that Juliana wanted her to leave the room. Leave the house. Do the exact opposite of what came naturally to her. Had Flora been a Campbell laird of old, she would have been perfectly content to hunker down in the castle at Loch Kilmorow and stubbornly wait out any threat, English or Scots. Juliana knew this of her, blast it, so she was forcing Flora to act.

The duchess was also aware that Flora valued her opinion. Knew how much she would desire her company after the devastating events at the Campbell ball. Yet, now that Flora needed her help sorting through the mess she had made, Juliana was absent.

Glancing over the banister into the entrance hall below, she considered the scene. The area was quiet—for now—but voices emanated from the study. If she were to steal away to Ashwood House, she needed to act.

After dashing back into her room, she peered out the window to confirm there was no one milling about the garden or outside the mews. Finding them empty, Flora hurried to the servants’ stairs, grasping her hem as she rapidly skipped down them. Reaching the bottom floor, she cocked her head and listened. Male voices could be heard at the other end of the house, but the air about her was silent. Gliding out the back door, she made her way through the streets leading to Ashwood House.

When she reached her sister’s front door, she did not even knock before she turned the knob and stepped inside. The butler hurried forward, a disgruntled frown on his mouth. “Lady Flora, Her Grace is upstairs in her sitting room.”

Without waiting to be escorted, she ran up the stairs, bursting into the room without a knock. Juliana sat in her customary chair cradling a black-haired baby against her shoulder.

“Jul, I cannot believe you have neglected me so.” Only after proclaiming this did Flora take in the other occupants in the room.

The Duchess of Darington, otherwise known as her dear friend Alethea, lounged on a settee under the pair of windows that overlooked the street. Alethea’s sister by marriage, Charlotte, sat in a wingback chair, engaged in a serious discussion with a red-haired sprite with dark eyes the size of half pennies. At her entrance, both women looked up with bright smiles of welcome.

“Goodness, Flora, you know how to make an entrance,” Juliana chided, switching the baby to the opposite shoulder so her sister could kiss her cheek. Flora kissed the baby’s sweet-smelling head as well.

Alethea bolted over and wrapped her in a hug. “I had hoped you would visit today.”

Charlotte kissed her cheek when Alethea released her. “We’ve been concerned.”

Flora picked up Alethea’s young daughter, Lady Margaret—or Daisy, as she was called—and placed her in her lap. Flipping open the picture book the toddler held in her hands, Flora avoided their gazes. “I am well, as you can see. What animal is that, Daisy?”

“You look pale, dear,” Alethea remarked.

“And not at all like your usual cheerful self,” Charlotte added.

She lifted a shoulder as she pointed to a giraffe on the page. “And this one, love?”

“You should have married him,” her sister declared abruptly, her tone all ducal authority. Juliana was never one to prevaricate.

“He only wanted to marry me after he discovered who I was.” Righteous indignation pulsed through her at the memory of Christian’s belated proposal. “And when I asked if I could continue to work with the horses, he said no.”

Alethea took the seat next to her, her voice gentle. “I am certain you could have convinced him otherwise. From everything I have heard about Lord Amstead, he seems level-headed and fair.”

“He certainly did not seem so that night.”

“Of course he didn’t, you ninny.” Juliana rolled her eyes. “How would you feel if you attended a ball—when you normally eschew such events—only to discover that the woman you thought was your assistant trainer is in fact a titled lady. An unmarried titled lady. You cannot act as though the distinction is not important. And then some ill-mannered countess discovers said lady’s identity and blackmails you with it. My God! I believe he had every right to be flabbergasted and, as a result, imperious and demanding.”

Flora grumbled a nonsensical response. For Juliana to lay it out in such a bald manner made Flora feel the shame of her selfishness anew.

The room fell silent and after a slight hesitation, Juliana added, “What I do not understand, Flo, is why you did not tell me that your relationship with his lordship had become personal.”

“I didn’t because…I think I felt if I kept it private, between just the two of us, I didn’t have to analyze it. I didn’t have to consider why it was problematic to engage in an affair with a man who was not only my employer, but from whom I was withholding such a vital part of my identity.” A vision of Christian’s teasing smiles floated before her eyes. “I could pretend matters were as simple as they appeared.”

“Matters are never as simple as they appear,” Charlotte murmured sympathetically.

“As I’ve learned.” She exhaled gustily. “You should have seen his face when Niall introduced us. He looked so confused. And offended.”

“Men are easily offended. I offend Ashwood daily.”

“I offended Finlay at breakfast when I laughed at a name he selected for the baby.”

Alethea leaned forward, her grin menacing. “What name was it?”

Charlotte blushed and shook her head. “He would never forgive me if I told you.”

Juliana cleared her throat. The room quieted. “Do you love him, Flo?”

The question made her squeeze her eyes shut, as if she could shut it out as easily as she shut out the room around her. Shut out the pain she had read all too clearly on Christian’s dear face. “It was impossible not to love him. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“Then why did you not accept him?” Juliana demanded, her brogue slipping through her ducal constraints.

