One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(59)

He kept up the steady stream of words as he hung the towel on a hook and bent to check each of the horse’s hooves. Each time he asked the horse to raise a hoof, he did so with more patience than Amelia had ever seen him ask a person for anything, with words like, “This one, if you please,” and “Thank you, my pet.”

Her heart ached. She was seeing an entirely new side of him—a gentle, caring, thoughtful side she would never have guessed he possessed. Having grown up with five brothers, she did understand that paradox about men. They found it easier to display emotions where animals were concerned. Laurent had been her rock at both Mother and Papa’s burials, but when his boyhood sheepdog slipped into permanent rest at the age of fourteen, Amelia had watched her brother weep like a child.

And seeing Spencer tend the horse with such patience and care, even when he believed himself to be alone—it confirmed what Amelia had known in her heart, from their wedding on: This man could never be capable of murder.

“Nearly done, my dear.”

He took a brush to the horse’s coat, gently brushing the dirt from her fetlocks and murmuring more tender words. As Amelia watched, a sick feeling gathered in her stomach. She’d known from the first that people came second to horses in the duke’s priorities. After all, that was the entire reason they’d met. He’d all but ruined Jack—and by extension, her own happiness—in pursuit of a stallion. But somehow viewing this scene recast that reality in a new, harsh light. There was no further denying that this man possessed the capacity for real tenderness and solicitude. He just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reveal those things to her.

Oh, God. Ladies were supposed to become embittered wives when their husbands strayed to other women’s beds. Amelia was going to spend the rest of her life feeling envious of horses. The complete absurdity of it made her tremble.

She needed to leave, immediately. He would finish grooming his mount soon, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught out here and forced to explain not only her presence, but the tears burning her eyes. She began her slow retreat, feeling her way backward across the tiled brick floor rather than making too much rustle with a turn. But shadows clung to the ground, obscuring her steps, and her slippers were still wet with dew. She slipped.

Drat, drat, drat.

Throwing her arms wide, she made a wild grab for the door of a nearby stall. Her fingers closed over the edge, and somehow she stopped her fall before she sprawled completely to the ground. She froze, her pulse pounding in her throat and her spine contorting in ways she’d surely rue tomorrow. At any second, she expected Spencer to round the corner and make her humiliation complete.

He didn’t. After several moments’ uneventful silence, Amelia struggled to unknot her limbs and regain her feet. For once, luck was on her side. Her wild scrambling had gone unnoticed.

By Spencer, at least. The same couldn’t be said for the horse whose door she’d borrowed for a crutch. An offended snort came from the darkened stall, and Amelia heard the horse coming to its feet.

She addressed the animal frantically, making as many mollifying clucks and shushes as her predicament would allow. She didn’t want Spencer to hear the horse, but she didn’t want him to hear her, either. Perhaps she should have simply turned and fled, but her instinct was to quiet the beast first, rather than rouse the whole barn.

Through the shadows, she could just make out the horse swinging its head from side to side, ears flat and nostrils flared. The beast’s breathing grew heavier. Noisier. Now the horse’s agitation was not only inconvenient, but threatening. This was why she’d never learned to ride. Horses always frightened her. All that intimidating strength, and they never heeded her wishes whatsoever. Just like now.

“Oh, please,” Amelia pleaded through her teeth. “Please hush, please.”

Boom.

The horse kicked at the bottom of the door, sending a bone-jarring vibration up the rails and through Amelia’s arms. With a startled cry, she released her grip and leapt back, only to collide with an unseen obstacle. She whirled in defense. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and she fought instinctively against them, struggling and lashing out with her fists until reason and the carriage lamp illuminated the obvious. These were Spencer’s hands holding her.

The ensuing wave of relief dissolved what remained of her strength.

“Oh, God.” She sucked in a lungful of air, trying to locate the courage to meet his eyes. “Spencer, I’m so sorry.”

“You should be. What the devil are you doing in here?” He looked her up and down, as he often did, but this time his gaze sought her angles instead of her curves.

“I’m unharmed,” she told him, hoping that’s what he meant to assess. Behind her, the horse gave another booming kick at its stall, and she jumped in her skin.

With a rough curse, Spencer released Amelia’s arms. Fairly shoving her out of the way, he went to the door and reached his hand toward the horse. The animal nosed his fingers roughly, as if in reprimand, and stamped the floor. Undeterred, Spencer murmured a steady stream of placating words. Eventually the mare—for Spencer’s soft endearments left no question the horse was female—tossed her head and offered her left side for his touch. He obliged the request, rubbing the horse behind the ear.

And Amelia stood there awkwardly, arms crossed over her chest, wondering why it should surprise her in the slightest that when confronted with a frightened mare and frightened wife, Spencer would choose to calm the horse.