Chapter Two

March 1832

“Lady Hightower, if you would be so kind as to remove your hands from my person, I would be most appreciative.”

Christian, the Marquess of Amstead, tried to keep his voice even, but annoyance threatened to make his tone a bark. It wasn’t Lady Hightower’s fault that he wasn’t up for a literal roll in the hay. With the future of the estate weighing heavy on his mind, he, sadly, had no time for the things he once found enjoyable.

Like tumbles with adventurous, nimble widows.

They had dallied, usually when Christian was in London, but never had she been to the Gardens for a house party. But she had been left an immense fortune by her late husband, and he would be a fool not to invite the young widow to join in the festivities—and possibly to back his new Egyptian-bred stallion.

It was a horrid idea to host a house party in the midst of training his new stallion, but his solicitor had argued that it would be a prime opportunity to wine and dine his investors. And he needed his investors now more than ever.

After traveling to Lisbon to meet his shipment from Egypt, he’d arrived on English shores livid and distressed over the health of Kadar, who had injured his left hind leg on the voyage during a particularly rough storm. Now only Asad, the steed’s brother, remained to resurrect the glory of Christian’s family’s stud farm. At one time, Amstead Gardens had boasted Ascot, Gold Cup, St. Leger, Derby, and Two Thousand Guineas winners every year.

That was before the fire. Before his father had rushed into the burning barn to free the pregnant mares in their stalls. To release Samson, their prize breeding stallion. Before Christian’s world was reduced to the same cinder and ash as the barn…along with his father, who had never emerged from the smoldering rubble.

Moreover, upon docking in Portsmouth, Christian had learned that there had been a series of thefts at Dearingham, his estate in Northumberland. So rather than seeing to the care of his newest racehorses, including the recovery of the injured Kadar, he had been hunting a thief in the damned wilds of the lowlands.

He had finally returned to Amstead Gardens, but rather than diving back into the training schedule, he was entertaining the cream of the ton crop. When his secretary had suggested hosting a house party in early spring before the racing schedule began in earnest, he had readily agreed. Courting current and potential investors at the Gardens had seemed like a priority, but that was before his long delay in Northumberland. What was the point of securing investors if his stallion was not ready to race?

Stress gnawed at him, and Christian counted down the days until he no longer had to make nice. He despised making nice.

Well, it had never been difficult to make nice with lovely, buxom women, and Regina was just such a woman. However, it was obvious the countess expected more from her investment than a financial return.

“Oh, come now, Amstead, it’s always time for a roll in the hay.” Her lips quirked as she took in the bales stacked to the roof. “And it seems you have plenty of hay to work with.”

“Unfortunately, my dear, I cannot tarry. You know I have been gone and unable to spend time training Asad, and there is much work to do if he’s to be ready to compete.” Christian gently pried her hands from his waistcoat, careful to keep his irritation from his face.

Regina took a step back, her blue eyes sparking fire. “But I have not seen you, either. I had hoped you would be as anxious to spend time with me as I am to spend it with you.” When his expression did not change, she looped the train of her skirts around her arm and advanced several steps toward the entrance before she paused. “I will not wait for you.”

He watched her go, a small sense of relief lightening his chest. He might have enjoyed Lady Hightower once upon a time, but she couldn’t compare to the feeling he experienced when his horses accomplished something amazing. And Asad had been born and bred for amazing.

Turning, he took a moment to simply revel in the fact he was finally home. Amstead Gardens had been built in the late seventeenth century, when the estate was the seat of the Earl of Amstead, who was the genesis of the title’s horse racing madness. The then Lord Amstead had run a filly in the Newmarket Town Plate, nudging out a mount backed by the Crown and solidifying the Amstead racing tradition. Christian’s grandfather several times removed had built the stables to reflect the grandeur he sought, with imposing stone archways on both sides of the paddock and a huge portico supported by massive pilasters lining the length of the structure. It had been the perfect place for the grooms to bathe the horses, clean and sort tack, and escape the summer sun.

And then it had all been burned to ashes.

Christian had tried to rebuild the structure in the same model, but it was impossible to duplicate brilliance. The building lacked the character of its predecessor, but he liked it all the same.

Or tried to.

With stiff shoulders, he walked toward his young stallion’s stall, eager to discover how he was faring today. The new training manager, Baniti, whom Christian had hired while in Egypt, had written that Asad’s transition had been challenging, and that he’d taken to bucking, biting, and acting like an all-round arse to express his displeasure. The man had recommended that the colt be given space to adjust to his new home.

