“Beg pardon, my lord.”
Aelfreth Green stood, cap in hand, at the edge of the terrace.
“Aelfreth?” The lads had been as smitten with Eve as the damned stallion. Aelfreth would not have intruded on the lady’s meal for anything less than fire, loose horses, or other acts of God.
“Sorry to interrupt, milady, your lordship, but Bannister says you’d best come.”
Foreboding congealed in Deene’s chest. “Eve, you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.”
He rose, visions of Willy cast in his stall, with bowed tendons and incipient colic befalling the horse.
“It’s Franny, your lordship,” Aelfreth muttered as they strode away. “She’s not passing the foal.”
Behind him, Deene heard a chair scrape back.
“Come along, Lucas.” Eve seized his arm and started towing him forward. “If it’s a foaling gone sour, there’s no time to waste.”
He extricated his arm from her grip. “Eve, it isn’t in the least proper for you to be in the vicinity when a mare’s giving birth.”
“Hang proper. I’ve assisted at foalings before. We raise plenty of horses at Morelands, you know, and just because I no longer ride or drive or… any of that, doesn’t mean we have time to argue.”
She was right, blast her. An animal that historically gave birth where all manner of predators could interfere developed the ability to get the process over with quickly—and did not develop any ability to deal with protracted labor.
“Miss might be a help,” Aelfreth added. “The mares sometimes want for another female when things go amiss.”
“For God’s sake, this isn’t a lying-in party.”
Nobody graced that expostulation with a reply, and when Deene got to the foaling barn, the situation was grim indeed. Bannister, the grizzled trainer and head lad, was outside the foaling stall, his expression glum.
“The foal willna come, your lordship. She’ll soon stop trying.”
A black mare lay in the deep straw, her enormous belly distended, her neck damp with sweat.
Deene started stripping off his coat. “What’s the problem?”
“The foal…” Bannister glanced at Aelfreth.
“Won’t come, I know. Have you had a look?”
Another glance—at Aelfreth, at Deene, at the mare, everywhere but at Lady Eve Windham.
She laid a hand on the man’s hairy forearm, as if they were great friends. “Speak freely, Mr. Bannister. Is it a red bag? A breech?”
“I dunno, mum. But she shoulda dropped that foal nigh thirty minutes ago.”
Deene did not swear aloud, but in his mind, he bitterly railed against a staff that had let him eat tea and crumpets for half an hour while a mare was in distress.
“Bring me soap and water,” Deene said, passing his coat to Eve and starting on the buttons of his waistcoat. “Strong soap and some towels. Eve, I urge you to get back to the house. Frankincense is a maiden mare, she’s small, and this is not going to end well.”
“Sometimes it just takes them longer their first time, Lucas. We mustn’t panic.”
She was studying the mare while Deene passed her his waistcoat and stripped off his shirt.
“And sometimes, panic is the only thing that will carry the day. Bring me the damned bucket.” He did not raise his voice in deference to the horse groaning and thrashing her way through another contraction.
Eve set his clothing on a saddle rack and started undoing the buttons of her jacket. “She’s a very petite mare, Lucas. You’d best let me do this.”
Deene stopped in the process of shoving his shirt at her. “Let you? Let you put your hand… No.”
“Yes, let me. I’ve done this before, and I’m good at it, Lucas. For once being petite is an advantage. Compare your arm to mine and think of the mare.”
She thrust out a pale, slender arm—an appendage perhaps half the diameter of his.
While Deene stood there, bare to the waist, anxiety for the horse nigh choking him, Eve dropped her arm and pointed at the stall.
“There’s your problem, Deene. You’ve got a leg back, at least.”
While the mare grunted, a single small hoof emerged beneath her tail.
“Milady is right,” Bannister said. “Foals is supposed to dive into the world, their noses atween their knees. That one’s hung up a leg.”
He shot Deene a look and turned to head down the shed row—to where the guns were stored in a cabinet in the saddle room.
“Lucas, don’t try to stop me.” Eve was down to a very pretty camisole and chemise, both of which left her arms bare below midbicep.
“I will allow you to try,” Deene said. “But only because there is no time to make you see reason.”
Aelfreth appeared with the bucket, and Eve started scrubbing her arm. “The contraction is passing, and now’s the time to investigate. Talk to the mare, Lucas, she has to be terrified and exhausted.”
That Eve would enlist his aid was a small consolation, but he hadn’t been about to leave her to her own devices in a stall with an animal half out of its small store of wits with pain. He moved to the horse’s stall, approached the mare’s head, and crouched down.
“Help has arrived, Franny. We’ll get you free of this little blighter in no time. You and Willy can admire him all you want then and boast of him to the other mares…”
He pattered on like that, stroking the horse’s neck in what he hoped was a soothing rhythm. Behind the horse, Eve was on her side, right down in the straw, her expression calm as she petted the horse’s quarters.
“No surprises,” Eve said to the horse. “Just another lady back here, and Deene is correct. We’ll have this nonsense over with soon, and I promise you—on my mother’s solemn assurances—the first one is the worst.”
Deene took up the patter while Eve examined the mare internally. When the mare began to grunt again, his heart about stopped.
