“Absolutely not.”
“Size requirements included.”
“Never.”
“And no loopholes.”
Hugo glanced over his shoulder, eyes bright with laughter and promise. “My darling, your loopholes are the only reason I am sitting here in my smallclothes. I intend to exploit every one of them in a rematch.”
On the fifth morning, they rode into Thornwaite village.
The village was small, with a cluster of stone cottages and a church as well as a public house gathered around a green. Hugo led Lily through the main street, nodding to shopkeepers and tenants who touched their hats and curtsied and stared at the new Duchess with avid curiosity.
They stopped at the bakery, where a woman named Mrs. Poole insisted they try her currant scones and spent ten minutes telling Lily about the time Hugo had stolen three of them at the age of six and blamed the stable cat.
“The cat was a known thief,” Hugo said. “My accusation was not unreasonable.”
“The cat weighed four pounds, Your Grace. He could not have carried three scones.”
Outside the bakery, an older man sat on a bench, his hat pulled low, his weathered hands resting on a walking stick. He looked up as Hugo and Lily passed, and something shifted in his lined face.
“Your Grace.” The man touched his hat. “Your father would be proud to see the estate so well kept.”
Hugo’s step faltered. The change was fractional, a hitch in his stride that lasted less than a second, but Lily felt it through the arm she held.
“Thank you, Mr. Garrett.” Hugo’s voice carried its usual warmth, but the edges had cooled.
“And your brother.” Garrett shook his head. “A shame about Lord Sebastian. He was a fine rider. The accident took him too young.”
Hugo’s arm turned to iron beneath Lily’s hand. His jaw locked. The pleasant expression he wore like armor held in place, but behind it, something had gone rigid and dark.
“It was a great loss,” Hugo said. “Good day, Mr. Garrett.”
He guided Lily past the bench and down the lane without breaking stride.
Lily walked beside him in silence and waited.
He did not speak.
The village fell behind them, and the lane opened onto a field bordered by hedgerows, and still he said nothing. His breathing was controlled. His pace was steady. But the arm she held vibrated with a tension she could feel through his coat sleeve.
“Hugo.”
“Not now, Lily.”
She closed her mouth. She did not press. She held his arm and walked beside him, giving him the silence he needed.
They reached the smaller stable. Hugo opened the door and went straight to Dorado’s stall. The horse lifted his head and whickered. Hugo pressed his forehead against the animal’s neckand stood there, his hand resting on the warm copper coat, his eyes closed.
Lily stayed by the door. She watched him breathe into the horse’s mane and felt the ache of wanting to help and knowing she could not, not yet, not until he let her.
“She would have liked you.” Hugo’s voice was muffled against Dorado’s neck.
“Who?”
“My mother.” He did not lift his head. “She liked clever women. She liked women who spoke their minds.”
Lily’s throat tightened. She crossed the stable and stood beside him. She did not touch him. She stood close enough that he could feel her there, and she waited.
