Page 39 of A Heart Disguised 1

“Lady Robin,” he said with a polite bow, “I am to escort you to the stables. My name is Finneus, but you can call me Finn.”

I nodded, offering him a small, grateful smile as I rose from the table. “Lead the way, Finn.”

As we walked, I couldn’t help but fidget with the hem of my riding habit—a hand-me-down from Lily. The deep emerald velvet of the jacket hugged my torso, the silver embroidery of intertwining vines and leaves catching the light with every step. The long full skirt swished around my ankles, its hidden slits a secret ally for easier movement. Underneath, the cream-colored breeches felt oddly liberating, a practical necessity hidden beneath the feminine facade.

Atop my head sat a small, stylish riding hat in matching emerald green, adorned with a delicate silver hatpin. A short, diaphanous veil hung from its brim, ready to be lowered should I need to shield my face—or my blush. My long pale-blond hair had been expertly braided by Meredith, the plait hanging over my shoulder and contrasting beautifully with the dark velvet of the jacket.

My feet were encased in knee-high riding boots of supple black leather, their slight heels clicking softly against the stone floors with each step. The silver buckles on the sides caught the light, matching the thin silver belt cinched around my waist. As I walked, I was acutely aware of the frothy white cravat at my neck, secured with a silver and emerald brooch that felt cool against my skin.

I tugged at the elbow-length cream kidskin gloves, trying to distract myself from the nervousness bubbling up inside me. The entire ensemble was both beautiful and slightly intimidating—a far cry from my usual attire. I felt like a child playing dress-up, yet the weight of the clothing reminded me of the very real situation I was walking into. With each step toward the stables, I became increasingly aware of just how unprepared I was to face Duke Darius in all his demonic glory.

Upon reaching the stables, I was greeted by the sight of Duke Darius standing tall and imposing beside a massive black stallion whose mane shimmered like the night sky. The duke was a vision of dark elegance, his riding habit a masterpiece of midnight hues, every inch of it tailored to accentuate his formidable physique. His horns gleamed under the morning sun, and his eyes—those piercing golden eyes—were fixed squarely on me.

My heart stuttered in my chest, and a blush crept across my cheeks. I felt my body respond to his presence with an all-too-familiar heat, a flush that started in my core and spread outward to the very tips of my fingers. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of every reaction, every quickened heartbeat, every catch in my breath.

The duke’s lips curled into a smile, his fangs peeking out from behind his lips. “Good morning, little dove,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate within me. He approached with fluid grace, taking my hand in his and brushing his lips across the back of it.

My breath hitched, my pulse quickening at the contact. I managed a clumsy curtsy, mumbling a greeting that was far less composed than I would have liked. I nearly stumbled over my own feet, more flustered fledgling than noblewoman.

“You look absolutely enchanting this morning,” the duke said, his golden gaze sweeping over me appreciatively. “That color suits you wonderfully.”

I felt the heat in my cheeks intensify. “Th-thank you, Your Grace,” I stammered, barely able to meet his eyes.

“Shall we?” the duke asked, gesturing toward the horses. “The morning awaits, and I find myself eager to spend it with you.”

I nodded mutely, clutching at composure as though it were a lifeline thrown amid stormy seas. As we walked side by side toward our mounts, I dared not meet his gaze again for fear of what he might read within mine—a heart racing with forbidden desire. This was going to be a most challenging—and thrilling—ride indeed.

As we approached the horses, my excitement at finally riding a stallion battled with the sudden realization that I had absolutely no idea how to mount one. The stable hand brought forth a magnificent chestnut mare, and I gawked at her sheer size. Unlike the modest farm horses back at Aldercrest, this beast was enormous—her withers nearly level with the top of my head. I swallowed hard, wondering if I’d need a ladder to reach the saddle.

“After you, little dove,” the duke said, his voice tinged with amusement.

I gulped, nodding as if I knew exactly what I was doing. With as much grace as I could muster—which, admittedly, wasn’t much—I grasped the saddle horn and attempted to hoist myself up. The riding habit’s skirt, however, had other ideas. It tangled around my legs, causing me to lose my balance and stumble backward with an undignified yelp.

Determined not to be bested by mere fabric, I tried again. This time, I gathered the skirt in one hand, bunching it up in a most unladylike fashion. I managed to get my foot in the stirrup, but as I tried to swing my other leg over, the skirt caught again. I found myself awkwardly straddling the saddle, half on and half off, my face burning with embarrassment.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I muttered, struggling to right myself.

In my flailing, I somehow managed to turn myself around, facing the horse’s rear instead of its head. The mare, bless her patient soul, merely flicked an ear in response to my predicament.

I heard a deep chuckle behind me and turned my head to see the duke watching my struggle with undisguised mirth. His eyes sparkled with amusement, and I could swear I saw the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Having some trouble, little dove?” he asked, making no move to help me just yet.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” I lied through gritted teeth, attempting to salvage what little dignity I had left. “I’m simply… admiring the view from all angles.”

This elicited another laugh from the duke, deeper this time. “Indeed? And what do you think of the… posterior view?”

I felt my cheeks flame even hotter. “It’s… quite nice,” I mumbled, trying to turn myself around again.

In my efforts, I lost my grip on the saddle horn and started slipping. In a panic, I grabbed the first thing my hands could reach—which happened to be the horse’s mane. The mare, startled by my sudden grasp, took a step forward, leaving me dangling off her side like a sack of potatoes, my feet barely touching the ground and my riding habit hiked up to my thighs.

“Your Grace,” I squeaked, my voice muffled against the horse’s flank. “I may require some assistance after all.”

Finally, I felt strong hands on my waist, sending a jolt of electricity through my body despite my predicament.

“Allow me to assist you, dove,” the duke murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

With seemingly no effort at all, he lifted me and settled me properly in the saddle. His hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and I felt my heart racing at the proximity. As hestepped back, his eyes met mine, a mixture of amusement and something else—something heated—in their depths.

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