Page 52 of A Bachelor’s Lessons in Love

The man continued brushing Voltaire’s coat in long, firm strokes at a steady rhythm. “Are you here to remind me that I spoke out of turn last evening?”

She lifted her chin. “If I thought it would make a difference, perhaps.”

He paused. Then, finally, he turned to look at her holding the brush in both hands. “I was harsher than I meant to be.”

It wasn’t precisely an apology, but the acknowledgement helped.

Felicity let out a slow breath, her fingers curling around the edge of the stall. “And I do not believe you meant to imply that I have no care for Daphne’s well-being.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I did not.”

Well. That was some progress.

But she was not finished. “Still. You cannot watch her every moment of the day, Edward—nor can you control the choices she will make, nor the people she will encounter. All you can do, all either of us can do, is guide her and hope she chooses wisely.”

Turning away again, Edward resumed brushing Voltaire, his focus seemingly on his horse. But she knew better. “A man who hopes is a man who has already lost control of the outcome.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes at his back. “Control?” She shook her head. “Is that what you value most?”

His hand slowed, but he did not answer.

“Why do you insist on seeing the worst in people?” Felicity leaned slightly over the wooden edge of the stall. “Mr. Montague is a fine young man, and Daphne appears to enjoy⁠—”

“Montague is not the one who concerned me,” Edward cut in smoothly, voice still calm, though she caught an undercurrent of something else. Something sharp and protective. Only then did understanding dawn.

“The man you met last night,” she said urgently. “This Mr. Arnold—you recognized him? Or know something of him?”

His shoulders tightened. “No. But I recognized his sort.”

He did not elaborate, and she did not press him. She knew the type, too.

“Did you let Daphne explain matters to you?” Felicity asked quietly. “Have you asked what she made of the conversation you overheard?”

“No.” He was quiet for a long moment. “I…I did not give her a chance to say much at all.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

“Perhaps.”

For a long moment, Felicity simply studied him. She watched and admired the steady, gentle way he worked the brush over Voltaire’s coat. The methodical care in his hands. The way he did not rush, even in his frustration.

“You do this often.” She surprised herself by speaking aloud. When he looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, she clarified. “You care for the horse yourself. Mrs. Lane told me.”

Edward exhaled, the brush slowing to a stop. “Since the war.” He glanced up briefly. “Most cavalrymen had to replace their horses often, as did the officers. I did not.”

Felicity frowned, her brow furrowing. “Voltaire was with you—in France?”

A nod. “For the last five years of my service.” The Colonel put his empty hand on the horse’s shoulder. “He had more patience than I do.”

Voltaire, as if knowing himself the subject of conversation, let out a soft huff of breath, lifting his head almost regally.

Felicity could not help but smile at the animal. “That is not difficult,” she teased.

Edward released a quiet chuckle, a low and unexpected sound that warmed her inside and out. “Perhaps not.”

A small shift in the air between them made her relax. She rested her hands more fully on the wooden door, the tension in her body finally easing. “You named him after a philosopher.”

His answer was a small shrug, then a pause before he said, “Seemed fitting. Voltaire’s philosophy was rooted in reason, which I once thought I valued above all else.”