***
The grounds of Thornwick were precisely as Molly had warned—a treacherous expanse of softened earth and standingwater. Fiona navigated the gravel paths carefully, grateful for the sturdy half-boots lent by a sympathetic maid.
The gardens bore the faded dignity of former grandeur. Rose bushes that would bloom gloriously in summer. Hedges once shaped into exacting geometry. A fountain now silent and softened by moss.
Everything spoke of neglect endured with quiet endurance.
Like its master.
The stables stood at the far edge of the property—a long stone building, slate-roofed and solid. As she approached, she heard the sounds within: the stamp of hooves, the restless snort of a horse, and a low murmur of masculine reassurance.
She paused just inside the doorway, allowing her eyes to adjust.
The Duke stood in the central aisle with his back to her.
He had removed his coat. Of course he had. The man seemed incapable of remaining fully dressed when she encountered him unexpectedly. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms roped with muscle. His dark hair hung loose about his shoulders, and all his attention was fixed upon the animal before him.
The horse was magnificent. A stallion, coal-black and enormous, with wild eyes and a mouth that foamed around the bit. It stamped and snorted, tossing its head, clearly unhappywith its confinement—but Christian stood before it without a trace of fear.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Easy. I know.”
The horse stamped.
“You were not handled kindly.” His voice—softer than she had ever heard it—was steady and patient. “You were taught that hands mean pain. But not mine.”
He extended his palm slowly, offering the horse time to withdraw. When contact was finally made, the animal trembled—but did not bolt.
“There,” he said quietly. “You are safe.”
Fiona’s throat tightened.
This was something intimate. Unobserved. Unperformed.
This man—who named himself beast, who believed himself unfit for companionship—stood before a frightened creature and offered only gentleness.
The stallion’s breathing steadied. Its ears lowered. When Christian produced an apple and held it flat upon his palm, the animal accepted it with surprising delicacy.
“Good lad,” he murmured. “We shall restore your manners yet.”
“I suspect he has a promising tutor.”
Christian turned sharply.
Fiona smiled from the stable entrance, though her pulse had quickened at the sight of him—sleeves rolled, hair wild, that unguarded tenderness still lingering in his expression.
“Miss Hart.” He straightened instinctively, as though recalling himself. “I did not hear you approach.”
“You were engaged.” She stepped inside, inhaling the mingled scents of hay and leather. “Who is he?”
“Prometheus.” Christian ran a hand along the stallion’s neck. “He belonged to a neighbour who believes discipline is best delivered through force. I relieved him of the animal last month.”
“Relieved?”
“Purchased,” he amended dryly. “For more than my steward believes sensible.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I appear to have a weakness for damaged creatures.”
“I had observed as much.”
His gaze flickered to hers.
