Page 17

She laughed, and the others joined in the mirth. Everyone except Rayne and Kincade, that was.

A guilty flush traced its way up Rayne’s neck to her cheeks, and she studiously avoided meeting the Duke of Kincade’s eyes.

Looking speculative, Everleigh put a gloved forefinger to her chin. “No, I believe a stone wall separates the properties. Doesn’t it, Your Grace?”

Everleigh knew about the wall?

Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, Rayne swung her attention between her aunt and the duke.

“Indeed, it does,” the Duke of Kincade agreed.

His expression unreadable, his mannerism perfectly proper to everyone present, the duke pretended like he and Rayne had never exchanged a word. Other than the brief, polite glance in her direction, he’d not indicated any prior meeting between them.

The tension eased between her shoulder blades, enough for her to inhale a full breath again. He’d not give her away. Somehow, despite her earlier misplaced alarm, she’d known he wouldn’t, and that tiny trickle of trust that had sprung up that day in the garden grew stronger.

Today the duke was clean-shaven, his strong jaw and the slight dimple in the middle of his chin on full display. As was his wont, he’d tied his hair back in what was becoming a familiar queue. His deep green riding jacket brought out the jade hues of his striking, thick-lashed eyes.

Really. Must he have such ridiculously lush lashes?

Even if she applied cosmetics to hers, they’d never compare to his.

Rayne deliberately averted her attention from his buff-covered thighs and the way the muscles bunched and flexed as he expertly controlled his stunning mount. Memories of the way his shirt had pulled taut across his chest and shoulders the other day sent a wave of most inconvenient heat pitching low in her belly.

Had she caught a fever?

This hot-cold, hot-cold business was truly becoming most annoying.

To distract herself from the peculiar sensation, she fixed her attention on his horse. Pitch-black except for a silvery-white mane and tail, the creature was perhaps the most beautiful animal she’d ever beheld.

Rayne adored horses. She had done so for as long as she could remember. Griffin had purchased a sweet-tempered mare for her, and she rode Verity along Rotten Row several times a week.

“Your gelding is magnificent, Your Grace.” Relief washed through her at how normal she sounded at the deft change of subject. A small satisfied smile pulled the corners of her mouth upward the merest bit.

She’d steered the conversation away from introductions. Quite cleverly too, if she did say so herself. And she did say so, she thought rather smugly.

“Aye, Spiorad—his name means spirit in Gaelic—is an exceptional horse.” A slight widening of the Duke of Kincade’s smile revealed he knew precisely what pathway Rayne’s thoughts had pelted down and exactly what she was up to.

Ophelia continued fussing with her ensemble, which wasn’t like her at all. Once she’d dealt with the stray thread on her cuff, she turned her attention to the minuscule flecks of lint on the sleeves of her lavender spencer.

Not once did she lift her gaze above the horses’ elbows or look directly at the impressive ducal trio. Quite the most peculiar thing, truth be told.

“Aye, he’s a brilliant high stepper. Kincade outbid me at Tattersall’s,” San Sebastian, another Scot, grumbled good-naturedly.

“Kincade also outbid George Slater and the Duke of Waycross, both of whom breed horses professionally,” Asherford put in with a wide grin and another long glance toward Ophelia’s pert profile. “They were both quite vexed at the turn of events, I might add. Though what need they might have for a gelding, I’m not certain.”

Rayne narrowed her eyes the merest bit.

Was something going on between Asherford and Ophelia?

Or was something not going on?

He couldn’t seem to stop sending her swift little glances. And Ophelia quite intentionally, Rayne concluded, wasn’t giving him the slightest notice.

“Waycross much more so when Slater’s daughter bought that remarkable broodmare out from under him,” San Sebastian said. “He’d been waitin’ impatiently for two years for Beville to sell her so he might add the mare to his breedin’ stables. He was most incensed that an upstart American lass—his words, no’ mine—should interfere with his well-laid plans.”

With a slight canting of his head, Kincade addressed Everleigh. “I regret, Your Grace, I havena been introduced to yer niece.”

Why…why the crafty bounder had disregarded the talk of horseflesh and neatly brought the conversation full circle. Bold as polished brass. Directly—the sly devil—back to the introductions.