Page 50 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“Ah! It’s Mercury! I rode him before!” Tristan exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement as he stared up at the magnificent chestnut gelding.

Emma clutched her son’s shoulder protectively, eyeing the beast with misgiving.

They had arrived at Westmere Hall precisely at the appointed hour, greeted by a surprisingly formal duke, who had led them directly to the stables. Now, standing amid the sweet scent of hay and leather, Emma found herself doubting her decision to accept the Duke’s offer.

“Mercury is well-mannered and patient,” he replied, running a practiced hand along the horse’s shiny coat.

Emma had a sneaking suspicion that he was giving this explanation simply for her benefit.

“A suitable mount for a beginner who’s ready to progress,” he finished, his tone rough.

“He’s not a beginner,” Emma interjected. “Tristan has been riding since he was five.”

The Duke’s penetrating gaze flicked to her. “Yes. Incorrectly,” he said. “As we’ve established before.”

Of course, the blunt assessment stung, but Emma could not quite deny that her son’s technique had never been particularly refined. Their financial constraints had made consistent, quality instruction impossible.

“Mama, may I?” Tristan pleaded, already reaching for the horse.

She hesitated, but the look in his eyes told her that if she stopped things now, it would no doubt break him.

So, she nodded reluctantly. “All right. Just be careful.”

The Duke guided Tristan through a proper introduction to Mercury, showing him how to approach from the side, where to place his hands, and how to establish trust.

Emma stood to the side, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching every movement with hawk-like intensity.

“Now, for mounting,” the Duke instructed, positioning Tristan beside the horse. “Left foot in the stirrup, grip the mane with your left hand, the saddle with your right, then swing up.”

Tristan attempted the maneuver but faltered, unable to generate enough momentum with his small frame. Before Emma could step forward, the Duke had lifted the boy effortlessly, placing him gently in the saddle.

“Back straight,” he instructed. “Deep in the seat. Heels down.”

Emma watched as her son adjusted his posture, looking suddenly older, more assured atop the large animal. A flicker of pride mingled with her anxiety.

“Now, a walk around the paddock,” the Duke said, handing Tristan the reins. “Remember what I told you. You direct the horse, not the other way around.”

“Wait.” Emma stepped forward. “Shouldn’t he have a lead rein? That horse is far too large for him to control.”

The Duke regarded her steadily. “He’ll never learn proper control with a lead. Mercury will respond to correct signals, even from a child.”

“But if he bolts?—”

“He won’t.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

Oh, this is positively nerve-wracking!

The Duke’s eyebrow arched slightly. “I can and do. These are my horses, trained to my specifications.” He paused, studying her. “Perhaps you should try it yourself. It would help you understand what your son is learning.”

“I hardly think that is necessary,” Emma replied stiffly.

“Mama, please!” Tristan called down. “It’s fun! And His Grace says ladies can be excellent riders too.”

“Of course, we can be. You should know better, Tristan,” she fired back. “I don’t need a man to confirm that for me.”

As she said that part, Emma found herself glaring at the Duke, who simply gestured toward a dappled gray mare being led out of the stables by a groom. But she caught the amusement swimming in the ocean of his blue eyes.

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