Griff was tempted to remind the crass fellow he’d have to sire boys before he got too comfortable, but the problems of this household weren’t his concern. He felt heartily sorry for the baron, a jovial chap brought low by his own son and stuck with Anthea’s poor excuse of a husband in the hopes of an heir. The situation strengthened his resolve to remain a confirmed bachelor. The only fly in that ointment was his duty to sire an heir for the earldom of Pendlebury. He owed that much to his parents.
He’d looked forward to spending a pleasant day at Withins Hall but, now, he itched to get away. “Perhaps I can borrow a horse. I should go into Preston to see about my carriage.”
“Help yourself to whichever one you want,” Springer replied.
Griff ought to take proper leave of the baron, though he intended to return before dark. “You’ll relay my whereabouts to your father-in-law?” he asked.
“Of course.”
As the racket and the child’s strident yelling continued, Griff drank the last of his coffee and left, annoyingly sure Springer would forget to pass the message to the baron.
*
Gabriel sent Emma,Patsy and Rebecca home from Chester in the carriage, having been assured by Cavendish the van he’d constructed was roadworthy.
Susan took Gabriel’s arm as they followed the master of Heaton Hall to an area of sprawling stables not far from the racetrack. Oscar and Bradley made their way to the rear of the inn and retrieved the horses ridden from Thicketford Manor the previous day.
Cavendish dragged open the enormous door of one building and ushered Susan and Gabriel inside. It wasn’t the first time she had entered a stable. The odors were familiar—leather, hay, manure. However, she found herself looking down the length of a long gallery, the likes of which she’d never seen before. There must have been twenty stalls, each housing a horse, but she was immediately drawn to a glossy chestnut about halfway down the gallery. “Orion,” she whispered.
Cavendish eyed her curiously. “That’s him.”
“He’s a beauty,” Oscar declared as he joined them, leaving Bradley outside with the Farnworth horses. “Come see, my lord.”
Susan was grateful for the strength of Gabriel’s arm as they approached the thoroughbred. Emotion swirled in her heart; she didn’t know whether to weep or laugh out loud. Orion snorted when she reached up to touch him, but she felt no fear.
“He likes you, Lady Susan,” Oscar remarked.
She nodded.Likesdidn’t begin to describe it. She shared an affinity with this magnificent creature—and he felt it too. She would never be able to describe what passed between her and the horse as she stroked him. If he proved to be worthless as a stud, she still had to have him.
As if sensing her amazement, Gabriel patted her arm and released her.
Reluctantly, she removed her hand from the horse and stepped aside as Cavendish swung open the half-door and pushed the suddenly agitated horse further back into the stall.
Gabriel winked at her. “I’ll just check him out. Make sure he is a…”
“Oh, he’s a stallion, all right,” Oscar exclaimed. “As you can see.”
Susan feared her knees might buckle. It wasn’t the length of the horse’sequipmentthat stole the breath from her lungs. It was the erotic dream that suddenly broke—the unknown rider she’d drooled on was none other than the hateful Griffith Halliwell.
Lightheaded, she became vaguely aware Gabriel was waving a promissory note under Cavendish’s nose. “The van?” he asked.
“Behind the stables,” the fellow replied grabbing the note.
Oscar closed and secured the half-door.
Susan watched the men leave, but she remained rooted to the spot. She looked into Orion’s huge, mysterious eyes. The horse flared his nostrils, as if to say, “I’m not the only beautiful creature you crave.”
The Day Unfolds
Leaving Withins Hall,Griff enjoyed the easy six-mile ride into Preston and soon forgot his irritation with Springer and his undisciplined brat. He didn’t have to worry overmuch about controlling the docile gelding chosen by a stable lad. The beast knew the way.
Scanning the landscape, he filled his lungs with air that was definitely fresher than in London, though a few giant chimneys belching smoke on the far horizon to the west hinted at the rapid industrialization of the county.
The fields were different from those in the south—rockier and rugged; more difficult to farm productively, he would think. His father had always said northerners were a hardy bunch. The recollection of his sire’s pride in his Lancashire roots brought a lump to his throat.
Awash in memories of his beloved parents, he came to a bridge spanning a river. “Is this the Ribble?” he shouted to a lad fishing on the bank.
“Nay, sir, ’tis the Darwen. Ribble’s further on. Thee can’t miss it if thee’s bound for town.”