Kieran detected footsteps on the path outside the stable door of Bruxton Manor. He rose from the straw with the agility of his jockey’s frame. He gripped a curry brush in his hand. His pistol was buried in his saddle bag, and that sat on a bale of hay behind him.

He waited. The thoroughbred he’d been attending shifted uneasily in the freshly raked stall.

A wide-shouldered man in an unbuttoned coat ambled into the stable. Kieran stroked the horse’s neck in reassurance; he soothed the wheal marks on the thoroughbred’s abdomen. The earl squinted in the dark, cursed as he trod on the prong of a rake. The undergroom and stableboys slept soundly in the loft above.

Bruxton addressed Kieran in a gravelly voice. He reeked of wine. “I have never known you to miss a shot.”

Kieran noted the whip in his master’s hand. They had pursued this topic a dozen times since the night of the Park Lane party. “A lady appeared in the parterre and screamed like a mountain gale when she spotted me. I missed my mark.”

“How easily the fair sex distracts you,” Bruxton said in scorn. “You are certain the duchess could not identify you?”

“She was upset. I kept my head down.”

“And you spoke to her? Calmed her as you would one of your horses?”

“No. Not a word.” At least nothing intelligible or in English.

Bruxton pulled off the bridle that hung on the wall. “I warned you what would happen if you broke your vow. It will be the end.”

“I don’t care for myself,” Kieran said in quiet defiance.

He threw the bridle in Kieran’s face. “Saddle the horse.”

“It’s gone midnight. He’s not ready, my lord. You’ll break your neck.”

“You ride him then. Animals obey you. Ladies adore your charm and capable hands. Or is it the other way around? Saddle the beast. And pray that the duchess did not see your pretty face that night, or you are both dead. Perhaps you ought to practice shooting in the woods. The next time you will not miss.”

Ravenna trotted the gelding sedately to the park. She should have arrived an hour ago, but Simon had taken forever to check and recheck Radnor’s girth, his hooves, and general temperament, her sidesaddle and stirrups. Already during the ride several acquaintances of the Boscastle family had halted her to wish her well, uncaring that their vehicles clogged the street. One middle-age gentlewoman in a cabriolet, apparently not a friend, pointed her umbrella at Ravenna in bellicose disdain.

“Are you the chit who took the duke off the market?” she shouted indignantly.

Ravenna adjusted her feather-tipped hat. “The very one. Why?”

“You might want to lock him up in that Welsh tower of yours if he’s as wicked as they say.”

“Oh, he is.”

“You admit it?”

She glanced around to reassure herself Simon wasn’t close enough to hear this codswallop. “Happily so.”

She rode on before the rude creature could respond. It was challenging enough to enjoy a simple afternoon out with so many eyes following her. She had never enjoyed riding sidesaddle, less so today. She felt exquisitely tender in her unmentionable parts. More worrisome than this discomfort was to be on guard against wagging tongues.

Would she ever know privacy, peace of mind again? Someone, a stranger, a servant, the good-intentioned and not-so watched her every step.

Or misstep.

While she was grumbling to herself, she felt Radnor falter, raising his right foot from the cobbles. She listed to the left and drew in the reins she had allowed to slacken during her musings. Her hat slipped off. She reached out to catch it and a half-dozen or so pairs of hands rose up around her as if resurrected from a graveyard.

“Good heavens,” she said in vexation, managing to return the hat to her head.

“Your grace, are you going into a faint?” an undergroom asked anxiously.

“No. I am not.” She would have been mortified to be unseated by a stumble, let alone swoon. “Thank you, all. I can manage. Has my horse been hurt?”

She waved the helpful hands away to modest effect, awaiting an answer. The gathering of lookers-on who evidently found a duchess in vague distress an enthralling sight grew by the second.

Simon’s groom had knelt to assess Radnor’s hoof. Distraught, Ravenna dismounted and walked forward, straight into her husband’s powerful arms. She vented a sigh of relief.

“I allow you out of my view for a moment and discover you have drawn a crowd.” His tone was lighthearted, the disquiet in his voice as he studied her from head to toe was not. “What is it?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But seven attendants for a ride around Rotten Row? Was this parade necessary?” She took a breath. “The horse isn’t in pain?”

“He doesn’t appear to be.”

One of the grooms approached Simon. “The gelding took a stone in his hoof, your grace. I don’t see any other defects. The veterinarian has been summoned to meet us at the house. Shall we fetch the carriage so that you can continue your afternoon?”