Christian wasn’t sure how he felt about giving the animal space. Would Baniti next recommend a therapy of oats, embraces, and affectionate words for the stubborn beast?

His father had respected and lavished affection on every horse he encountered, from lowly draft horses to prime breeding Ascot winners, and yet Christian suspected that the late marquess would have scowled at Baniti’s orders.

A flash of pain caused him to rub his chest, as if such a motion could erase the grief that lingered like a cancer in every limb of his body. His father had been gone for almost two years, but there were still times the loss threatened to take his breath away.

Pressing his finger to his temple, Christian willed his mind and emotions into place. Nothing he did now could bring back his father but dammit, he could bring glory back to Amstead Gardens.

A soft noise pulled him up short. Was that…humming?

Drawing closer, he peered around the stall frame and his eyes grew wide. A boy sat on a stool against the stall door, one leg propped on the other, a piece of wood and a knife in his hands. Christian couldn’t make out what the boy was whittling, but he hummed in a low, melodic voice. Asad stood on the other side of the stall, his head low and his eyes closed. Christian had never seen the beast so peaceful. Since boarding the ship in Egypt, he’d appeared to be on a warpath.

And yet here the horse stood, dozing quietly as the lad hummed to him. Christian was perplexed as much as he was relieved.

Abruptly, the boy jerked his head around, his gaze colliding with Christian’s. His eyes were a deep emerald green and framed by full black brows that had drawn close in censure. The rest of his features were almost dainty in appearance, and he suspected that the other stablehands probably teased the lad mercilessly for his pretty features.

When Christian opened his mouth to address him, the boy jerked his head sharply and held his finger to his mouth. Christian slowly arched a brow. He’d never had an employee address him in such a way, and he was not about to let this scrawny, pretty boy do it now.

Before he could spit out the words of censure begging to be released, the lad rose to his feet and noiselessly slipped through the stall door, settling the heavy oak back into place with nary a sound. The boy proceeded down the walk without a word, until he pivoted to face him, his hands clasped behind his back and his stare direct. Even a little assessing.

Christian blinked at the lad’s patient expression. If he was embarrassed or ashamed to have addressed his employer in such a disrespectful way he didn’t show it. Biting back scolding words, he said, “Don’t think to silence me in such a way again.”

“Of course not, your lordship.”

The lad’s voice was low and raspy, and Christian had to learn forward to hear it.

“So you know who I am, I take it?”

“You’re Lord Amstead,” the lad said, adding belatedly, “I assume.”

“You assume correctly.” Christian crossed his arms over his chest. “Then you know Asad is my horse, and if I have questions about his care or routine, I will damn well ask them whenever I choose.”

“I should hope so, my lord.”

Christian narrowed his eyes on the unfamiliar boy. “What’s your name?”

“William Grant, your lordship.”

Christian racked his brain, trying to determine if he knew a Grant family. He didn’t, but the lad’s telltale brogue was answer enough. “Of the Strathspey Grants?”

The lad dropped his gaze to the floor. “Yes, my lord.”

Interesting. He wondered how the boy found himself in Suffolk. The answer was unimportant, so he redirected his questions. “Why were you in the stall with Asad?”

William lifted a shoulder, his expression making it clear he thought Christian a dolt for asking. “He’s lonely. He’s always been with his brother, and suddenly Kadar is gone and he finds himself in a new place. I figured if it were me, I’d be looking to bite every hand and kick every person who came near me.”

The boy had a point. From everything the breeder had told him in Egypt, Asad and Kadar had been inseparable. But when the ship had docked and Christian had learned that Kadar had been injured, he’d sent the young stallion to the barn and pastures on the north side of the property, certain it was better to keep the beast isolated until he was on the mend. He did not want to see the colt hurt himself again by frolicking with the other horses. But if young William was correct, such a move had only served to irritate and distract Asad.

“Why are you humming to him?” he asked abruptly.

“Whenever I was tired and upset, my mother used to hum to me.” He grimaced. “I found it soothing.”

And it was obvious that Asad did as well. Christian would have to think on what the lad had shared later.

“Where is Mr. Mubarak?” he asked, looking over the young man’s shoulder and searching the dim interior of the barn for the training manager.

“When I spoke with him last, he was headed to the practice track to see if they had finally cleared the tree limbs and bushes that had overgrown near the far left turn.”

“Finally?” He narrowed his eyes. “They should not have been overgrown in the first place.”

William scowled. “From my understanding, it was not a priority for the maintenance men.”

