Chapter Four

Flora rotated her head on her neck, sighing in pleasure when it cracked. The day had been long, and she was exhausted. After bathing and currying Asad, she’d taken Grey Belles out for a ride, letting the spirited mare sprint to her heart’s content. She’d missed dinner because several new horses Amstead had purchased at auction had arrived, and she’d been busy assigning them to stalls and evaluating each horse’s condition.

Now the stables were silent, aside from the hoots of owls and the rustle of straw as the horses settled in for the night. Flora glanced toward the grooms’ quarters, where her narrow bed awaited her. She longed for nothing more than to crawl under her coarse blankets and sleep.

Instead, she turned her head to the north. She could not possibly sleep—comfortably—without checking on Kadar first. She had not seen Mr. Mubarak since he’d left to tend to the injured stallion that afternoon, and she had been too busy with her own duties to inquire after his welfare.

She had to know how he was. Exhaling noisily, Flora departed for the north barn.

Stumbling to a stop at the barn entrance, she went still.

He was there. His crisp scent lingered in the air like a beacon. She debated leaving—in her current state, Flora was not certain she could play her role as William without faltering. The last thing she wanted was for her exhaustion to reveal her ruse.

A soft nicker tugged at her heartstrings. She couldn’t possibly depart without ensuring Kadar was well. While she had not spent a great deal of time with the young stallion, her duties consumed with Asad and the other racehorses, Flora had been with him on occasion and found him to be an affable creature. Almost the opposite of Asad’s fiery spirit. But from reports, Kadar’s gentle nature masked a competitive streak that rivaled his brother’s.

Creeping quietly along the walk, she craned to peer around the stall door.

Kadar jerked his head to her immediately. She bit back a groan of frustration.

“I wondered if I would find you here.”

Clenching her eyes shut for a moment, she willed her voice to remain even. “I had not heard word of his condition, and I was certain I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I knew how he fared.”

Blinking her eyes open, she found the marquess sitting amongst the straw, his back reclined against the wooden wall. He’d stripped his coat from his shoulders and rolled his shirtsleeves up his forearms, revealing a pattern of veins that made her grow hot behind the knees. Clad only in his waistcoat, with his dark hair mussed, Amstead looked young. Boyish.

“It’s only bruised.” He snorted. “I had prepared myself for blood and gore earlier, but the silly lad was munching on gruel when I huffed my way into his stall.”

“Thank God,” she murmured under her breath. After all the care Kadar had been given by Mr. Mubarak and the other grooms, it would have been devastating if he had hurt himself once again.

Resting her elbows on the door, she studied the dark bay colt. “Were you just looking for attention, lad? Had you grown bored and lonely?”

“I never would have thought him capable of such antics, but perhaps you’re right.” Amstead kicked a tuft of straw at the horse. “Was all this because you were bored?”

Kadar ignored him, instead turning doe eyes on Flora.

Opening the stall door, she slipped inside the small space. With careful movements, she approached him, offering her hand for him to sniff.

“You would never deceive us in such an underhanded way, now, would you, lad?” she crooned.

The stallion snorted noisily, as if offended by the suggestion.

She studied him. “He injured his near hind leg, didn’t he?” With light strokes, Flora inspected the appendage until Kadar shifted in annoyance. “I’d say he definitely bruised it. There’s swelling above his knee.”

“You felt that, too?” Amstead pressed his lips together. “At least it’s not another break. I’ve been repeating that sentence all night.”

“Lucky that. The poor lad has already suffered enough.”

Flora leaned into Kadar’s side, feeling the beast relax under her touch. “I’m surprised you’re still out here, my lord. I thought you’d have left by now to entertain your guests.”

“Heaven knows I should. I invited the lot of them, and yet Kadar has been better company.”

“You strike me as someone who would enjoy late-night card games, smelly cigars, and strong liquor.” She flashed a grin. “That’s what titled men do to entertain themselves, yes?”

Amstead scoffed. “Perhaps some men do, but then I’ve never liked cigars.”

Flora pressed her face to Kadar’s smooth coat to hide her smile.

“And what does a young Scottish lad like you do to entertain himself after his work is done?”

She quirked her lips. “I entertain myself with my dreams. I am usually too tired to even consider other entertainments. Besides, even when I make other plans, I usually wish I had just stayed in my little room and slept.”

Heat abruptly fired to her limbs when she took in his diverted grin. “You sound like a bit of a curmudgeon, Mr. Grant. Surely you’re too young to be so weary. It took me years to sound so jaded.”

“I suspect I’m not as young as you think.”

“How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-one?”

A laugh escaped her mouth before she could control it. “I am six-and-twenty. Surely by this age I’ve earned some jaded points.”

“Simply working the circuit will earn you jaded points.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Tell me, what have you enjoyed most about working here at the Gardens?”

Flora considered this for a moment. “Mr. Mubarak has taught me a great deal. He’s perceptive, noticing mood changes or signals from a horse I would not have even considered.” She swallowed. “And I’ve learned from you. So many owners I’ve met are content to ignore their horses and trainers until a race, and then they parade about as if they’ve had any hand in the training regimen. But you’re different. You want to know every aspect of Asad’s schedule.”

“Of course I do.” Amstead flicked a piece of hay from his trousers. “Before I became Amstead, I trained the horses. I know where they should be in their development at any given time, and I expect them to have surpassed it.”

“But you’re also open to new ideas and techniques.” Flora studied Kadar’s coat, not wanting to meet Amstead’s gaze in fear her words would embarrass him. “Not every owner or trainer can say the same.”

“Well, one has to cast aside one’s hubris to value the opinions of others.”

“One would assume,” she grumbled quietly.

“Ahh, now I understand why you’re so jaded,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s a tough lesson to learn, is it not?”

He looked impossibly handsome and she was abruptly irritated. She could not afford to nurse a tendre for Lord Amstead. She had goals and aspirations, and she did not need his laughing brown gaze and smirking mouth to distract her from what she truly wanted. Her very future depended upon her performance as William, and making calf eyes at her employer could ruin the facade. Flora needed to rein in her thoughts—and emotions—before she revealed more than she intended.

“Indeed,” she mumbled, before she dipped her head and fled back to her quarters.

…

Exhaling loudly, Christian entered the study and plopped down on his hard, unforgiving chair. Although he loathed being inside on such a fine day, he was determined to review various invoices tied to Kadar and Asad’s care before he met Regina for a ride about the estate. She had complained about his lack of attention during the house party, and to placate her, he had agreed to take her on a tour of the Gardens. He could list ten other things he’d rather do, but she was his guest, and he was well aware that his responsibilities as host sometimes meant kowtowing to a woman more intent on joining him in his bed than learning how he grew and harvested sugar beet.

He yanked out a ledger and steeled his spine. The Gardens’ finances were in a precarious state, and he double-checked every bill before he instructed his secretary to pay it. As it was, he found that several merchants had overcharged him for services and the audacity of the deception infuriated him…until he realized that his father had probably turned a blind eye to such practices. Most merchant agreements were the result of long-standing relationships forged with his father and his grandfather before him. Apparently, the former marquesses considered such account padding a bonus.

Christian was not in a financial position to offer bonuses.

As he sorted through the stack of invoices his secretary had sorted for him, his gaze snagged on a letter written in a familiar script.

Cedric.

Just thinking his name brought a jolt of pain to his chest, and Christian stared at the discolored paper, unblinking. He hadn’t heard from him since their argument the eve before Cedric had escaped—as he called it—and although he was relieved to know his brother had written to him, anger still made him want to tear the parchment in two.

Clenching his teeth, he ripped the seal free and skimmed the lines.

He was studying in Paris. He was happy. A friend had written to him of Kadar’s injury. Was he on the mend?

Christian dropped his head into his hand. It was just like Cedric to act as if their argument had not happened. As if he’d not called him lazy and a disgrace to the Andrews name.

As if Cedric had not called him obsessed. Ruthless. Selfish.

The last adjective had stung. That his brother had not understood Christian’s drive to restore Amstead Gardens to its former glory had been like a punch to the gut. Every decision, every sacrifice, had been for the Gardens.

Abruptly he thought of young William and their conversation the night before. The lad had been casual and engaging, which had surprised him, for he had thought the young man of a more solemn temperament. But William was witty, amiable, and easy to converse with. Kadar was relaxed in his company, and Christian found that he was, as well. The lad had also thought him open to new ideas and techniques, an observation that flattered him.

But had Christian been open-minded with his own brother?

Fighting the urge to crumple the letter into a ball, he gently laid it to the side as if it were any of the other invoices now scattered about his desk.

Except it wasn’t, and despite the morning hour, he crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a finger of whisky. The alcohol singed his throat and shocked him from the melancholy path he was tempted to stray down. Because missing his brother did not change the fact that Cedric had abandoned him with the burden of saving Amstead Gardens while he pursued his dreams on the Continent.

But then, Christian had no use or patience for artists who thought only of their art and not of their family’s legacy.

Perhaps another shot of whisky was in order.

Three-quarters of an hour later, he sauntered toward the stables, his thoughts and limbs deceptively numb. But he was jerked from his fog at the sound of raised voices coming from the side yard. He veered off to investigate.

“I asked you to saddle the horse. Why have you not done so?” Christian bit back a groan. Regina knew how to cant her voice to express just the right amount of disdain. And intimidation.

“I would be happy to saddle a horse for you, my lady. But as I’ve said, Asad is not available to ride.”

The corner of Christian’s mouth hitched up at the undercurrent of steel that ran through William’s otherwise deferential words.

“And why not?”

Peering around a column, Christian witnessed his former mistress stomp her foot. “I’m supposed to ride out with the marquess and that is the horse I wish to ride.”

Asad glanced at them from the pasture where he was resting in the shade of a large oak tree, his tail swishing about in a lazy fashion. Apparently he was as unmoved by Regina’s temper as his trainer.

Although his eyes narrowed minutely, William’s tone remained cordial. Respectful. “There are several horses that would provide you with an exhilarating ride, my lady. Unfortunately, Asad is not one of them. He’s a thoroughbred and meant for the racecourse. He would be difficult to control and he could injure you.”

“Do you presume to explain to me the nature of a thoroughbred, idiot boy?” Christian may not have been able to see her face, but the rigid set of Regina’s shoulders shouted her anger. “I’ve been riding for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Be that as it may, my lady, I cannot saddle Asad for you.”

Christ, but the lad had balls. Christian’s respect for William grew.

The countess took a step toward William, one fist curled around her crop and the other gripping the train of her habit. She was an inch or two taller than him, a point she emphasized by leaning over to peer closely in his face. “If you do not saddle the stallion for me, I will see you fired. The marquess is a personal friend and he will be quite angry when he arrives and discovers you did not heed my wishes.”

An involuntary smile threatened to overtake Christian’s face when William did not move. Did not take a step back. Not a muscle on his face flexed with fear or indignation. He merely stared at Regina with those startling green eyes of his until, without warning, they slid to where he stood in the shadows. “My lord,” he murmured, dipping his head.

Regina spun, her mouth a perfect “O.” After a heartbeat, she clutched a hand to her chest. “But, Amstead, I’m so glad you’re here. Your boy has refused to saddle a horse for me.”

Donning a bored expression, he approached. “That is surprising. I’ve always found the staff here at the Gardens exceedingly knowledgeable and helpful.”

Her snort rankled. “Perhaps they are to you, as you are their master.”

Christian’s brows dropped low. “I am not their master. But I am their employer.”

“Semantics, Amstead.” Regina rolled her eyes and Christian clenched his jaw. He did not like being dismissed in front of his employee. Or anyone. “The fact remains that this boy will not saddle a horse for me.”

“Is that so, lad?”

William remained stoic after Regina’s accusation. “I offered to saddle a mount for her ladyship, just not the horse she had requested.”

“And what horse was that?”

He knew William was aware he was asking these questions for show, and he appreciated the lad playing along.

“Asad, my lord.”

He paused for a beat, allowing tension to percolate between them. Frowning, he glanced down at Regina. “Why would you ask to ride Asad?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She reached out to grab his waistcoat, twisting the fabric. He found the possessiveness of the gesture off-putting. “He’s all you have spoken of for months.” She stepped so close she could practically climb him like a schoolboy climbs convenient, low-limbed branches. “He’s taken you from my bed and I thought to experience his talent and power for myself.”

She said the last part quietly, and he was not convinced William had not heard. Christian darted his eyes to the boy and found him staring at the ground, his face devoid of expression.

Smart lad.

Swallowing back impatient words, Christian placed his hands on Regina’s shoulders, waiting patiently until she met his eyes. “The future of Amstead Gardens rests on Asad’s back. I cannot afford for guests, no matter if they are friend or acquaintance, to ride my prize stallion as if he were a simple mount available for daily hacks.” She opened her mouth to argue, and he shook his head. “Choose another, Lady Hightower.”

Regina huffed but did not press him. “And what are my choices?”

“This is not Tattersall’s,” he bit out. “You are not buying a horse. Merely selecting one for a ride. So make your choice from amongst the stalls.”

She pouted up at him, but when he didn’t respond, she finally dropped her theatrics. She spun about on her heel and peered into the nearest stall. Then the next one. He trailed a small distance behind, and he sensed that William followed after them.

At long last, Regina reached a stable at the end of the row. “This mare will do.”

Christian looked over the half door and frowned. A black mare regarded him warily from the corner. He’d never laid eyes on her before, but damn, she was a beauty. Black from her poll to her perfectly formed pasterns, her coat was sleek and glossy, and her tail and mane were as dark as a raven’s wing. Firm, athletic muscles were evident from her shoulders to her withers, down her back and loins, and to her thighs and gaskins. But it was her eyes, alert and sharp, that held his attention. He whistled low under his breath in admiration of the fine beast. Who did she belong to?

“This is not my horse,” he said, already shifting to another stall.

“But she is in your stables.”

Stifling a sigh—really, when had Regina become so stubborn?—he nodded. “I suspect she belongs to a guest. I cannot just allow you to ride a guest’s horse.”

“Apparently I’m not allowed to ride any horse today.” Curling her lip, she turned to William. “Boy, who’s the owner of this horse?”

The lad’s nostrils flared. “She is mine, my lady.”

“The black mare is yours?” Christian echoed, surprise pulling him up short. The mare was an exquisite example of equine beauty, grace, and athleticism. She was obviously a costly creature, which begged the question of how William had come to possess her. Smothering these thoughts, he instead inquired, “What is her name, lad?”

“Banrigh.” At his crinkled brow, William smiled. “It means ‘queen’ in Gaelic.”

An apt name for the striking black mare. She carried herself as if trumpets heralded her every entrance.

“So, does this mean I may ride her, or not?” Regina demanded, breaking Christian free of his thoughts about what such a creature said about William’s background.

It was obvious from his downturned eyes that he would consent to Regina riding the horse. But something about it didn’t sit right with Christian. William obviously valued his mare, because she was in excellent health and condition. And like Asad, she wasn’t an ordinary horse to ride about the estate and kill the hours with. To allow Regina to ride her would reduce Banrigh to the status of every other horse in the stables, and she was obviously special.

“I think not, Lady Hightower.” He looped her arm through his and escorted her down the aisle. “Allow me to help you choose another horse for today’s ride.”

…

Relief made Flora clench her eyes shut.

She’d never been selfish with Banrigh. Both Niall and Juliana had ridden the feisty black mare several times. Even her cousin Duncan had been known to take the reins and ride her out for exercise.

And yet, the thought of the haughty Lady Hightower hacking out on her beloved horse was an indignity she found hard to bear. But disguised as William, what excuse did she have to say no? As a servant, could she really deny a countess?

Thankfully, Lord Amstead seemed to sense her struggle and deftly led the blonde woman away. Flora watched them with an odd and annoying ache in her chest. Miss Regina Hupplewhite had made her debut the year before she had and had been considered a diamond of the first water. They had never socialized in the same circles, the now Countess Hightower being a member of a fast set that had always struck Flora as a bit dramatic, but she had still held her breath when the woman had tried to intimidate her. If Lady Hightower recognized her, she would be ruined.

As the countess lashed out at her, the precarious nature of Flora’s situation had come into sharper focus. If her disguise failed and she were discovered, not only would her reputation suffer, but everyone around her would be tainted by scandal. Perhaps she could return to Scotland and lead a quiet life, but Niall’s political career would be dealt a crushing blow. After all his hard work, the years he’d patiently forged alliances to pursue the noble causes he championed, her deception could bring it all crashing down like a castle made of cards. Just the thought made her stomach drop.

Flora had watched in relief when Lady Hightower latched onto Lord Amstead’s arm, more intent on snagging the marquess’ regard than berating her any longer. It was clear from the manner in which she draped herself all over his person that she wanted him in her bed. Not that it was any of her business who her employer slept with…but he could do much better than a bland nincompoop like Lady Hightower.

And not for the first time, Flora wondered what sort of lover the marquess was. She had enjoyed discreet liaisons on occasion with men who were not aware of her title and consequence. Once she’d determined she had no desire to marry, she’d allowed herself the freedom to entertain the advances of men she found attractive. She had found the experiences pleasant, but not necessarily memorable. For the countess to be carrying on in such an embarrassing way hinted at Amstead’s prowess. She’d bet he’d never let a woman leave his bed unsatisfied.

Mo creach, she needed to rein in her thoughts! Spinning fantasies about her employer, no matter how sinfully handsome he was, helped her in no way. He was to teach, and she was to learn; too much was at stake for it to be otherwise. If thoughts of what he could teach her between the sheets inconveniently crept into her mind, she banished them as ruthlessly as she could.

But he made it difficult. Like the way he sensed it would gut her to share Banrigh with such a woman.

And how she had heard him humming to Grey Belles that morning when she stopped to check on the mare.

Clenching her teeth so hard her jaw ached, Flora hurried over when Lord Amstead addressed her.

“Lady Hightower has decided to hack out with this fellow.” The corner of the marquess’ mouth quirked ever so slightly. “Please have a groom saddle him and Loki. We’ll leave shortly.”

“Of course, my lord,” she said, before hurrying away to see his request done.

A quarter of an hour later, the pair disappeared through the west pasture gate. Asad raised his head from the grass and glanced her way as she approached. She stopped at the fence and Asad trotted to her—he never walked when he could run—and bumped her with his muzzle.

“I don’t have any snacks for you, my silly boy,” she laughed. “Can you believe that woman actually thought to ride you?”

“What woman?”

With a start she glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Mubarak stood several paces behind her, his black eyes wide and curious. The man moved like a cat, quiet and stealthy. She’d envied him that skill before now.

“Lady Hightower rode out with his lordship, but not before first requesting I saddle Asad for her to ride.”

A frown crinkled the brown folds of his face as he came to stand next to her at the rail. “Have we ever strapped a sidesaddle on him?”

“No. We have barely acquainted him with the English saddle.”

“Are all Englishwomen so presumptuous?”

Flora pondered this but a moment. “Yes.”

Mr. Mubarak’s laugh was deep and merry. He quickly sobered. “Training racehorses with guests about is not wise.”

“Why, then, did he invite them?” Flora asked, before she could censure her tongue.

“He didn’t feel he had a choice.” The older man took off his hat and wiped his brow. “He needs investors.”

“How bad is it?”

“You’ll be paid, don’t worry.” Catching her scowl, he shook his head. “Rebuilding after the fire destroyed the stables, and then purchasing and shipping Asad and Kadar, has taken every penny of capital he has. He needs investors to keep the Gardens operational until Asad can win the prize money needed to resurrect the enterprise.”

“What happens if Asad doesn’t? If he fails to win the Guineas? Or The Derby? Or St. Leger?” Flora threw her hands up. “What then, Mr. Mubarak?”

He sighed and glanced at Asad, who had returned to grazing. “Amstead will be ruined.”

And if it were discovered that a duke’s daughter had disguised herself to work in the Amstead Gardens stables, would Asad even be given a chance to race in the Guineas? Or would investors flee like the swift-footed stallion at the first whiff of scandal?

The potential consequences of her actions washed over her, and she bit back a string of curses that would leave Mr. Mubarak shocked and herself ashamed.