It wasn’t clear whether he meant her or the mare, and it didn’t entirely matter because the effect was the same. His other hand briefly touched the bridle, settling the mare with calm certainty.
The mare steadied.
Cecily breathed.
His hand was still over hers.
She became aware of this gradually and then all at once—the warmth of it, the slight weight. His grip shifted, adjusting her fingers on the leather with a precision that was entirely practical and felt, for no reason she could adequately defend, like something else entirely.
“You’re holding it too tightly,” he remarked. His voice was level, instructional. He was looking at the reins.
“I’m aware.”
“A tight grip tells the mare that something is wrong. She responds to it.” He didn’t release her hand, but adjusted it again—index finger, then the curl of her palm, repositioning with the patient exactness of someone correcting a small thing that matters. “The tighter you hold, the less control you have. The instinct is to grip harder, but it works against you.”
“Counterintuitive,” Cecily said.
“Most useful things are.” He glanced up then, and their eyes met from a distance of perhaps eighteen inches. “It’s the same in most other matters. Hold too hard, and whatever you’re holding will fight you. Give a little, and it settles.”
She held his gaze. “You’re not talking about horses.”
Nothing moved across his face. “I’m talking about horses.”
“Of course,” she said.
But warmth had risen to her cheeks regardless, and she could feel it.
From the fractional stillness that crossed his expression before he looked back at the path, she suspected he could see it.
“I would rather risk a fall,” she added, “than make a habit of holding on too tightly.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then something happened to his face—a softening, brief and unguarded. It lasted perhaps two seconds.
Then it was gone.
He straightened in the saddle. His gaze returned to the path with the finality of a door closing, and when he spoke again, his voice had the measured, practical edge of someone who had moved on.
“There is a dinner next Thursday. Lord and Lady Ashford. They are expecting us, and it will be your first formal appearance in London since the wedding.” He glanced at her briefly. “I’ll have the details sent to your rooms. Mrs. Eldridge will know who the Ashfords are if you need context.”
“Thank you,” Cecily said.
“The Ashfords are dull,” Letitia chimed in , without turning around. “Lady Ashford once spoke for twenty minutes about her conservatory. I timed it.”
“You were not at the Ashford dinner,” William pointed out.
“I was listening from the landing.”
A pause. “We will discuss the appropriate use of the landing later.”
“I look forward to it,” Letitia said, in a tone that suggested she did not.
Cecily looked at the path. At the open ground ahead, and the sky above it, and the late morning light moving through the grass on either side. Her hand still felt warm where his had been.
She did not think about that. She rode on.
* * *
The afternoon had turned soft by the time they came in from picking flowers in the gardens.
