His nose burned from the cold, but he had to escape the suffocating stuffiness of the castle, which reeked of perfume, smoke, and far too many logs burning on too many hearths. And whatever water the ladies were dabbing themselves with. His boots crunched on the frozen stones as he approached the barn. A faint nicker greeted him, followed by the comforting scent of hay and horseflesh as he stepped inside.
He inhaled deeply, ignoring the tickle in his throat.
Much better.
The air here was warmer, but not cloyingly so. Sebastian strolled past the stalls until he spotted the Duke of Rotheworth beside the sleek chestnut form of Lady Swift.
Right. The very horse Thomas had compared him to.
“She bites, you know,” Sebastian said, his voice just rough enough to betray his lingering cold.
Rotheworth glanced over his shoulder, one brow rising. “She has excellent taste, then. You look like you should be tucked in a bed, Cambridge.”
“Why, thank you,” Sebastian replied dryly. “Just what every man wants to hear.”
“I meant it in the most affectionate sense,” Rotheworth said, turning back to Lady Swift. He patted her neck. “She’s in fine form.”
So he kept hearing. “I heard she won the Brighton run.”
“Cleaned the field,” Rotheworth said with a nod. “Even outpaced Paisley’s stallion. Won me quite a bit of money.”
Sebastian scoffed—then coughed. He leaned against a post and rubbed his nose with his handkerchief. “I hope he’s still licking his wounds.”
Rotheworth chuckled but didn’t comment for a moment.
“You don’t care for the duke?”
“Absolutely not.” Sebastian didn’t elaborate. Paisley had nearlyforced Thomas into a marriage of convenience. Fortunately, Ashley had had other ideas. “I heard you’re engaged. Congratulations.”
Rotheworth turned, a smile playing on his lips. “We’re married. Eloped.”
Sebastian blinked. That had not made it into any letter. “Well then. Congratulations on your union.”
“Thank you.”
“Does anyone else know?” Please let the answer be yes. Ashley’s pregnancy was more secret than he wanted to keep.
“I believe the whole of England knows,” Rotheworth said dryly. “Except you.”
What a relief. Still, something tight lodged in his chest, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was the cold.
Married. Rotheworth. Thomas. Expecting.
It felt as if the entire world had taken a step forward while he stood still, pages missing from his story.
“I seem to be surrounded by people who catch wedding fevers,” he muttered.
“Better than catching colds and real fevers,” Rotheworth replied. “You sound like a man who’s never considered it.”
Sebastian shrugged. “I have. But I’ve yet to meet the right woman.”
“Ah. She must be calm, gentle, and fond of silence, I take it?”
“No harridans, certainly.” He glanced at Lady Swift. “Not the sort to gallop into storms or throw teacups.”
“I can’t claim to know many ladies who fit that bill. They sound fictional.”
“And yet I live in hope.”
