Page 76 of My Queendom for a Horse

Even so, as we walk toward the massive stables at the edge of the property, I can’t help feeling a little envious. I forced myself to memorize all the strange British names for things before we left, so I know this is called the “Argan Estate.” At home, we just name our homes after our family surname. Liepa becomes Liepašeta. But in England, they have more names than we have poor relatives.

Sean McDermott’s father, James McDermott, is the Earl of Coventry, Lord of Argan Manor, Lord of the Hampersmill Estate in Sussex, and owner of the Forsythe House in London. Having a London house when their family estate is already so close probably seems bizarre now, but I suppose it would have been a long ride to make on horseback every day during the Season a billion years ago when they bought or inherited all these places.

The stables are made of the same white and grey stone used for the main house, so clearly this was either created to match or built at the same time. It’s not three stories high, but it’s easily twenty feet tall, which leaves plenty of room for a hayloft. As we stride easily inside, I peer back and forth, poleaxed.

There’s no hayloft. Of course not. Instead, there’s a very high, planked wood ceiling. Instead of being covered in cobwebs like our barn perpetually is, it has the most pristine, most beautiful light fixtures I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Blown glass orbs, cascading crystals that catch and scatter the light, and against the walls, huge fans that I imagine really circulate a lot of air when the summer heat hits.

In the center of the aisle, there’s a life-sized bronze statue of a horse and rider, clearing a beautifully arranged floral obstacle. It’s tall, but the width is what shocks me the most. They had to make the hall—nearly twenty-five feet across—into dead space, just to make sure there’s room on either side of the statue for horses to easily move around.

I’ve never seen such a shocking waste of barn space in my life, but it’s visually stunning, and that was clearly the goal. The stalls, instead of forming rows as they usually do, are shaped into giant wedges that open around the statue. They look massive, with narrow, eight-foot fronts, widening to thirty or forty feet across the back.

“If you have a horse that’s supposed to be on stall rest, what do you do? Those stalls are far too big.”

Sean’s grin is diabolical. “I should have known you’d be thinking of the logistics. Mom’s very impressed that you’re a practicing large animal vet.”

“I doubt she’d be as impressed if she knew that half of my calls involve sticking my arm up a horse’s—” Sean’s face looks so alarmed that I cut off mid-sentence.

“When we do meet my parents. . .”

“Less talk about oiling colicking horses?”

He swallows. “Or, you know what? Talk about it all you like. It’s the side of horses they’ve always ignored, but it’s real and it matters.”

He’s trying.

I’ll give him that.

“It’s fine. I’ll be much more circumspect around your parents, I promise.”

“And about the stalls, we only have these ten that are configured this way, and we use them for our prize horses, mostly. Then when guests come to visit, they can ooh and aah about the beauty of our stables.” He waves for me to follow him.

After we round the bend, there are three more rows of stalls—the typical twelve by twelve stalls—with plenty of horses in those as well. The floors are made of interlocking brick. The walls, ceilings, and floors are all so clean I would eat off of them. They must have a professional cleaning staff just for the stable. All the walls and trim are a combination of dark-stained hardwood and shiny, bright chrome. I’ve been so distracted by the appearance that I almost forgot the part that matters.

“How many stalls do you have?”

“Forty-six,” he says. “But we only have eighteen horses here right now.”

“No one’s paying much attention to it now that you’re not riding?”

He frowns. “How do you know I’m not riding?”

His parents aren’t here. No one I know is, either. I decide to be bold, and I slide my hand through his. Then I lift it up. “No calluses.”

He rolls his eyes. “I wear gloves.”

“Even so, you’d have some here if you rode more than once a week.” I stroke the tips of his fingers.

He freezes in place. “I knew bringing you here was the right move. You brighten the entire estate.” His eyes are wistful. Yearning.

It’s enough to distract me, even from the perfection of the stables.

“The real question is,” he says softly, his eyes intent, “will you, Kristiana Liepa, ever in your life—”

My heart starts to race in my chest. What’s this real question he’s about to ask? It feels significant.

“—ever leave this stable, now that I’ve brought you here? Because even if they don’t work out the drama with the cheese soufflés, I swear, my mom always manages to put together an amazing menu for Christmas Eve.”

Why do I feel relieved that he didn’t propose? Probably because it would have been way too early. Of course he wouldn’t do that! I haven’t met his parents. We’ve only just kissed again this time around.

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