He was stubborn. Nicholas could admit to that. But so was his mother.
He’d told her a dozen times, probably more, that he wanted to be left alone. What had she done? Sent his sister Florentia. Nicholas liked her well enough, and she stayed out of his way, but now his mother had come with the marquess in tow, seemingly for the sole purpose of prodding him into marriage.
Nicholas made his way toward the door that opened to the back of the house. He was closer to the stables that way. He nodded at the footmen he passed. Years ago, he would have strode quickly past them and not even noticed. Now he had plenty of time to take in their appearances and note whether they looked happy or irritable, weary or well-rested. At this moment the servants looked strained, as though they too were feeling the stress of his mother’s visit.
He finally reached the exit and stepped into the warm afternoon. The sunlight poked out from a blue sky filled with puffy clouds. It was a perfect day for riding, except he didn’t ride any longer. If he had, he would have saddled a horse and escaped his family that way. He would have come back in a much better temper as riding always restored his good mood. Now his escape options were far more limited. He wondered if it was time to seriously consider the ultimate escape—Canada. He had been contemplating booking passage on a ship and starting over where no one cared if he was Lord Nicholas St. Clare. He could just be Nicholas St. Clare, a cripple. And no one would pity his mother or his family or whisper behind their fans about what a shame it was because he had been such a handsome, athletic young man.
He’d reached the stable and a groom ran to meet him. The lad doffed his cap. He was sixteen at most and looked relieved to see him. “My lord, I don’t know what to do. The lady refuses to leave.”
“Why has she taken refuge in my stable?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get close enough because of the pig. I tried to talk to her, but I had to shout, and she was crying so hard I don’t know if she heard me.”
Nicholas looked about. “Where is John Coachman and the other grooms?”
“Lady Florentia and Lady Mary asked the coachman to drive them about.”
Nicholas nodded. “I see. Well, leave her to me then.”
“Yes, my lord.” The groom doffed his cap again. “Be careful, my lord.”
Nicholas smiled and hobbled toward the open door of the stable. During the war he’d been known as a horse whisperer—all of his life, really. He’d always had a way with horses. He seemed to understand their fears and their needs and how best to respond. The ability to connect to his horse made him a good rider, and it also served him and his troop well during the war when he was frequently called upon to steal horses. He never had a problem convincing a horse to go with him. It just took some soft words and a bit of coaxing—maybe a little treat—and he won the horse over easily.
Pigs were another matter, he thought as he stepped into the stable and was met with a large white pig covered with bristly white hair and several large, black spots. The pig had round, floppy ears that pricked up at his arrival, and she or he pawed at the ground and snuffled. There was no sign of a lady, but with one glance down the row of the stable, he saw several horses snorting with their heads high—a clear sign they were uncomfortable or detected danger.
The pig snorted as well, but Nicholas was not well-versed in pig vocalizations and wasn’t sure if the pig was friend or foe. He stopped just inside the stable, deciding not to test his luck with the pig. “Hullo!” he called. “Is anyone here?”
No answer except more snorting and head tossing from his horses. He moved inside, another slow step, and the pig watched him warily. “Hullo? Miss?”
Still no answer, but he thought he heard a telltale sniffle.
“If you are inside, might you call off your pig? I’d like to talk to you,” he said, beginning to feel rather like an idiot. “Nice pig,” he told the animal, who was grunting loudly now. “Is this a Hampshire pig?”
“A Gloucestershire Old Spots. Now go away,” said a feminine voice.
Nicholas took the words as a good sign. He was making progress. They’d come from the right rear of the stable. There were a couple of empty stalls there and she was probably hiding in one.
“I can’t go away,” Nicholas said, edging closer. “I live here. I’m Nicholas St. Clare. Who are you?”
“I can’t go away either,” she said, her voice muffled with congestion. “I can’t go home.”
“Why is—” This was ridiculous. He did not want to yell down the length of the stable while a pig directed a menacing stare at him. “Miss, would you mind very much calling off your Gloucestershire Old Spots so we might speak face to face?”
For a long moment there was no answer, and then he thought he caught sight of a head peeking out from a stall. A moment later, there was a shrill whistle. The pig’s ears twitched, and the creature turned its head. “Sweetie, come!” the woman called.
With a last look at Nicholas, the pig lumbered back toward the stall. Nicholas followed, lumbering himself as he made his way past the stalls of horses. He spent most of his days in the stable. He didn’t ride any longer. He would never ride again, but he enjoyed the company of the horses, and grooming and caring for them took his mind off his shattered legs. Finally, he came to the stall and peered down at a woman sitting on a small stool and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She was pretty, even with red-rimmed eyes and splotches of pink all over her face. She had hair the color of amber—not brown but not quite blond—and large brown eyes with long lashes. Her eyes reminded him of a fawn’s eyes. They were wary but curious. She was dressed simply in an earth-colored under dress and brown over dress. Her hair fell in wild waves about her shoulders and was sprinkled liberally with hay. At one point it might have been pinned up, but Nicholas rather doubted it.
“You are Lord Nicholas,” she said.
He gave a slight bow and waited for her gaze to slide over his damaged legs and his walking stick and for the pity or horror to creep into her eyes. “I am,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“We haven’t.” Her gaze didn’t waver from his face. “I don’t go out into Society. Until recently.” And with that, she started weeping again. She covered her face with her handkerchief and sobbed quietly, her shoulders shaking. