Her knees wobbled and she took a chair by the window, covering her face. The truth was shedidn’tknow her place. All she wanted to do was run out to the stables. Her heart throbbed with the desire to burst into Father’s study and explain away all the wrong words against the man she—the man she cared for.
Yes, she cared for him. More than she could contain.
If Father knew, he would die.
William had been ordered into the manor house, led into Edward Gresham’s study, and scolded for his insolence.
“If you ever behave thus again, I shall release you from your position,” his lordship finished, rising from behind an organized desk. Still, he would not look William in the face. “Understood?”
“Yes, my lord.” William bowed and left the stifling study. His legs could not carry him fast enough. He needed out of this place. He despised the smells, because they were too much like Rosenleigh.
Clean, airy, with a hint of lavender and linseed oil.
Not dung and horseflesh.
He swallowed another lump of injured pride as he watched mud crumble from his boots and dirty the marble floors. In here, the state of his attire was more apparent. His breeches were stained with oil from scrubbing harnesses and saddles. His woolen coat was frayed at the sleeves. His shirtsleeves underneath still fumed of sweat and horse from the hours he’d spent awake last night with an ailing gelding.
He burst outside and welcomed fresh air into his lungs. One thing he could be grateful for. He had not been forced into Isabella’s presence inside the house. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him scolded.
Or for her to see him at all.
Entering the stable, he pulled the door shut behind him and turned for the pitchfork against the post—
“I trust you have now been made aware of your place, servant?”
William jerked toward the voice. He straightened taller as Lord Livingstone exited a stall, complete in a blue frock coat, ruffled shirt, striped breeches, and shiny Hessian boots.
The man’s mouth tilted. “I have just taken my horse for a ride. Brush him.”
William nodded, blood already boiling, and turned toward the shelf of brushes—
“Speak when I address you.”
“Yes.”
“Yes who?”
“Yes … my lord.” William bit the inside of his mouth, jerked a brush off the shelf, then turned toward the stall with the dappled grey horse. A minute more of this and he’d—
No, he would not do anything. He would hold his head high, do his work, and heed Edward Gresham’s warning.
Lord Livingstone stepped in front of him, riding crop at his side. “The roads were muddy. Wash his hooves and hindquarters.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“With warm water.”
“Yes, my lord.” William started past him—
Lord Livingstone blocked him again. “My boots, too, are soiled. Get a rag and wipe them.”
The devil with your boots.William had to bite both cheeks to keep the words back. His hands flexed. Fisted.God, help me.Sweat dampened his face as he retrieved the rag.
“Hurry up.”
Still, he hesitated.I cannot do this.He bent anyway next to Lord Livingstone, swallowed, glided the rag across the mud splatters on the boot tops.
Something lashed across his face.
