One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(71)

“And Osiris?” she asked. “You’re so determined to have him for your own—or at least reduce the number of the club. That’s to protect the superiority of your breeding stock, I assume? If he’s too widely available, the demand for your horses could decrease.”

He loved how quickly her mind worked. She’d grasped the business rationale instinctively. Spencer often purchased retired racehorses he had no intention of breeding, just so their offspring wouldn’t dilute his own stock’s value. And he gave them an idyllic pension in open pasture, so it worked out well for the horses, too.

“Yes,” he said, “limiting his breeding will be one benefit.”

“But it’s not the real reason you want him. That benefit can’t be worth tens of thousands of pounds.”

Suddenly he realized how far this conversation had strayed, and how it was now on course to collide with some long-held secrets. His body stiffened, as though encased in armor. “How does this pertain to riding lessons?”

“It doesn’t. But I’m not truly here for the horses. I just want to know you, Spencer. I want to understand.”

She laid a hand next to his on the fence rail. Her little finger just barely grazed his, but the warmth in that touch went a long way toward melting his resistance. His conscience tore down the rest.

Long before his uncle died, he’d made a bargain with himself. Yes, he would assume the title and do his duty, but he’d do it on his own terms. To the devil with what people said or thought. He wasn’t going to explain himself to anyone. But cards aside, he had a keen sense of fairness. On their wedding night, he’d demanded her body, her loyalty, her trust. In return, she’d asked only some answers. Now that she’d given him everything so freely, it felt wrong to deny her this.

“Very well.” He offered his arm, and she took it. “I can better explain inside.” Keeping her close, he led her back into the horse barn and down to the farthest end. She tensed against his arm as they neared Juno’s stall, and he knew she was remembering his harsh words to her the night previous.

“I regret shouting at you,” he said, stopping a few feet from the mare’s stall, “but I was concerned for your safety. As I’ve said, Juno bites. And kicks, as you saw last night. She doesn’t like new people. Or most people, for that matter.” He sighed heavily. “She’s the devil’s own nag, is what she is.”

Amelia cast a wary glance at the mare, and Juno released a gruff snort, as if in confirmation. “Then why do you keep her?”

“Because no one else would. She’s the first horse I ever bought in this country. My father left me a small legacy, and when I came of age, I took the funds to an auction and came home with this creature. I was young and stupid—made my decision based on pedigree without taking temperament into account. She was four years old and had noble bloodlines and some modest racing success. Thought I’d made a fine bargain. What I didn’t know was that she’d always trotted the line between spirited and flat-out dangerous, depending on her rider, and she’d spent the previous year boarded at some country estate, in the care of an incompetent stable master. She’d been kept tethered in a dank stall, barely groomed, beaten often.”

He stopped and drew a deep breath. Even now, he felt the old fury rising in his chest. When he’d mastered his voice, he went on, “By the time I bought her, her trust in men had been completely destroyed. No one could saddle her. No one could even get near her without risking his fingers. Clearly we’d never be able to breed her. My uncle wanted to put her down, but I wouldn’t allow it.”

“You wouldn’t?” Amelia stroked his arm in a sympathetic manner.

“Oh, it wasn’t so noble as it sounds,” he told her. “Pride was my true motive. I’d bought the damned mare, and I didn’t want to lose the investment. Or admit defeat.” Releasing Amelia, he walked forward to offer his hand to Juno. She nosed his fingers with rough affection, then turned her head to offer him her favorite spot under her left ear. She liked to be rubbed there, so he humored her for a bit.

“I took personal responsibility for her and then turned her out to pasture for a full year,” he said. “Made no attempts to train her, asked nothing of her. I fed her, watered her, groomed her as much as she’d allow. Even once I’d gained her trust, it took a full year of slow training to ride her. With time, I was able to break her to halter, bridle, eventually saddle … Strangely enough, those rides were what finally improved her disposition. As if that’s what she’d been waiting for, been needing—the chance to carry a rider and gallop across an open park. So I began riding her regularly, and her mood improved. Now it’s our habit. She’ll let the stablehands feed and groom her, but to this day, I’m still the only rider she’ll allow.”

He looked to Amelia, and she gave him a slight, disarming smile. It occurred to him he’d been talking for an uncharacteristically long time, and she’d been standing there patiently for a long time, too—pointedly silent, unwilling to interrupt until he finished.

“She’s getting old,” he went on. “Too old to be ridden by anyone, much less a man my size. I’ve always been more weight than she really ought to carry. But if I try tapering off the frequency of our rides, she grows touchy again. Starts refusing to eat, kicks at the stall. I hate to keep riding her, but I’m more concerned about what will happen if I stop altogether.” He rubbed the mare’s withers briskly, then stepped back and folded his arms. “That’s where Osiris comes in.”