Bloody hell.
How could he have forgotten the sheer pleasure of riding one of his father’s horses?
He whirled Galahad around to face Ferndown and Lord Frank. Their wide eyes and slack jaws were worthy of a Drury Lane play.
“I think Galahad will do just fine,” Alex said, words clipped.
He saluted the men and nudged Galahad into a canter.
He could exit through the open gate.
But Galahad was restless, and it was infinitely more enjoyable to urge the stallion to soar easily over the paddock fence.
Leaving Ferndown and Lord Frank to gape after him.
Ferndown and LordFrank caught up with Alex ten minutes later in front of Frome Abbey.
Mr. Warden awaited them there. The steward raked Alex with a disapproving frown on his thin lips before effusively greeting the duke and his son.
The three other men immediately launched into a discussion of the possibility of finding pheasants about in January. Alex listened politely as they set off cross-country toward the home farm.
Given the sullen expression on Lord Frank’s face, his lordship was seething over Alex’s behavior. Alex allowed Mr. Warden and Lord Frank to ride ahead, hoping some space would help Lord Frank cool his temper.
Ferndown, however, held back his mount, riding alongside Alex.
“You didn’t tell us you were a horseman,” the duke said. His first words since the paddock.
“Ye didnae ask, Your Grace,” Alex replied. “Ye simply saw a doctor and made assumptions.”
Any bonhomie he felt toward the older man was long gone. Duke or no, Alex had no intention of dancing to this man’s tune.
“No, I didn’t.” The duke paused, his voice quiet, and then said, “You handle Galahad like a professional.”
I am a professional, Alex wanted to say. But to what end?
“What did you say your father did?” the duke asked.
It was on the tip of Alex’s tongue to reply,I didnae.
Instead, he sighed.
Ferndown was attempting to mend a fence. He was apologizing as much as a duke ever would. The man was being a gentleman and attempting to treat Alex as more of an equal.
Alex could at least be a gentleman in return.
“My father was Mr. Callum Whitaker, late owner of McPherson Farms.”
A long pause.
Aweightedpause.
A pause that said the duke understood much of the implications of the statement.
They rode through the silence of the frosty winter morning. Alex breathed in deeply, the icy air cleansing cobwebs from his lungs. Ahead, Lord Frank and Mr. Warden were motioning toward a thicket of brush. It appeared that Lord Frank thought there might be some pheasants hiding there and was lamenting the lack of a hunting dog at the moment to flush the birds out.
“I heard about that affair with your brother,” the duke finally said, voice low. “It was . . . unfortunate.”
Unfortunate? That was a mild way of putting it. But life went on.
