“How much?” he repeated.
“I wasn’t really looking to sell.” Skerrit rubbed the grimy cleft in his chin with his thumb, and Francesca pursed her lips at the spark of greed in the farmer’s eye.
“Perhaps I could persuade you.”
“You can’t possibly mean to buy the colt,” Francesca exclaimed. Didn’t Winterbourne see that Skerrit would just use the money to buy another horse, and she’d be right back where she started? Alarm shot through her, and she stepped between the two men, facing Winterbourne.
He raised his chin, looking over her head at Skerrit, the only acknowledgment of her presence between them. “Fifteen guineas,” he offered.
Francesca felt her jaw drop. Insufferable man! Had she compared him to a warrior a moment before? Despot was more accurate.
“My lord, the animal is worth much more than fifteen guineas! Only come and see... ”
Skerrit’s whining grated on her nerves, and she whirled on him.
“I have no desire to see the evidence of your handiwork, Mr. Skerrit. The offer is now twelve,” Winterbourne snapped behind her.
Skerrit shook his head, and Francesca let out a pent-up breath. But Skerrit was no fool. He wouldn’t bargain much longer. She rounded on Winterbourne, feeling dizzy at all the sudden turns.
“Lord Winterbourne, I really must insist you do not purchase this animal. It would be better if I took the colt home and cared for him temporarily.” There. That ought to settle the matter.
Winterbourne glanced down at her briefly, and she nodded her head in encouragement.
“I suggest you accept my offer,” he said to Skerrit over her head.
She almost stamped her foot in aggravation. Instead, she tapped the marquess on the chest. “Lord Winterbourne, have you been listening? I said that I didn’t think—”
“I’ll take it,” Skerrit agreed.
“No!” she protested.
Winterbourne extracted an ivory card from the silver case. “This is my brother’s solicitor here in Southampton. The earl’s name is on the back.” Reaching around her, he handed the card to Skerrit. “My man is in Yorkshire, but show Selbourne’s solicitor this card and you’ll be compensated for the animal.”
“I don’t believe it,” Francesca moaned. All her hard work, and in three minutes the meddling marquess had ruined it, causing her who knew how many more problems. She wanted to scream but settled for waving her hands frantically in front of Winterbourne’s face in a last, desperate effort to gain his attention.
He leveled his amber gaze on her, expression bemused. “What are you doing, Miss Dashing?”
“What am I doing? What are you doing, my lord? I told you not to buy the horse!”
“It’s too late for that now.” He waved Skerrit away.
Francesca spun around in time to see the lanky farmer slink off, grinning his gap-toothed, yellow smile all the way.
“Why are you complaining?” Winterbourne crossed his arms and stared down at her, now treating her like the ant. If she wasn’t so angry, she might have been intimidated.
He jerked his hand impatiently. “You wanted the horse. Now you have the horse.”
“You don’t understand. I never wanted to buy the horse. You’ve just given that man money to purchase another poor beast and—wait! You’re not even keeping Thunder?”
“No. I bought him for you.”
“B-but you don’t even know me! You can’t buy me a horse! What will people say?”
“I couldn’t care less.” Obviously, the marquess considered their conversation over because he turned away from her, striding on long, lean legs to the far side of the stable. Francesca followed, though she had to run to keep up.
“But I care. My family will care.”
He glanced back at her, seeming surprised she hadn’t disappeared. “That’s not my concern.”
They rounded the stable’s corner, and Francesca saw he’d tethered a beautiful sorrel gelding near a forgotten woodpile. The horse nickered when he saw his owner approaching. The marquess quickened his pace, outdistancing her.
“Lord Winterbourne.” Francesca slowed to a walk as he reached the horse and began loosening the reins. Without a word, he mounted the gelding, gracefully turning him away from her and the stable.
Oh, no. She wasn’t about to allow him to ignore her this time.
“Lord Winterbourne!” she bellowed so loudly that not only all of Hampshire but half of Scotland probably heard.
His horse certainly did. The copper-red animal jerked his head toward her. She saw the impatient flick of Winterbourne’s wrist on the reins, then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed muscled legs into the beast’s flank and guided the mount to face her. The softness was gone from his eyes, and she felt the stab of his piercing gaze.
The last lavender and indigo rays of the autumn sun illuminated him from behind, melding horse and rider into one, transforming him into some mythical being—a satyr or centaur. The sky was darkening, but through the shadows of dusk, his eyes dismissed her.
“Good-bye, Miss Dashing.” He spurred his horse and rode into the streaks of dying light.
“Wait!” she called after him. “I thought you said your horse lost a shoe.”
Not surprisingly, he didn’t bother to turn around. Hands on her hips, Francesca frowned after him.
Two
Ethan Caxton, the Marquess of Winterbourne, suppressed an uncharacteristic shudder and urged Destrehan forward. Grayson Park, pale and dreary, rose before him like a hoary mist out of the inky night. Destrehan shied as they crested the hill overlooking the estate, and Ethan knew exactly how the thoroughbred felt. He reined the horse in and stroked the gelding’s sleek copper mane.
He’d been raised primarily in London and had never liked Grayson Park. The estate was tainted with too many bad memories—having been his mother’s last refuge when his stepfather flaunted his newest mistress.
In the moonless darkness, his late stepfather’s country house appeared even more formidable and massive than usual. Baroque in style, the house was a long, severe rectangle of gray granite. Two-dozen windows overlooked the south lawns, most of them as black as the far reaches of Hell. Weak light shone from a handful of parted drapes on the upper floors, and the dim glow gave eerie illumination to the gargoyles leering down at him, their talons gripping the stone balustrade encircling the roof.
Ethan wasn’t superstitious, but he’d felt uneasy on the ride back from Skerrit’s farm. The ghostly vision of Grayson Park only heightened the feeling. On top of everything, the image of the Dashing girl standing next to Skerrit’s woodpile, twilight tumbling about her like the curls of her chocolate hair, refused to leave him. He couldn’t put her out of his mind, and it was damned unnerving.
He should have seen her home. He’d realized his lapse halfway to Grayson Park, but when he returned, both she and the horse were already gone. He cursed his error these last five miles or so, consoling himself with the certainty that she was native to the area—a country miss who most likely lived close to Skerrit’s farm. Nothing could account for his oversight. Nothing except a mixture of unyielding anger that his presence had been revealed and the unexpected distraction of a well-shaped ankle.