“Eve?”
“I’m fine, and it’s a leg back.” Her voice was strained, and Deene knew all too well what the tremendous pressure of a contraction did to a human appendage intruding into the birth canal. Bannister—who was a fine man to run a racing stable—swore it could break a man’s arm.
Which Deene hoped was the exaggeration of the uninitiated.
“Eve, do you think you can bring it around?”
“I can, I just need—” The mare heaved a great sigh and went still. “I need purchase to push the foal back.”
She needed strength to do that, to use the time between contractions to shove the foal back into the womb where it could get its feet untangled enough for a proper presentation.
“Hold on.” He left the mare with a pat to the neck and came around to the back of the horse. “Just give me a moment.”
For a moment was all they’d have.
* * *
She’d been a girl of fourteen the last time she’d done this, drafted into service in the same situation—a small mare, disaster for both mare and foal looming at hand, a desperate measure permitted only because St. Just had begged His Grace to allow it.
And the mare and foal had lived.
That recollection gave Eve renewed strength, but scrabbling in the straw, she had nothing to brace herself against until a hard male chest blanketed her from behind, and a strong male hand settled on her shoulder.
“You’ve got the foal, Eve?”
“I do, I just need a little… more…” Just a few inches, just an inch. With Deene applying a steady brace to her shoulder and Eve hilting her arm inside the mare, she managed—just barely—to aid the foal in slipping back into the womb from the birth canal.
“Can you find the knee or the elbow, anything to ease the leg forward with?”
Another contraction was going to hit, and any second, while Eve tried sight unseen to sort one slippery foal-part from another.
“An elbow.” She hoped.
“Pull forward gently until you’ve got the foot coming along.”
“Push harder, Lucas. I can’t get any purchase.”
He applied a painful pressure to Eve’s shoulder, all but shoving her face into the mare’s sweaty rump, but it gave her the fraction of an inch she needed. The leg was slippery and the space confined. She tugged, she pulled, she yanked, and with a sudden give, the foot slid forward.
“Done.” She slumped back against Deene’s chest and slipped her arm from the mare’s body, only to find herself summarily hauled to her feet.
“Then let’s get you out of here, because any moment now Franny is going to start thrashing again.”
Eve let Deene lead her from the stall as the mare began to strain and groan again. “I’ve seen foals born before, Lucas.”
This remonstrance came out weakly, for a sudden light-headedness was afflicting her—no doubt the result of being plucked from the straw after such an exertion.
“You’ve probably been kicked before too, which would not excuse me did I allow it to happen again.” Deene spoke briskly, and he swabbed briskly at her arm, from fingers to shoulder, with a clean, damp towel.
He needed to scold her about something; the realization made Eve curiously happy. “I’m sure you’re right, Lucas.”
When he had scrubbed her arm thoroughly, he set the towel aside, grasped her by her wrist, and tugged her across the barn aisle, stopping only long enough to retrieve his coat.
“I’ve never done what you just did.” He settled his coat over her shoulders, the scent of him bringing as much comfort as the warmth. “I’ve handled cows—a single cow, one time, and sheep, but they hardly need any help—not horses, for God’s sake. You could have been kicked, or the mare might have rolled. If your parents find out I permitted this, I will never be allowed to so much as—”
She put two fingers to his lips, lest he raise his voice and disturb the mare. “My papa has permitted me to provide the same aid at Morelands, but it was only the once, years ago. Now, hush.”
He was bare from the waist up, upset, and in some sort of male tantrum. Eve put her forehead on his sternum and her arms around his waist. She remained like that until she felt Deene’s arms come around her, slowly, carefully, enfolding her in warmth.
She felt his chin resting on her crown. “I keep underestimating you, Eve Windham.”
Eve turned her face so she could listen to his heart—a marvelous benefit to hugging a man without his shirt. “I underestimate me too.”
They remained like that, embracing, giving Eve the sense they were settling each other’s nerves as they did. Deene didn’t let her go until Bannister called softly from across the aisle.
“A right proper stud colt, we’ve got, but he be a big bugger, begging milady’s pardon.”
Deene leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Thank you. It’s Willy’s first colt, and I… just thank you.”
He slipped away and started giving orders, while Eve stood there wearing his coat and wondering which was better: kissing the Marquis of Deene or foaling out his mare.
* * *
The damned horse was showing off, adding that extra little fillip of élan to his strides, the smallest spark of additional grace, and as every lad on the property gathered on the rail, Deene had the sure conviction Willy knew Eve was watching him show off his equine wares.
But what a ride… Never had the stallion been more supple and willing, never had he flowed over the ground with quite such ease. When Deene brought the animal to a perfectly square halt before Eve where she perched on a top rail, her eyes were sparkling.
“Lucas, you were not boasting. He’s magnificent. A gentleman-scholar-poet-athlete-artist of a horse, and so very, very handsome.”
“Do you want to cool him out?”
The horse had hardly broken a sweat, but the highest standards of care dictated that he be walked after his exertions at least for a few minutes.
“Yes, I most certainly do.” She climbed down and scrambled between the rails while Deene ran up the irons and loosened the girth. When he stepped back, Eve took the reins and led the beast away on a circuit of the schooling ring.
