Page 42 of Playing to Win

“I brought her in just for you, and let her stay nice and dusty in case you wanted to groom her.”

“You know me well.” Andrew winced inwardly at the flirtatious lilt in his voice. Old habits died hard.

“Yes, sir.” Timothy shut the car door softly. “I know you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Andrew gazed down into those laughing green-blue eyes and wondered why they had no effect on him this evening. Usually the prospect of bending over a hay bale to receive Timothy’s worshiping mouth, then his punishing cock, would make every inch of Andrew’s skin pulse with life.

“Yes, well…” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve only a short while before I’m expected at the house.”

Timothy straightened up and gave a brisk nod, averting his eyes. “Of course, sir.”

As they entered the stable, Timothy stopped them at his office, where he reached behind the door and pulled out a coat hanger holding a large flannel shirt. “I suggest you trade me your blazer for this. Lady Kirkross will have both our heads if you come to dinner covered in horsehair.”

“Good thinking. Even Mum’s love of animals has its limits.”

Timothy relieved Andrew of his summer-tweed blazer, then held up the flannel shirt so he could put it on over his linen dress shirt. Andrew noticed how the fingers of his erstwhile lover failed to linger on his shoulders or trace the nape of his neck. They were all business now.

Andrew wished he and Timothy could share something other than service or sex. Friendship, perhaps? Surely they could talk horses for a few hours over a pint at the local pub. But things had been awkward since he’d foolishly let Timothy spend the night with him in Glasgow a few months ago—at Andrew’s own flat, no less. Perhaps the old boundaries were necessary.

“I saw Etienne’s car pass by a few hours ago,” Timothy said. “Should be a lovely dinner.”

“Indeed.” Their part-time French chef was keen to unveil some new recipes at next month’s ball, so he was coming tonight to test them on the Sunderland family. “Be sure to come to the kitchen around nine. I’ll see to it you get a portion of the staff’s share.” He bit his lip, expecting a snide retort about eating Andrew’s leftovers. Like Colin would have done.

“That’s very generous, sir,” Timothy said without a trace of sarcasm.

A high-pitched whinny came from the far end of the stable, followed by the slap of steel against wood.

“I’d better attend to Her Majesty before she kicks the barn down around our ears.” Andrew hurried through the stable, buttoning the flannel shirt as he walked. “Who’s my wee princess?” he called out. Gretchen answered with another kick, this time to the wall beside him. “I thought so.” He stopped at the stall door, leaning on the bottom half. “Well, aren’t you a vision in silver and dust?”

Gretchen tossed her head and snorted, nostrils flaring. Then the Shetland pony turned a full circle, displaying her tiny furry self like a model on a catwalk. Her white coat was dotted with clods of dirt. It looked as though she’d had a grand time giving herself a mud bath.

Andrew picked up his battered black footstool, then unlatched the stall door and slid inside the clean-smelling, straw-covered space. Gretchen zipped to the opposite corner, showing him her backside. It was always this way.

He sat upon the stool and took the grooming kit Timothy had left hanging on the stall door. “I’ve no time for your coyness, love. Come, let me save you from your poor choice in shampoos.”

Her only response was a swish of silver tail.

Andrew settled back against the stall wall. Gretchen wasn’t being cheeky—or at least notmerelycheeky. Despite fourteen years of loving care here, her soul still bore scars from the two years prior. She’d never allowed another child besides Andrew near her, and few stable workers completed their first week of employment without a bitten hand or a stomped toe. (In fact, it had been Timothy’s relatively warm rapport with Gretchen that had drawn Andrew to him in the first place—well, that and his curly brown hair and thighs of steel.)

Gretchen simply didn’t know how to trust. But she knew how to love, of that Andrew was certain. These two warring factors drove her schizoid behavior. Eventually, if he waited quietly, her aloofness would give way to her desire to be touched.

And her desire for this carrot.

He held it out, turning his face aside, not challenging her with eye contact. “You silly kitten, you know you want it.”

Her ears twitched at the sound of his voice. Then she rubbed her face against an outstretched knee, as if to say,I’m not looking at you, I’ve simply got an itch.

When she’d stopped the farce of scratching herself, he spoke her name, as softly as he could. She stilled, her neck curved to the side, ears pointed forward. Waiting for her cue like a diva standing offstage.

“Come here.”

The pony spun about, hindquarters bumping the wall as she turned. Then she trotted over to him, casually, as if she’d only just noticed him sitting there. In three steps her head was in his lap, muzzle nudging his chest.

“I’ve missed you too,” he murmured, his voice cracking with emotion. He stroked beneath her heavy, square jaw, then ran his hand up behind her left ear, where she most fancied a good scratch. She gave a soft snort, her breath fluttering against his borrowed flannel shirt.

“Here, take this so I’ve both hands free to dote on you.” He pushed the carrot against her mouth, where it promptly vanished. Gretchen nodded as she crunched, and Andrew had to lean to the side to avoid a fatal knock to his skull.

Then he began, drawing a wide-toothed comb through her forelock and letting the hair flop over her face. She blinked her long dark lashes, then shook her head to clear the mane from her eyes.

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