Daddy.
A shudder passes through me. There’s no sane reason why a grown woman would be calling her fiancée, Daddy. I see how he’s been dressing Wraye up in pretty dresses and pastel colors. Sometimes, she sits in his lap with her arms around his neck, kicking her legs. He treats her like a little girl.
At home in the evening, I have the house to myself, and I spend the time ordering new riding clothes and researching whether there are any decent dressage coaches in Paravel. There aren’t, but I do discover that there is going to be a dressage competition held at the palace in a few weeks’ time. Apparently, dressage was popular under the old King and Queen, and King Anson is keen to bring it back.
Dressage is my favorite thing about riding. It’s all about horse and rider, moving as one, through a series of complicated maneuvers. The best dressage riders make even the most difficult moves seem effortless, like a well-trained ballerina; except, it’s not just you who needs to seem effortless, but your horse as well. Cinnamon and I haven’t had the chance to practice any dressage since we arrived in Paravel, but the memory of the arena at Bellerose Stables makes my fingers itch to feel the leather reins again. A competition on the horizon is just what I need to focus my mind and block out everything else.
In the morning, I’m back at the stables, just after seven. I prefer getting started early and enjoying the clear morning air. Cinnamon greets me with snuffles in my hair, and I can feel how eager she is to get out there and stretch her legs.
“All right, girl. I’ll go get your saddle.”
Apart from Cinnamon, the Arabian and the big black stallion, this large stable is empty. There’s another stable on the other side of the yard, but it’s locked up and silent. I wonder where all the horses are.
Cassian’s horse, the dish-nosed Arabian, is in her stall, looking far too sweet and pretty for such a caustic man, and I give her a pat. The big black stallion at the other end is watching me over the door of his stall, his liquid eyes dark and alluring. I can’t help myself from walking along the stable to take a closer look at him.
I stroke his velvety nose, marveling at his muscles and his glossy coat. He’s a formidable horse, but I bet I could ride him. There’s never been a horse I can’t handle.
Footsteps approach across the cobbles, and I yank my hand back. I have a feeling Cassian would be angry about me interfering with any of his horses. Cinnamon’s saddle is at the far end, and I hurry across the tiled floor to get to it, just as someone comes into the stables.
A broken tile catches the toe of my riding boot, and I go flying.
Right into whoever has entered.
My palms press against a muscular chest. Strong arms wrap around me. I gasp, surprised, as I look up into the shocked blue eyes of Cassian Bellerose. He’s wearing a flannel shirt that smells fresh and lemony. Warmth from his body seeps through the cotton, and my fingers flex on his muscles.
I get my feet back underneath me and straighten up, but something about being in this man’s arms makes me want to stay right where I am. Cassian Bellerose is kind of gorgeous.
His surprised expression flattens into derision. “Usually it’s bored politicians’ wives who throw themselves at me. Do you want to annoy Daddy? You chose well. I’ll make him furious.”
The spell breaks, and I pull myself out of his arms. “I have never thrown myself at you or anybody. I tripped.”
“Yeah, sure.”
How can anyone be so rude with no provocation? I’m giving him money to be here. He should be grateful because it seems like I’m the only one.
“Seeing as we’re probably going to see each other a lot, I would like it if we could be civil.” Cassian doesn’t say anything. It’s an improvement on his sarcasm, so I add, “It’s been a strange few weeks, what with the sudden revolution and moving back to Paravel.”
In France, at least I had riding friends. The only person I’ve spoken to lately who hasn’t fawned all over me, just because I’m Lady Aubrey, is standing right in front of me. I’m starving for a decent conversation with someone where I feel like the other person is talking to me and not my family tree.
“I’m trying to like it here. It’s hard, though, and now my father is marrying my best friend.”
“Yes, I heard. Poor little you.”
“Why are you so rude all the time? Is it the work? If you don’t like horses then you should find another job.”
His gaze travels down over my body, taking in my pressed white blouse and expensive double-knit jodhpurs, the gleaming riding boots on my feet. I feel like he sees everything, my insecurity, my loneliness, and he’s vastly unimpressed with me.