Annoyance grated his nerves. “I’ll see to that.” He paused as a new thought occurred to him. “Is he planning on having Asad practice his starts today?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Christian nodded, various ideas for how they could introduce the beast to the flag without completely spooking him racing through his mind. He was so immersed in the possibilities that it took him a moment to realize William had addressed him.

“Did you say something?” he said, frowning down at the lad.

“I ask for your pardon, my lord, but I said it might be helpful to skip saddling Asad and instead ride him with a strip of wool or leather.”

“Why do you suggest that?”

William spread his hands before him. “From my understanding, Asad has only recently been introduced to an English saddle. As I’m sure Mr. Mubarak has already informed you in his letters, Asad is distracted and irritable, and I’d wager it’s because he’s uncomfortable. We have been trying to acclimate him to the flag for a handful of weeks now, and it occurred to me that perhaps it might be best to do that when he’s not also distracted by the saddle.”

“During a race, a horse does not have the luxury of picking and choosing what stimuli he’s introduced to and when. A good horse can handle the noise, the smells, the discomfort, and still step on the track and run in a straight line.” He took a step forward, dipping his head until William met his gaze. “A champion horse will do all of that and win the damn race. And do you know what I think?”

The lad held his stare. “Asad is a champion horse.”

Pride stretched Christian’s smile. “Indeed he is.” He turned to leave but paused. “When is his next session with the flag?”

“In thirty minutes, my lord.”

A half hour should give him plenty of time to check with his staff about the day’s entertainment agenda. With a nod, he returned directly to the manor.

An hour later, Christian clamped his teeth as he stalked toward the practice track. After conferring with his housekeeper and butler about lunch preparations and croquet on the west lawn, he’d been waylaid by several guests eager for a tour of the grounds. He’d feel less guilty about his short tour if Lord and Lady Windemere were serious potential investors. Instead, he’d surmised they were merely interested in sampling his food and alcohol offerings.

Arriving at the track, he swallowed back a growl of impatience. He’d found his trainer but where was the damn horse?

Mr. Mubarak was cursing in rapid Arabic, hitting his hat against his leg with spittle flying from his mouth. The two men who handled maintenance stood nearby, their faces red from suppressed laughter.

“What’s wrong, Baniti?” His gaze was trained on his men, who jumped to their feet and snatched their hats from their heads when he appeared.

“The debris was supposed to have been cleared two days ago. Two days! And all these men have given me is excuses for why the work isn’t done.” Baniti glared at the workers. “Asad is still skittish, and I don’t want him dodging those branches when he’s racing down the track.”

“Indeed.” Christian studied the downturned heads of the men before him and, inexplicably, he thought of young William and how he’d met his gaze with calm assurance. “Why is the work not done?”

The older of the two men tapped his hat against his palm as he said, “It’s on our list to do, your lordship, but we’ve been busy seeing to the faulty door over in the tack room.”

Taking a step closer, Christian dropped his voice. “It was on your list? Mr. Mubarak, did you make it clear in your instructions that you wanted the landscape cleared as soon as possible?”

“I did.”

“So Mr. Mubarak, the training manager, asked you to do something, and yet fixing the tack room door was more of a priority to you than listening to the wishes of your superior.” Christian raised a brow. “Why?”

The men opened and closed their mouths, their eyes wide with panic.

After several painful moments, Christian held up his hand. “I expect the limbs and brush to be cleared in the next twenty minutes, or you both can find employment elsewhere.”

The men darted away to see to their task, and he sensed Baniti come to stand next to him.

“You know why they did not see to the task,” the older man said quietly.

Christian did know. The men didn’t respect his manager because his skin was dark and he spoke English with an accent.

“I was prepared for the prejudice,” Baniti admitted, “but I wasn’t prepared for how it would affect Asad and his training.”

Closing his eyes, Christian admitted he hadn’t been either. Baniti Mubarak had a stellar race record in Egypt and was heralded as one of the great trainers of his day. It was a boon, therefore, that his wife had been eager to reunite with family who had emigrated to England. He doubted the man would otherwise have left behind his noteworthy career to live in a cold, damp land where the people judged him not by his successes, but by his appearance.

“Have there been others?” he asked, indicating the two men with his chin.

Baniti shielded his eyes from the sun—and succeeded in blocking his expression as well. “I’m not keeping a tally. I have other things to occupy my thoughts.”

So there had been. “Who?” He would sack the lot of them. He didn’t care if the Guineas was tomorrow; he wouldn’t stand for his employees disrespecting their superior. If they were contemptuous to Baniti, it meant they had no respect for him and his vision for Amstead Gardens.

