“Laws, that is a rather fine thing to think about.” John nodded. “Makes a man wish his parents had thought to give ’im a name with some kind of grand story to it. There must be loads of them stories from the Greeks.”
“I will not have you rechristening my stable staff with mythological names.” Adam worried at the moment that she might actually select a new name for John.
Persephone laughed, precisely as Harry would have. Harry did, in fact. He stood on Persephone’s other side. If Adam hadn’t kept his head turned in the other direction, he might have seen him there, and Harry’s sudden burst of laughter wouldn’t have been nearly so unexpected.
“Nonsense, John,” Persephone addressed the stable hand. “The Bible is filled with Johns who have rather fine stories attached to their names.”
John seemed to ponder that. “And them stories are true,” he said, as if discovering an added bonus.
“Precisely,” Persephone answered. “The story of my name may be touching, but it is not true.”
Then John, he of the gapped teeth and sun-ravaged face, smiled at Persephone with so much admiration, it was all Adam could do not to yank the man off his feet by his hair. Not that it was the poor man’s fault. A duchess ought not to be speaking so familiarly with a stable hand. It confused things. And Adam’s duchess ought not to have been the sort of lady to inspire admiration in all and sundry, in the first place. If Persephone had been anything like what he’d expected, Adam’s life wouldn’t have been plunged so suddenly into confusion.
And John was still smiling.
“Are you going to saddle Her Grace’s mount, or shall I be forced to do it personally?” Adam growled.
John seemed to snap to attention. “’Pologies.” He pulled his forelock. “Would Atlas be suitable, Yer Grace?”
“Fine,” Adam snapped.
John disappeared into the stables. Adam took a few breaths to compose himself. He’d never before had to try so hard to control his emotions. He’d always been one to hold to a steely calm.
“So you are really going to try riding again?” Harry asked Persephone.
“To be perfectly honest, I am not certain one could accurately call my previous experience ‘riding.’ Our neighbors, the Uptons, allowed me to ride a pony of theirs on occasion when I was a child. If memory serves, that particular pony was in his second decade and did little more than shift his weight.”
“Then you have never truly ridden?” Harry sounded astonished.
“Impoverished grandsons of only slightly less impoverished barons do not keep a stable, Harry,” Persephone answered with an ironic laugh.
Alibi was being led—forced was, perhaps, the more apt description—from the paddock, and Atlas was being brought out of the stables.
Adam surveyed the gelding with a critical eye. Persephone had never ridden; not if her description of that pony was accurate. Atlas was calm today. But, then, Atlas always was. He was slow, sedate, moving more like a heavy-laden work horse than the riding mount he was. It was the reason Adam had chosen Atlas as his name. The gelding moved as though he bore the entire heavens on his shoulders.
Atlas’s one drawback was size. Standing more than fifteen hands high, Atlas might be too large for Persephone, especially considering her lack of experience. But Adam was certain there were no ponies in the stables. And many of the others, Alibi for instance, were not as large but hadn’t the temperament for an unskilled rider.
“Fiend seize it,” Adam growled. Why was it that Persephone constantly presented him with situations for which he had no solution? Adam was not accustomed to being at a loss.
“He’s calm an’ steady, Yer Grace,” John said to Persephone, still smiling like a besotted calfling.
Adam thought he heard Persephone take a deep breath, as if to calm herself, before making her way into the paddock. Was she nervous? Horses could sense discomfort, and it made them nervous in return. Adam grew evermore uncertain about Persephone’s plan.
Atlas shimmied a little as Persephone approached. She stopped, stiff and watching.
“He’ll not hurt you.” John encouraged Persephone on.
Adam wondered if she would continue on. Most likely, Persephone would bow out of the whole thing and skitter off. People, in general, were cowards.
“Can I give him a carrot?” Persephone asked John uncertainly.
“’Ave you got a carrot?”
Her eyes never left Atlas. “I brought one from the kitchens.” She patted her coat pocket.
Adam realized, watching her, that Persephone was not dressed for riding. Where was her habit? Her riding whip? The bonnet she was wearing would not stay on should Atlas give her much of a jarring. “Ridiculous,” Adam mumbled, but for once he didn’t turn away from something he found absurd. Something in him wanted to know if she would mount, if she would see through what she’d set out to accomplish.
“The Uptons’ pony was fond of carrots,” Persephone further explained.
