“Of course. As you know, Herdwicks are a very strong breed with long fleeces.” She led the way over the carriage drive to the stable block. “They’ve been known to survive under a blanket of snow for three days while eating their own wool.”
“Remarkable,” Charles said, turning to her in surprise. “You have knowledge of this?”
She scrutinized him, her eyes suspicious. “Not personally. We would never treat our sheep in such a cruel fashion.”
“No. Your father would not risk his valuable stock. Then where…?”
“I read about them in a farmer’s magazine,” she confessed, looking charmingly disconcerted.
“Ah.” Had she looked it up? For him? After her dig at him about sheep, it was impossible not to tease her a little. And it might lighten the mood. “I find such a thing extraordinary. Is the journal in your father’s library? Might I read it?”
“Of course.” She glowered at him. Then a half-smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I shall ferret it out for you.”
He smiled. “Thank you. That is very good of you.”
“It is my pleasure.” They walked through the archway into the stable yard and crossed the cobbles to enter the long stone building. The immaculate stable smelled of hay and horses. Grooms and stable boys straightened from their tasks to bow as they passed. Over twenty horses occupied the stalls. Curious, they poked their heads over the stall rail to observe them.
“Not all are ours,” she explained. “Some guests have horses here. The stallion might suit you. Thor makes for a good challenging ride. Come and meet Barnes, our head groom.”
Charles ambled after her. “Thor? God of Thunder? I imagine he will.”
Barnes emerged from the tack room. “His Grace would like to see Thor,” she said, “Could you bring him outside, Barnes?”
He bowed. “Certainly.”
“Thor is my father’s recent purchase. He has confessed it was an unwise one. He’d forgotten he is no longer a young man.”
The groom hastened to open the stall door and slip a leading rein onto the large black horse.
They emerged from the shadowy stables into the sunlight again.
Led outside, the stallion reared up on its hind legs and whickered. Even Barnes, a muscular fellow, struggled to hold him.
“He’s a bit excitable, Your Grace,” Barnes commented unnecessarily. Charles turned to Lady Cornelia and arched an eyebrow, as the handsome animal of more than seventeen hands snorted and viewed him with suspicion, showing a good deal of white in his black eyes.
Charles took the reins from Barnes and ran a hand over the animal’s glossy neck. “Easy, fellow.”
“Poor Thor hasn’t been ridden for a while,” she said. “To be honest, there aren’t many who care to ride him. I believe you are an accomplished horseman, but of course, if you prefer another…” She waved her hand to indicate the stalls.
Was this some sort of test? Or revenge for teasing her? “I like a challenge, Lady Cornelia,” he said and enjoyed her blush.
“Saddle him, Barnes,” he ordered, tapping his riding crop against his thigh. “And Lady Cornelia’s mare, if you will. I shall not require you to accompany us,” he added, noting her surprised look and even deeper blush.
Chapter Two
Thor began his dance of protest once the duke had mounted, rising on his hind legs to throw His Grace off. Nellie felt a little guilty at having suggested the animal, but Shewsbury’s strong grip on the reins soon settled the bad-tempered stallion. She admired his ability and the firm but quiet way he showed the horse who was in charge. He looked very much at ease in the saddle as he rode beside her bay over the grassy parkland.
He had seen through her attempt to impress him with her knowledge of sheep. And teased her into admitting it. She had deserved it, she supposed. Marian would laugh when she told her.
They entered the woods along the narrow bridle path, the sunlight dappling the trees. Shewsbury followed. It was cooler here and quiet, but for the clip-clop of the horses, the creak of leather and the chirp of birds. Her tight shoulders eased. This was her place. She breathed in the woodland scents so familiar to her, violets, damp earth, the lichen on the trees. Was she to leave it and the peace it offered her for a turbulent marriage? For she doubted the duke would be an easy man, and the life she was to live quite demanding.
“Cumbria is a picturesque county,” Shewsbury observed, the low-pitched modulated tones of his voice undeniably attractive. “The lakes are magnificent.”
“The home of poets.” Nellie wished the man didn’t unsettle her with so little effort on his part. “Coleridge lived here in Keswick with Wordsworth and his sister for a time. Writing their wonderful poetry, no doubt.”
“Inspired by the natural world around them.”
While they continued along the path, he offered no further comment. Not a subject which interested him, apparently. Kealan Walsh would have been quoting Wordsworth by now.
“You have a great interest in poets, Lady Cornelia,” he said unexpectedly. “Would you include any close friends among them?”
Nellie stiffened. Had he heard about her intention to set up a literary salon? Or did he refer to Walsh? Her father would be furious if he walked away because of the poet. And unfair, for nothing untoward had happened between them, except for two chaste kisses on the balcony at Mrs. Burton’s ball.
“Only acquaintances, Your Grace,” she called back. “I imagine you find Cumbria different to Leicestershire.”
“Yes, but the Midlands are not without charm.”
They emerged from the woods and reined in where a stream wound its way, tumbling over rocks, to join the river farther on. On the opposite bank, sheep grazed in a meadow, their black faces and white coats stark against the verdant grass.
“You have brought me to see the sheep, I see,” he observed, a touch of humor in his voice.
Nellie raised her eyebrows. “It’s rather