“We’ll visit the park another day,” Ravenna said, handing the reins to the undergroom.

“We will ride home on my mount,” Simon said. “He’s huge, but great horses do not unnerve you as I recall.”

“Great men do,” she murmured.

He locked his hands together to form a step to lift her onto his unmoving Arab. He vaulted up behind her. She placed her hands primly on the cantle. Simon secured his arm beneath her ribs, not prim at all.

“We could wait for the carriage,” she said, settling against the muscular wall of his body.

“Do you mind riding with me?”

“It’s nice enough.”

“Nice? It feels perfect.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, positioning her securely between his thighs.

She smiled to herself. “You should have heard me defending your sinful nature a minute ago. The day is ruined. We’ll have to send word to Jane and Chloe at the park so they won’t worry. Do you think this accident is suspicious?”

“It might be.”

“A stone, Simon. Shouldn’t we assume it was bad luck and nothing more ominous?”

“It was good luck you weren’t hurt in a spill,” he said. “A duchess doesn’t fall off her horse every day.”

“I did not fall.” At least not off her horse. It was increasingly clear, however, that she was falling in love with her husband. Had it happened over the last few weeks or had the charismatic devil stolen her heart years ago? It was too late to matter. He was stoic, practical, and strong. She wasn’t sure she would change anything even if she could. To be honest, if she had known in the past what she knew of him now, she might have chased him to the altar.

There were no wings to connect the main body of Simon’s house to the stables. He had considered the walk between buildings a mere inconvenience before his marriage. Now he had a wife to worry over. He disliked the idea of her traipsing back and forth in a dark passageway to visit her horse.

Still, he could not chain her to his side, even as an excuse to keep her safe. She had won over his staff. Indeed, the servants had become complicit in his love for her, as indicated by the offerings of fruit and strength-giving cordials they considerately placed about the ducal suite and drawing rooms.

He made his way to Radnor’s stall. The head groom loomed in his path, swinging a lantern. “Sorry, your grace. It is late. The duchess was here but an hour ago.”

“How is Radnor?”

“In top form. Just a pebble or torn bit of paper in the frog. Wedged in tight, but at least he didn’t pick up a nail or suffer a coffin fracture. The surgeon cleaned his hooves with turpentine.”

Simon admired the horse’s sleek lines in the wavering light. “You’re a good man, Elwood. It is immaculate in here, quiet as always.”

Elwood’s forehead wrinkled. “Have I been remiss in any duty?”

“Never. I am curious, though. Could a person sneak into one of the boxes unnoticed?”

“Not without disturbing the horses. Or one of the undergrooms for that matter. I recognize unfamiliar sounds. For example -- ” He cleared his voice. “Her grace is outside the door.”

Simon wheeled.

Ravenna entered the stable, moving confidently despite the darkness. She wore an emerald silk robe over her nightrail, which she raised delicately from the straw as she advanced on Simon. “I thought I’d find you here,” she said in approval.

“I knew you’d come again before you retired.”

“Is he well?”

“He’s in fine shape,” he replied. “And in competent hands.”

“May I look at him myself?”

He gave her several minutes inside the stall before he took out his watch. “Let me see you back inside.”

She straightened, her eyes widening as if she’d just realized he was wearing his greatcoat and a black muffler pulled up to his chin. “Why are you dressed up at this hour? Were we invited to a late-night rout?”

“No,” he said succinctly. “We weren’t.”

They walked the shadowy path back to the house. Simon hoped she wouldn’t notice the two male figures skulking between the ash bins. She did.

“Those aren’t the night watchmen you hired to provide protection, are they?” she said, craning her neck. “That’s Heath. And Rhys?”

“It is. Didn’t I mention that I had an appointment tonight?” he said casually. “With Bruxton’s groom, if you must know. It isn’t far.”

Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

“It’s not so much an appointment as a surprise call. I spoke with him after Susannah’s funeral and at the livery stables. I have more questions for him now and they cannot wait.”

“Because of what happened to Radnor today?”

He met her gaze. “I have questioned every person Bruxton employed while he was married to my sister. I will do so again. Come inside.”

“It’s not the best idea to visit an enemy in the dead of night,” she said.

“The small hours are when most people let down their guard.”

She compressed her lips. “Then I’ll wait up until you return home.”

“Don’t worry if we’re late.”