“Trot? Aren’t we already trotting?” Marianne asked.
“No, you are still walking,” he replied with a chuckle, but there was no malice in his tone. He was simply amused, and it wasn’t really surprising. Most ladies of her standing knew very well how to ride. It was just one of those things that her father had been very negligent of. He hadn’t been interested in them — or in her, for that matter. She tried to think of a time when she and her sisters had done anything with their father that did not involve calls of duty, but could not think of anything. They had visited her aunt in Brighton several times and gone to the beach, butthat had been at her insistence, and her father had mostly just sat in the corner drinking and staring at his watch until the time to leave had come.
“Well? Trot?” Lucien called again.
“Perhaps a slow trot,” Marianne reluctantly agreed.
He chuckled. “I do not know if there is such a thing as a slow trot, but let us try.” He clicked his tongue, and Henry’s horse fell into a trot. Marianne’s however, continued walking. “She’ll need to go a little bit faster.”
“You must use your legs to prompt her,” Lucien called. “You must tell her what you want to do.”
She did as he commanded, but the horse continued to walk sedately on until Lucien walked over to her and slapped the beast slightly on the back.
That did the trick.
“Heavens,” Marianne called, feeling a little sick. She wanted to grip the reins again with her fist, but remembered what he had said. It wasn’t going to help. She held on, willing herself not to slip out of the saddle and directly into the dirt. In front of her, Henry whooped and hollered as his horse trotted around the paddock, his tiny body rising up and down in time with its steps.
“You really must try to relax a bit,” Lucien said. “She can feel it if you’re nervous. Trust the horse, trust the movement and...”
Marianne had been trying to pay attention to him while also focusing on the horse, which proved to be an utterly fruitless endeavor. But as she was looking at the reins once more and then back at him, she felt herself start to slide. Before she knew what was happening, she was slipping out of the saddle. She dug her heels further into the stirrups, willing herself to stay up, but...
“I’m falling,” she called. She saw Lucien drop the lead rein and run towards her as the words were still coming out of her mouth. She slipped forward, a yelp coming from her lips, as he arrived at her side. He was there before she landed on the ground, his arms wrapping around her waist as he caught her. Then he set her down, holding onto her a little bit longer than was necessary. Marianne’s heart thudded so loudly she was sure he must be able to feel it against his own chest, which she noted was pressed closely against her own.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. There was a thickness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Was he upset? He didn’t sound like it.
“I am quite hopeless. I’m really not made for horses either. I’m not made for the stage, not made for horses, not made for society. I possess a few accomplishments, it seems.”
“Please do not speak of yourself in such a manner,” he said. “It isn’t true. You are kind, you are generous, and you are clever.”
Marianne looked up at him, her lips parting slightly. He was complimenting her. And he meant it.
“You need not flatter me just for the sake of it,” she said.
“I do not. I do not pay Spanish coins. That is something you need to know about me. I never have and I never will. Likewise, I meant everything I said when we dined at Rhys’s home. You have a mind of your own. I appreciate that.”
“Thank you,” she said. She felt warmth creeping up the back of her neck and willed it not to show on her face. She didn’t want him to see how his words touched her. Compliments had never been something she easily accepted; perhaps because she so rarely ever received them. Her sisters were so outgoing, so friendly. They never had any shortage of admirers, but Marianne had always been the wallflower, so to speak—not because she was shyer than any others, just because she enjoyed her own company more. She didn’t like to make herself conspicuous. And the truth was, her father, if he ever complimented anybody, would compliment her sisters more than her.
Why was she thinking of her father so often of late? Was it because she saw how Lucien was with Henry?
“Look,” Henry called excitedly. One of the grooms had gone and picked up the lead and was now leading the horse around the circle. Lucien let go of her and turned to his son.
“Very good,” he said. “Do you want to gallop?”
“I do,” Henry called.
“Is that not dangerous?” Marianne whispered.
“No, he has done it before. Besides, he will not do it alone,” the earl replied.
Marianne drew her eyebrows together and watched as he spoke to the groom, who took off the lead from the horse, allowing Lucien to swing himself with ease into the saddle behind his son. He took over the reins, clicked his tongue again, and then dug his heel into the horse’s flank. The horse took off at a gallop. Its black mane flew, and Henry laughed—full belly laughs—while Lucien sat there behind him grinning, completely in control of the animal.
He was having the time of his life. She could easily tell that. They both were.
She watched them, and a most peculiar sensation took hold of her. She felt contented, warm, at peace, the same way she had felt while sitting in the chapel at the convent. However, this feeling was slightly different. What was it? It wasn’t Lucien. Or notonlyLucien. It was something between father and son; the way that they were so contented with one another — the way they chuckled and seemed to delight in just being together. And the way she was included, even if it was only temporarily.
“What a picturesque scene,” said Juliet from behind her, and Marianne turned to see her friend walking towards her with Mrs. Greaves.
