Page 43 of Playing to Win

“You know you’re the only girl I’ve ever loved. That’s why you’re so vain and cheeky with me. Now turn around.” He clicked his tongue and gave her neck a gentle push. Still crunching the carrot, she shifted to present him with her left flank. “Good girl.”

Andrew scrubbed her snowy coat with the curry comb, using counterclockwise circles to dredge up dust and hair and dead skin. Soon he was coated with all that, plus his own sweat. Currying was a rigorous task in any case, but Shetland ponies had the thickest coats of any horse.

She grunted as he transitioned from her back to her hindquarters, and he remembered to curry in smaller circles to avoid scraping her scars. As he progressed, his left hand found the dark slashes in the white landscape of her rump, marking each one to protect it from the comb.

As always, he had to swallow the rage he still felt toward her former owner. The little shit, who by now was probably a council leader or a commodities trader, had whipped her mercilessly for her slowness in pulling a cart. Once she was given over to the Scottish SPCA, her beauty and spirit had attracted many adopters, but her mercurial nature proved too much for them. Five families in a row had adopted her, then returned her to the SPCA. She was too stubborn for riding and carting, too unpredictable for therapy work. But Andrew, only six at the time, had loved her from Moment One.

So he’d set aside his desire for a flashy cart pony and settled for a pet. He’d spent hours with her every day that summer, simply keeping her company. He’d read to her, first sitting outside the stall, then, when the trainer thought it safe, inside the stall on this very footstool. He’d begun withBlack Beauty, but thought the abuse sections might upset her, so he’d chucked it and moved on to Marguerite Henry’sMisty of Chincoteague, then Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series. Stories of special horses who’d overcome outrageous odds because one human loved themfortheir flaws, not in spite of them.

After a month of Gretchen ignoring him, Andrew had gone crying to his mum. She’d told him that what the pony needed first and foremost was stability. To know that no matter what, she would have a home here forever. No matter what, they wouldn’t send her away. They wouldn’t reject her.

His fingers stilled on the longest scar of all, a thin black line at the point of Gretchen’s hip.Oh.How could he be so stupid?

“Pardon me for a moment, dear.” Andrew dropped the curry comb into the grooming bucket.

This phone call to his friend John wasn’t a complete impulse. He’d considered this move all week, driving himself mad with indecision. But the choice was clear now, after seeing Gretchen’s scars and remembering what she’d needed.

“If it isn’t Lord Andrew,” John answered in his robust voice. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Greetings. How’s the new love nest?” He didn’t really care, but it was good manners to let someone prattle on a bit before asking a favor of them. As John regaled him with updates on his and Fergus’s cohabitation, Andrew brushed Gretchen’s snowy coat until it glimmered.

“That’s fantastic,” he said finally. “Look, I need a bit of information from you, or rather from your darling boyfriend.”

When he explained, John laughed. “I’d pay a thousand quid to see that.”

“You and Fergus can see it for free, if I have my way.”

John gasped. “Ifyou have your way? When is that ever in question?”

“Never.”

Until Colin, that is. But in this matter, Andrew would have his way, whatever disasters it might spawn.

= = =

“Andrew, darling!” Lady Kirkross swept into the foyer the moment he came through the castle’s front door. “You look dashing as always.” Andrew’s mother hugged him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, you smell like horses.”

“Do I?” Andrew tugged his blazer closed. He’d thought the sweet scent of dust and pony sweat had lingered only in his nostrils and his memory. “I’ve just come from seeing Gretchen.”

“And Timothy, no doubt,” came a deep, disapproving voice.

Andrew turned to greet his older brother, George, Earl of Ballingry, who was ambling from the Hall of the House with a drink in his hand.

“Timothy was there,” Andrew told him, “but we spoke only briefly.” They shook hands, George’s meaty grip too tight as always, as if there were anything left to prove. “Are the children here? I brought gifts for them.”

“I’m afraid not.” George glanced at Mum. “Tonight’s dinner conversation would only upset them.”

“You meanborethem,” she chided. “Don’t worry your brother with such dramatic statements.”

Too late.“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked her. “Is Dad well?”

“He’s splendid. We’re all splendid. It’s a beautiful summer evening, and we’re going to enjoy it as a horrifically happy family.” With a swish of her flaxen summer suit-dress, she swept down the hall’s red carpet in a manner of one who expected to be followed. Which they did.

“What have I done now?” Andrew whispered to George as they walked.

“Besides gallivanting off to Edinburgh last weekend instead of keeping your social commitments?” His brother gave a weighty sigh that matched his ever-expanding waistline. “You’ve done nothing.” His emphasis on the final word was an indictment in itself.

In the drawing room they joined their parents and the rest of the family—Andrew’s older sister, Elizabeth, and her husband, Jeremy; as well as George’s wife, Sarah.

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