She repeated his comment to her father in sign language. Papa could read the lips of one speaker if the circumstances were right, but it was impossible to watch everyone at once in a crowd.
“I do not race with Mademoiselle Olive anymore,” Lucien le Duc admitted grudgingly. “I already know la démone intrépide will win.”
“Perhaps it’s not Olive who has preternatural talent,” teased another friend. “Perhaps it’s the horses who have preternatural powers.”
Olive interpreted as quickly as she could.
Papa gave a wicked grin in response. “Who do they think trained our horses?”
“Horses like Duke!” crowed another friend, turning the teasing to the party’s host. “The Harpers’ prized stud is more famous than you, Nottingvale!”
The Duke of Nottingvale affected faux outrage. “I don’t know whether to take umbrage at being compared to a horse, or to pout because I did not emerge the victor.”
“Neither did Prinny.” Sébastien turned to Olive. “Is it true you refused to sell Duke to the Prince Regent?”
Olive batted her eyelashes innocently, whilst interpreting for her father.
“I refused three times,” she assured the party, to the delight of all. “For the good of the country, of course. Duke won’t let anyone but me ride him. He would toss Prinny into a lake at the first opportunity.”
“When has common sense stopped Prinny?” laughed a friend. “I wager it was Olive who chased him away. The Regent is more terrified of you than Napoleon.”
“As he should be,” she agreed primly.
The Harpers were not only renowned horse breeders and trainers, they were also champion grudge-keepers. Had Prinny tried to take Duke from them by force, they would have done everything in their power to get Duke back... or make the Regent regret his actions. Their horses meant the world to Olive and her father.
Fortunately, no such dire circumstances had come to pass. She was having one of the best Yuletides—nay, one of the best years!—in recent memory.
As her father aged, he’d entrusted more and more of the farm’s operations to Olive. She was no longer “Mr. Harper’s daughter” but a respected horse trainer and business owner in her own right.
Oh, very well, she didn’t own anything yet. But she and Papa were each other’s only relatives, which made Olive the estate’s sole heiress. Their farm was her kingdom, and she its Queen. Her horses’ well-deserved fame had long proved her talent and success in an arena dominated by men.
What more could a lady want?
One of the new faces here tonight turned to Olive. “Would you sell Duke to me?”
“I wouldn’t sell him to anyone,” she replied.
She allowed certain customers to mate their mares with her stallion or purchase a foal, but she would not part with her favorite horse. Duke was part of the family.
“What if I offered...” The stranger named a figure five times higher than Prinny’s best offer and gave her a hopeful grin.
“Not even for ten times as much,” she informed him and quickly glanced away.
Her tight-lipped smile wasn’t because she found the question offensive—a stud farm was meant to breed and sell horses, after all—but because Olive didn’t want the cheerful stranger to see what she hid behind her smile.
When she was younger, Papa had assured her she’d grow into her too-wide mouth and over-large teeth.
Olive had not.
It was the only lie Papa had ever told her.
She knew it was because he loved her. To Papa, his daughter was beautiful. He probably thought she had grown into her features. But there was no reason for her to subject strangers to her oversized teeth. Or to open herself up to ridicule.
Instead, she smoothed her hands over her prettiest gown and did her best to smile with her eyes instead of her tightly closed mouth.
The sound of champagne popping filled the air.
“A toast.” Nottingvale held the foaming bottle aloft. “To my sister, on her betrothal.”
Glasses clinked and cheers filled the air.
Olive was thrilled for the duke’s sister, she really was. But Olive was even more glad that she need never worry about being in the same shoes.
Her fulfillment came from her work. Olive wasn’t missing anything. Papa was the best companion anyone could ask for. They had each other, which was more than enough.
She knew her purpose, and excelled at it. Even before the Prinny Incident, the Harper horses had been famous. Olive was no shrinking wallflower. She was a very busy spinster and she liked it that way.
Papa had been making noises about retiring, and Olive was more than ready to take the reins. She was in control of her own future, and soon would be in charge of the entire Harper farm.
“After this, we’re singing carols,” called out one of the guests. No doubt they would be at it for hours.
“I believe I’ll return home,” signed her father.
“I’ll go with you.” Olive was happy to interpret, but the struggle to switch back and forth between languages for long periods of time was exhausting. She looked forward to a peaceful evening with her father. She turned to the duke. “Thank you so much for a lovely afternoon.”
There was almost too much revelry for her to be heard over the noise, but the duke bowed and invited them back later in the evening for dancing.
Olive relayed the invitation to her father before addressing their host. “We’ll see.”
This meant no. There was no reason to dance with gentlemen she was uninterested in flirting with, and besides, keeping one’s mouth guarded for twenty-minute sets at a time was exhausting.
“Don’t forget my Twelfth Night ball,” Nottingvale reminded her. “If you can’t come tonight, I’ll save you a dance then!”
Absolutely not.
Olive retrieved hats and coats from the butler and followed her father out into the brisk winter day. The sun was still an hour from setting, but the air was cold enough that snow glistened everywhere without any sign of melting.
They could have flagged any one of the sleighs Cressmouth used as hackneys for a ride home, but it was easier