“Because he no longer respected me!” She buried her face in Daisy’s red curls, tears threatening to burst over the emotional dams she had erected. “When I was simply his assistant trainer, I had earned his respect. I had earned his admiration. He sought my company because of the knowledge I have gathered and the talented I have crafted, and not for what my connections or fortune or title could give him. But as soon as he discovered I wasn’t Flora Grant but Lady Flora Campbell, he looked at me differently. He wanted to manage me just like Niall, and like every other suitor who has sought my hand. I could not bear it. I could not bear to know that my worth, to him, had been condensed to the sum of my birth.”

The only sound in the room was Daisy’s soft voice as she continued to point to animals in the book, oblivious to the tension around her.

“I would never want you to marry a man who did not respect you. You deserve a spouse who will stand by your side and treat you as an equal, for you are the equal of any man.” Her sister paused until Flora met her gaze. “But, my dear, you had to have known this was a possibility. With any gamble, there are risks. You risked your reputation and your heart, and the hand did not play out as you anticipated. But while you went into this situation with your eyes open, Niall and his lordship did not. And yet they are now just as much in the hole as you are.”

The words stung. Although she did not look at them, she knew that Alethea and Charlotte were watching her, no doubt in agreement with her sister.

“And, dearest, will you really let your pride clear the way for him to marry Lady Hightower?”

A wave of nausea crashed over Flora and she closed her eyes against it.

Pressing a kiss to Daisy’s head, she set the girl on the settee next to her mother and rose to her feet.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I must leave. Have a pleasant day.”

Over their objections, she left, catching Juliana’s sad eyes as she closed the door.

She was a coward. Flora had never known such a thing about herself until she found it easier to sequester herself from her siblings and friends, from her beloved Banrigh, than to face the truth of her selfish nature.

Lost in thought, she was only aware she had entered through the front door when Niall called her name.

Stifling a groan, she spun on her heels, keeping her eyes trained on her slippered feet.

“I’m surprised to see you about. Did Juliana finally lure you out?”

Her stomach tightened. “I needed to speak with someone who understands me.”

The shuffle of his feet on the marble floors was the only indication that he had taken a step closer. “Don’t you think I understand you?”

“I do not believe you’ve ever tried to.”

A half minute ticked off the clock, each second a jab to her composure.

“I have ordered the carriage to be ready to depart for Loch Kilmorow tomorrow morning.”

Jerking her head up, her heart in her throat, she asked, “Who’s departing for Scotland?”

“You are.” He brushed an errant curl off her forehead with hesitant fingers. “That is what you want, is it not?”

Flora covered her mouth and nodded.

“The Highlands are a special kind of tonic.”

She nodded again, unable to think of an adequate response.

Niall’s gaze was thoughtful. “Pack your trunks, then.” He turned to leave. “The carriage leaves at daybreak.”

“Wait!”

She uttered the word with more force than she expected, and her brother turned with his brows raised.

“Can I leave after…after the race?”

Flora was grateful that Niall seemed to understand her broken, anxiety-filled plea, for his smile was gentle. “Of course. Ashwood and Juliana leave for Yorkshire next week, so you can travel with them and then push on to Loch Kilmorow when you wish.”

At her nod of agreement, he asked, “Will you want to sit in Amstead’s box? He’s extended an invitation.”

Probably not to me, Flora thought bitterly. Squaring her shoulders, she shook her head. “I think it best if I watch from the lawn.”

A glower darkened Niall’s face. “It’s not safe for a young woman in the lawn seats, Flo.”

She slowly arched a brow.

“Mo creach, you’re impossible. Fine, just make sure you bring Duncan along. He is supposed to arrive tomorrow,” Niall grumbled, turning away again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, watching him disappear into his study.

…

The lawn leading down to the barn was covered in mist when Christian stepped out of the front door of the manor house. The rising sun was obscured by clouds, but their wispy constitution appeared unprepared to handle the warmth of a late April day.

He took a moment to survey the landscape as he did most mornings, a feeling of purpose coursing through his veins. Amstead Gardens was a beautiful home, and not a day went by that he wasn’t honored to be its steward.

But as he contemplated all that lay before him, he discovered that his resolve to face his responsibilities was absent today. His energy was non-existent. Instead, an apathetic cloud hovered over him, dampening everything that used to bring him a modicum of happiness.

He should name the cloud Flora, for it had not appeared until after that blasted ball.

Still, he saw to his duties. After checking on Kadar, who was frolicking in the pasture, all signs of his injury an unpleasant memory in the early morning rays, Christian made his way to the main paddock. A half dozen horses hung their heads over their half doors, their ears keen to his footfalls, no doubt hopeful that he had brought them apples along with his morning greetings. He rubbed several noses, scratched a few ears, and patted numerous jaws before making his way to Sassafras’ box. A knobby-kneed bay colt dashed about the small stall, kicking up straw until it stuck to him and his weary mama in clumps. Flora would have laughed at his antics, and the thought brought a rush of melancholy behind it.

