He wrenched his mind away. What concern was it of his?

Pantaloon pranced delicately out of the great stone archway that led into the courtyard of Holbrook Court. After Lucius came Tess and Mayne, laughing over the clipping sound of their horses’ hooves.

She was Mayne’s.

Chapter 14

T ess wasn’t quite certain how she found herself wandering down a long row of stables at the Queen’s Arrow Inn with Mr. Felton, and Mr. Felton alone. Obviously, she should be accompanied by the Earl of Mayne, who had spent all afternoon paying nothing less than lavish attention to her. Mr. Felton should be walking with Annabel, who was paying precisely the same attention to him.

But somehow in the crooked rows of stables she found herself next to Mr. Felton, and they turned a corner, or perhaps the others did. And now they were each walking without their suitors. Rather absurdly, Tess had the giddy feeling of a child fleeing from the schoolroom.The stables were long and smelled of warm alfalfa once it starts to brew alcohol, deep in its musty green stalks. It was a smell Tess loved and loathed: it reminded her of home and Papa; and at the same time, it reminded her of all that had taken Papa away from them, years before he left them in truth.

They paused before a stall. “Lord Finster’s Ramaby,” Felton told her. “I didn’t know he thought to run him in the local races. I’m afraid he’ll have the best of my horses with ease.”

“Not this time,” Tess said, scratching the bay under the nose. “Ramaby’s not feeling like winning, are you, love?”

Lucius chuckled, watching the way Ramaby’s ears perked back and forth, trying to catch every liquid syllable of her voice. “Are you some sort of Scottish witch, then?” he asked. “Telling Ramaby that he doesn’t feel like winning and casting a spell on the poor horse?”

“Oh no,” Tess said, beginning to scratch behind Ramaby’s right ear. “But when you’ve grown up in a stable, as I have, it’s hard not to see how a horse feels. And Ramaby doesn’t feel like winning, not at the moment.” She gave him a final pat and moved away.

They walked down the straw-strewn aisles, peering into the stalls. Lucius was quite aware that he was walking slowly. He didn’t want to reach the great doors at the end, where the light spilled in, and the crowds awaited. Where he would, of course, relinquish Miss Essex to Mayne’s ardent wooing.

“Can you tell if a horse is hungry?” he asked her.

“Sometimes,” Tess said. “But I’m not a mind reader.”

“But it seems that you are.”

“Oh no. There’s no reading minds about it. Horses are affectionate creatures, after all, but just creatures. They’re not like humans. They don’t betray, and they don’t hide their motives.”

“They also don’t speak English,” Lucius pointed out.

She stopped abruptly before another stall, startled by her reaction to his glance. Hadn’t she thought that his expression was impossible to read? “This horse won’t win either,” she stated.

“I could have told you that,” he said. “She’s in foal.”

“Oh,” Tess said, rather embarrassed. “I didn’t see that.”

“Well, what did you see?” he asked, tucking her arm closer to his body as they stood there, staring at the glossy brown mare.

“She’s sleepy,” Tess said. “See how her eyes are drooping?”

And sure enough, once Tess’s little hand started scratching behind her ears, the mare huffed out a great sigh and closed her eyes altogether.

“Well, that must be a remarkably useful talent,” he said, after a moment of silence.

“There’s no talent to it,” Tess said uncomfortably. “Shall we rejoin the others?”

“By all means, Miss Essex.” A moment later they were back in the chilly air.

The rough seats set up around the circle track were glowing in the last streams of slanting afternoon sunshine. There was a smoky tang of burning sausages in the air—from a stand selling the same—and the familiar burr of a hundred male voices discussing the haunches and hocks of a horse, or two horses, or the whole bunch of them at once.

“Here come my horses,” Lucius said suddenly.

Two horses were led by, heavily blanketed, their delicate necks arching. He didn’t ask. And Tess said nothing.

“I once told my father that I was quite certain that a horse called Highbrow would win the next race he was put into,” she said, without looking at him. “My father put all the money he had saved for our dowries on that race. Because I had been correct before.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Lucius said, “And if I remember correctly, this would be the same Newmarket in which a horse named Petunia galloped her way to the finish line?”

“Highbrow never finished,” Tess said abstractly, watching Lucius’s horses.

“He stumbled and broke a leg,” he said, remembering now. “He had to be shot.”

“And that is why, Mr. Felton, I shall not even venture an opinion about your horses. Because it is all poppycock, frankly. Anything can happen in a race.”

“Humor me,” he said.

She looked up at him. His face was utterly arresting, utterly silent, contained. He looked like a person with no need for human companionship, someone whose serenity was more than skin-deep. “We must find the others,” she said, letting a trace of irritation enter her voice. After all, Mayne was courting her. Perhaps he had planned to propose to her at this very moment, and here she was, gallivanting about and making imprudent statements to Mr. Felton.

“Miss Essex,” he said, and his voice had a deep steadiness that made her nerves mount even higher.

“I’d like to return to the box,” she said. “My sisters must be wondering where I am.” But she had a sense of fair play, after all. “Very well. I’m not at all sure how your bay is feeling. But look at the way that one—”

“Royal Oak,” he said.

“How Royal Oak is walking. He’s too hot; he’s not comfortable; and I think he may be hungry. Has your groom been sweating him?”

“He tells me it’s necessary to keep the horse’s flesh off,” Lucius said with a frown.

“I find it barbaric. Both purging and sweating. If I know anything about horses, Mr. Felton, it is that such methods make them feel ill.” She began walking toward the box where their party presumably waited.

But he stopped her with a light touch to her arm. “I was under the impression that your father was a great proponent of purging, Miss Essex. I heard him argue the case vehemently at the Derby two years ago.”

“My father did advocate such methods,” she said after a moment. “I did not agree with him.”

Mr. Felton’s gaze was so vivid that she almost closed her eyes to keep him out.

They entered the box to find only Annabel and Mayne, who seemed to be on terms of the easiest companionship.

“They’ve all trotted off to the refreshment hall,” Annabel explained. “Lady Clarice encountered one of her very best friends, Mrs. Homily, who informed her that they are serving truly delectable Yorkshire ham in the hall.”

“Everyone?” Lucius asked, raising an eyebrow.