A RURAL INN IN SOUTHERN ENGLAND, 1823
Dashwood Beckman had done the unthinkable, and for that, he must make amends.
He would have gone to his mother’s family in France, or the Americas, or perhaps simply vanished into the Cotswolds never to be seen again. But even if he could have dodged it—and he’d considered every route, from reasonable to ridiculous—he wouldn’t have. Because for all his charm and reputation for idle mischief, Dash was dutiful.
Painfully, infuriatingly, tiresomely dutiful.
It had been ironed onto him at Eton, polished at Oxford, and sealed with the burden of the title handed down from his father. In spite of that one disastrous summer at Harrowgate Hall.
But he refused to dwell on that time.
He’d embarked on this unfortunate journey from his country estate in the southernmost part of Devonshire, to London and eventually Margate, two days earlier. And once again, he had stopped early.
Partly for Gwennie’s sake—he wouldn’t push her, not when she’d carried him so far without complaint—but mostly because he wasn’t in any particular hurry to arrive. The Fainting Goat Inn had served him well before. The rooms were clean, the food tolerable.
And most importantly, the innkeeper didn’t water down the ale. Much.
“Personne ne me blâmerait, hein, ma fille?” he murmured in his native tongue, tossing his hat and then his jacket onto the ground. No one would blame me, eh? My girl?
Dash rolled up his sleeves and then went to work, dragging a brush over his horse’s smooth back, each stroke for his benefit as much as hers. The repetitive motion grounded him, gave his hands something to do while his mind did what it always did—wander places it oughtn’t.
Apparently sensing his mood, the mare dipped her chin and nudged the side of his neck with surprising gentleness for a creature of her size.
“You coddle me, ma fille,” he continued, scratching beneath her mane. “Even though it’s undignified.”
She blinked slowly, as if to say she’d never found him particularly dignified to begin with.
Dash rested both hands along her face, pressing a kiss just above her snout. “I can always count on you, can’t I, ma chérie?” Then moved around to her flank, resuming the firm, even brushstrokes.
Gwennie was a Shire-cross—massive, steady, and uncannily intuitive. Over seventeen hands high and built like she could pull a cart out of the sea if required, she was the only female in his life who’d never demanded more than he wanted to give. Her coat was the color of old bronze, dappled and weather-worn, and her gaze more knowing than his own mother’s.
Gwennie didn’t mind if he brooded. Didn’t press for answers. Didn’t care that the silence between them was thick with the kind of thoughts he tried not to think.
She let him be exactly who he was—restless, impulsive, and occasionally ridiculous.
His best friend, right above Hawk, which was why he’d dismissed the groom to care for her himself.
Loyalty and dedication deserved the same in return.
Dash crouched to check her front left hoof, brushing away a bit of mud with his thumb.
“Bonne fille,” he murmured.
That was the moment when he spotted something shifting behind the nearby window, a flicker of color. Dash stilled. He didn’t look directly—no need to be obvious—but he knew when he was being watched.
And not just watched.
Admired.
A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he bent over again, his fingers skimming Gwennie’s front leg, checking for warmth.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Let la fille look.
Upon rising, he caught a flash of bright green—eyes, unguarded, set in a heart-shaped face framed by curling tendrils of blondish hair with a hint of red. Like autumn leaves, he thought absently. All warm light and fire at once.
Pretty thing. Curious. A touch bold, maybe.