“The first two supply wagons head out to Newmarket soon.”

“I know. I had the porter review everything that was being loaded,” Christian said, turning to proceed to the next box.

“I had him review the contents with me, as well.” Baniti’s voice hinted at his amusement. “Do you still plan to have Asad walked over tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He stopped outside the stallion’s door, where he spied the beast munching on warm gruel. “If he leaves tomorrow, it will give him time to become familiar with his new surroundings, and hopefully he’ll spare us any of his horsey tantrums.”

“William always had a deft hand with his tantrums.”

The Egyptian man uttered this sentence as if the observation had not ricocheted through Christian like an errant bullet. To salvage his pride, he offered a brisk nod. “We’ll need a groom posted outside his box at all times. I do not want to risk the chance that cruel hijinks will be enacted on us the night before the race.”

“I’ve already worked out a schedule with the lads. They know that no one is allowed near Asad’s box, no matter the coin offered or the pretty face asking.”

“Tell them that they will receive a generous bonus if Asad places. That should keep them loyal.”

Christian returned his gaze to the stallion, who took that moment to raise his head and meet his eye. Asad stared at him stoically, as if he understood the words. As if he understood all the hopes that rested on his withers.

“Before you go, my lord, I have something I thought you might like to see.” Baniti peered at him with an odd sort of expression on his face. “I asked the housekeeper to send a maid to clean out William’s room, and when she had completed her task, she gave me this.” He extended a tartan-wrapped item to him. “I suspect it was meant for you.”

Extending a hand, Christian considered it in confusion. As he pulled the fabric away, he vaguely acknowledged that Baniti had left him, as if the man knew he required privacy.

Spreading the tartan flat in his palm, his breath caught as a small, carved figure was revealed. His pulse lurched as he realized it was a horse. But this carved horse was standing on his hind legs, his forelegs propped before him like arms. And in his hooves was what appeared to be a sheet of paper. Christian drew the figure closer and snorted when he spied the smirk and cocked brow on the equine face. The little horse was inspecting his list with due attention. He laughed out loud when his eyes landed on the minuscule pencil tucked behind the horse’s ear.

Flora had carved it for him. There was no doubt. Why else would she include the list? The smirk? Only he knew she whittled, and the idea that she had thought of him when she had applied knife to wood filled him with love. And a large dose of regret.

A noise drew his head up and he found Asad considering him with somber black eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t deserve that forlorn look. I am here, am I not?”

The beast continued to stare at him.

Christian ran a thumb over the wooden horse’s head and rewrapped it in the tartan, tucking it into his pocket. He stepped closer and dragged a palm along Asad’s soft head. “She lied, lad. She was a lady the whole time.”

The horse pushed his head firmly into Christian’s palm.

“A lady can’t work in the stables.” He dropped his hand and scrubbed the back of his neck. “She’s not meant to muck out stalls, hack out green two-year-olds, and tend to breeding mares.”

His equine judge appeared unimpressed.

Propping his shoulder against the door frame, Christian sighed. “I told her that a marchioness couldn’t work with the horses. I denied her the very thing she had gone to such scandalous lengths to obtain.”

The stallion swished his tale and swung his head to the side, seeming to peer at Christian in an accusatory manner.

“Don’t look at me like that, lad. Think of the multitude of ways she could be hurt.” He slipped an apple from his coat pocket and offered it to the horse as an apology. “She could be thrown from Horatio’s back and knock her pretty head, rendering her insensible. She could be kicked by a draft horse she was helping through her labor pains. Or trampled by a pair of spooked carriage horses.”

Asad rammed his great head into Christian’s side, his nose snuffing at his pockets in search of additional treats.

Christian pulled out another apple, which the beast promptly gobbled up. “The truth is, lad, I let her title convince me she was someone completely different from the Flora I grew to know and care for. My bitterness obscured all the things that drew me to her in the first place. Her wit. Her acerbic opinions. The fearless way she approached every challenge. The gentle way she handled every creature, man or beast, at the Gardens.”

Stepping into the stables was painful without the anticipation of seeing Flora about. Her presence had made the structure brighter. More cheerful, which was something that had sorely been missing since his father’s death. He missed her. And he resented it, because he should be focused on the Guineas and not mooning over his lost lover.

He kicked the door frame, and several equine heads swung into view up the walk. He ignored them. “She was far above us, lad. Better to admit it and move on than suffer in delusion.”

His stallion bared his teeth and spun away, ambling to the other side of the box and all but dismissing him.

He chuckled dryly. “You have a race to run, and I expect you to mind your breaks and perform well, whether or not she’s here to wish you well.”

The traitorous horse tossed his head. A lifetime spent in the stables told Christian that his stallion was none too impressed with his lecture.