“That’s the best he’s done, your lordship.” Bannister’s gaze followed Eve and the horse. “All that trotting about, he ain’t never looked that fine before.”
“He’s growing into himself.”
Bannister eyed Deene up and down. “Her ladyship has a way about her, more like. You should bring her by again soon.”
Bannister walked off with the rolling, bowlegged gait of the veteran equestrian, leaving Deene to watch as woman and horse ambled around the arena. Eve was talking to the horse in low, earnest tones, and the horse gave every appearance of listening raptly.
An image of Mildred Staines flashed in Deene’s mind. He’d seen her riding in the park on a pretty bay mare just a few days previous. Mildred sat a horse competently, but there was nothing pretty about the picture. Her habit was fashionable, her horse tidily turned out, her appointments all coordinated for a smart impression, but…
Eve was still wearing Deene’s coat, her skirts were rumpled, her boots dusty, and she sported a few wisps of straw in her hair. She stopped to turn the horse the other direction, pausing to pet the beast on his solid shoulder.
I could marry her.
The thought appeared in Deene’s brain between one instant and the next, complete and compelling. It rapidly began sprouting roots into his common sense.
She was wellborn enough.
She was pretty enough.
She was passionate enough.
She was—he forced himself to list this consideration—well dowered enough.
And she charmed King William effortlessly.
Why not? Little leaves of possibility began twining upward into Deene’s imagination.
He knew her family thoroughly and wouldn’t have to deal with any aunts secreted away in Cumbria.
He was friends with her brothers, who did not leave bastards all over the shire.
The Windham hadn’t been born who lost control when gambling.
And Eve Windham was a delightful kisser.
Why the hell not? The longer he thought about it, the more patently right the idea became.
Eve was grinning openly as she brought King William back over to the rail. “I’ve found my perfect companion, Deene. He doesn’t make idle conversation, doesn’t click his heels annoyingly, doesn’t reek of leeks or cigars, and would never drink to excess. I suppose you’ll make me turn him over to the lads for his grooming?”
“You suppose correctly.” He fell in beside her as she led her charge to the gate. “I hadn’t intended to stay this late in the day, and now it looks to be clouding up.”
“I don’t care.” She gave the horse one last pat. “I made a new friend today. The entire outing has been worth it.”
Smitten, the two of them. It gave a man pause when he had to consider that his horse’s charms might be interfering with the ideal moment for a proposal of marriage. Deene ushered Eve up to the house so she might repair her toilet, and waited on the terrace while she was within.
By the time she emerged from the house, Eve was a slightly rumpled version of the picture she’d presented first thing of the day, but to Deene’s eye, also more relaxed.
“I’ve had the tops put up on the landau, Lady Eve. Aelfreth will drive us.”
Her brows knit as Deene shrugged into the jacket she’d borrowed for the past couple of hours. “That isn’t quite…” She fell silent. “I suppose it will be dark before we reach Town, and I do not relish a soaking.”
“My thinking exactly.” Though if she had insisted, he’d also been prepared to ride up on the damned box if necessary to appease the proprieties. When he climbed in beside her, she made no comment.
When he took the seat next to her, she still made no comment, confirming his sense that Eve Windham was indeed, very solid wife material. He rested
against the squabs, inhaled a pleasant whiff of mock orange, and contemplated marriage to the woman beside him.
* * *
The day had been wonderful. Eve settled into the coach with a sense of contentment she hadn’t experienced in ages.
Deene lowered himself beside her—right beside her—and that was wonderful too. In the course of the day, he’d become subtly affectionate with her. He plucked wisps of straw from her hair, took her hand in his, stood a little too close…
She doubted he was even aware of such small gestures, but they left her feeling a precious sense of being cared for, however fleetingly.
“Are you nervous, Eve?” He slid an arm across her shoulders, no doubt meaning to bolster her courage.
She was feeling quite brave, in truth, though she made no protest at his familiarity. “You think I’m nervous to be in a closed carriage with dirty weather closing in, and us miles from Town?”
“I was trying to be delicate.”
She relaxed against him. “The horses are not fresh, a little rain isn’t likely to unsettle them, and…” And what? And Deene was right there beside her? There was more to it than that, though his presence was certainly reassuring.
“And?”
“And something about this day has been good for me. I ought to be nervous, though I’ve never been in a coaching accident, per se, but I am no more than a touch uneasy.”
He did not tell her to put her fears aside; he did not talk her out of them; he did not do anything other than take her hand. “So you were impressed with Wee Willy?”
Ah, horse talk.
“I am enthralled with him. When will you next compete him?”
“Quite possibly at the local meet before Epsom in June, though Bannister would have me believe such decisions are a function of reading chicken entrails and tea leaves.”
“You need to work your stallion on the opposing lead in canter, Deene. Sheer speed is impressive, but he needs strength and suppleness to go with it, or he’ll end up blown before he’s eight.”
As the miles rolled by, they conducted a discussion—not a debate—regarding the merits of working the horse on hills, over fences, and on the flat. Eve found herself wishing London were twenty miles farther, and that pleased her too.
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