Someone had saddled one of the geldings. Someone whose back he knew already by instinct. Slim, sure, light on her feet. Someone wearing breeches and a man’s short coat.
Breeches! What on earth!
Isla turned at the sound of his entrance. A loose shirt, rough cotton and clearly a stable hands, hung open at the throat. The breeches fit her too well. His throat tightened and he forced it open again.
“What,” Edward said, voice low and dangerously even, “are you doing?”
Isla blinked at him with maddening calm. “Preparing to ride.”
“In a man’s trousers?”
“They are not his trousers anymore,” she said. “Merely trousers.”
“Do not trifle, Isla.” His voice hardened from steel to diamond. “What do you think you are playing at?”
“I am playing at practicality.” She tugged the girth strap with brisk competence. “I mean to ride properly. Not perched on asideways contraption designed by someone who wanted women ornamental and half-crippled.”
“You stole those clothes.”
“I borrowed them,” she corrected.
“From an unattended room?” His brows snapped together. “Were you rifling through my servants’ quarters? Have you lost your sense entirely?”
Before Isla could retort, a figure emerged from the far stall, broad shoulders, grey mane of hair, whiskers bristling like a hedgehog prepared for war. Harold Godwin. Stable master. Devout. Gruff. Loyal as old oak. And utterly fearless. He knew his value to a duke who loved his horses.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace,” Godwin said, straightening. “No untruth from Her Grace tonight. I gave the Duchess leave to take a set of work clothes.”
“You,” Edward turned slowly, incredulity slicing clean through his temper. “You gave her the clothes?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Why?”
“She asked.” Godwin shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Said she wanted to ride. A duchess on a good horse is a fine sight. Never knew a woman ruined by knowing how her own legs work.”
It was the simple truth. Godwin was devout in his faith and considered lying a sin. He was incapable of even a white lie, seeing no degree to insulting the Lord. In another moment Edward might have laughed, bitterly or helplessly, he wasn’t sure. But not now. Not with Isla standing there looking entirely too at ease in those damned breeches.
Her legs were wonderfully shaped, giving a sense of athleticism while retaining feminine allure. Edward found himself wondering if she would take to the garment when not riding. He stopped that train of thought, cutting its lines and dropping its sails.
“You may not be seen like this,” he said, forcing authority into place. “You are my wife. You cannot ride out dressed … dressed as …”
“As a competent human being?” Isla finished.
He glared. She smiled. Then she swung into the saddle with one clean, practiced move. It startled him. The horse startled too, but settled immediately beneath her hand. Isla gathered the reins and leaned forward, the posture of someone who had lived on horseback long before London had tried to civilize her.
“You are not riding out of this barn,” Edward said.
“I am,” she said.
“You will disgrace yourself.”
“That is my choice.”
“And disgrace me.”
“That,” she said sweetly, “is your ain look-oot.”
She dug her heel in and shot forward. Straight at him. He had just enough time to swear, leap sideways, and avoid being trampled. She burst into the yard, hair snapping behind her like a victory flag. For a moment Edward could only stare at the open doorway, stunned. Then heat surged up his throat, mixing fury with something he refused to call desire.
