Page 52 of The Duke Says I Do
“‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’”
He placed a quick kiss on her lips. “I approve.”
Before she could respond, he released her and took the horses’ heads to lead them around the side of the house to a neat stable block. “I could have kept the staff on, but I thought you’d prefer us to be alone. However it means that we have to fend for ourselves and feed the horses.”
“I like looking after animals, as you know.”
“I do know,” he said dryly.
“You could have brought Jupiter.” She set out after Alaric. The cobbles beneath her half boots were wet, and the air had a delicious freshness. Or perhaps that was only because the whole world fizzed like champagne. “I’d be more than happy to tend to him.”
Alaric’s look expressed mock disapproval. “I’ll have you know I’m more than capable of handling him on my own. I’ve become a dab hand at washing him. Which is a good thing. Every time I take him out, he finds something disgusting to roll in.”
“That’s what dogs do.”
“No wonder my grandparents never let me have a puppy. They hated disorder.”
He never spoke of his upbringing with bitterness, but she couldn’t help thinking that it sounded like a horribly cold way to rear a little boy. “I thought you hated it, too. You were always so proper.”
“It turns out I don’t mind at all.” When he held his hand out, she took it.
“I’m so glad he’s decided he’ll put up with Matty.”
“Getting the lad to feed him was genius.”
Given that the duke had once treated her as if she couldn’t cross the street without falling over, she basked in the compliment. “Thank heavens it worked.”
Portia slipped forward to lift the latch that kept the stable doors closed. She stood back to let Alaric bring the horses and curricle under cover.
“Let me light a lamp or two,” he said from somewhere forward of her in the gloom. With the cloudy day and the early sunset, it was as dark as a coal mine inside, despite a line of windows high up near the roof.
She heard Alaric move about and the scrape of a flint. Golden light bloomed around them.
They stood in a big bare space, designed to hold several carriages. Against the far wall, hay was piled in bales and loose mounds. Behind her, a short corridor led to a closed door. On either side of the corridor, half a dozen stalls waited empty.
Alaric lit more lamps. She removed her gloves and started unharnessing the horses.
“They’re beauties.” And perfectly trained, standing docile as she unbuckled the leathers.
“I bought them last week at Tattersall’s.” He stood on the other side, working on the second horse. It whickered in welcome and butted him with its splendid head. “I didn’t want anyone recognizing the blacks that I usually drive.”
“You bought two expensive horses for discretion’s sake?” she asked in a reedy voice.
“Of course.” His tone was light, as if what he’d done was a mere trifle, hardly worth mentioning.
“But they must have cost—”
He broke in before she could speculate on how many hundreds of guineas he’d laid out on the bays. Papa wasn’t in the Corinthian line, but she’d danced enough with Ivor Bilson to know what bloodstock of this caliber cost.
“Worth every penny. I promised that I’d keep your good name safe.”
Portia shouldn’t find his efforts moving, but she did. Before she’d set out this morning, she’d had a serious word with herself about quelling any sentimental impulses. This was a short-term affair, and she intended to enjoy herself. She wasn’t going to waste these few precious days on hopeless yearning.
But when Alaric did things like this, it was almost impossible to remember that this affair didn’t include love as part of its definition. At least for Alaric.
She swallowed the poignant emotion blocking her throat. “I didn’t expect you to beggar yourself for the sake of a few nights with me.”
“There’s a couple of pence left in the Dempster coffers. I promise I’ll do better than bread and water tonight.”