He’d be damned if he employed such men.

“It is of no concern, my lord.” Avoiding Christian’s gaze, Baniti continued to watch the men as they scrambled to complete their task. “I’ve dealt with unruly employees before, and I’m certain I will deal with them again.”

“That may be the case, but you shouldn’t have to deal with prejudice as well.”

The older man didn’t look at him, but his shoulders relaxed. Christian hated that Baniti had encountered such attitudes on his farm, but he was not surprised. He was, however, frustrated with himself for not anticipating it and doing more to stop it.

Shaking his head, he looked about. “Where’s Asad?”

“He was agitated, so William took him back to the warm-up track to relax.”

“You let the boy handle him on his own?”

Baniti swung his black-eyed gaze to meet his. “Why wouldn’t I?

Christian snorted. “The lad seems entirely too young—and scrawny—to handle a powerful creature like Asad.”

“William has been handling the beast’s warmups and cooldowns since he arrived at the Gardens,” Baniti said with his head cocked to the side.

“He has?” Why the hell hadn’t Christian known that? “Good lord, why would you assign it to him?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

Without another word, Baniti strode toward the warm-up ring, and Christian followed behind, curiosity overpowering his annoyance. He’d check back on the men’s progress shortly.

As they drew closer to the schooling ring, Christian heard the distinct sound of a whip swooshing against the ground. If the lad was supposed to be calming Asad, why was he riling him up?

When they stepped around the corner of the stables, Christian stopped short. Asad was trotting along the perimeter of the ring, while William paced him from the center, a long whip in his hand. Whenever the stallion started to slow, the lad would smack the ground and walk faster behind him, ensuring the animal maintained a certain pace. Christian noticed that when Asad broke into a canter, William slowed his walk, and then so, too, did the horse.

Draping his arms over the top rail of the pen, he called out, “If you’re tasked to settle him down, why are you running him?”

Although the lad didn’t take his gaze from Asad, he flushed. “I’ve often found that the more I push a horse forward, the more they want to slow down.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Baniti mumbled under his breath. Christian shot him a dark look.

The exercise continued for several more minutes, and Christian marveled at how Asad’s head dropped and his eyes softened, his gait slow but steady. He seemed perfectly at ease simply walking around the track, William watching without a word.

“When William led him from the track, Asad was almost spinning in circles, he was so excited.” Baniti chuckled. “Look at him now.”

“I am.” Christian’s eyes remained glued to the striking stallion in the ring. After a moment, he asked, “How long has the lad worked here?”

“About two months. He arrived right before Asad.”

He nodded. “No wonder I didn’t recognize him.”

“I hope you did not scare the lad when you met him.”

Christian snorted. “I doubt anything can ruffle him. Tell me, where did he come from?”

“He had a letter of recommendation from some duke or lord in Yorkshire, if I recall.” Baniti’s eyes narrowed. “Before that he was in Scotland.”

Satisfied that the lad had some appropriate experience, Christian nodded. William glanced up at him at that moment, his gaze intense but not challenging, before he directed his attention to Asad once again.

“If the Two Thousand Guineas were tomorrow, would Asad stand a chance?” Christian asked as he studied the stallion’s movements.

“If he doesn’t throw his rider as soon as he’s mounted, sure.” The older man crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze assessing. “But a chance is not good enough for me.”

“It’s not for me either.” Dread curdled in Christian’s gut, but he did his best to dismiss it. He still had two months to get Asad ready for the Classics. “He needs to be challenged. His fiery temper masks a competitive spirit. His former owner said he raced duels frequently, so I think the sooner we can get him on the track for match races the better.”

“He needs to learn to respond to the flag.” Baniti rocked back on his feet. “I feel he’s close, but he keeps allowing himself to be spooked by it.”

Christian smacked his hands together, and from the corner of his eye he saw Asad turn his ears in his direction. “William told me you planned on practicing his breaks again today. Is that correct?”

“I had hoped to. The tree incident has delayed us.”

“What if, instead of just practicing with the flag, we ran him against another horse?” He considered the mounts in his stables. “Grey Belles is swift, with a competitive streak that’s sure to provoke Asad’s.”

Baniti whistled under his breath. “That’s a good idea. His competitiveness won’t allow him to shy from the flag when she is streaking down the track.”

“Our boy won’t allow that,” Christian laughed, hope that they’d found a solution loosening the anxiety coiled in his chest.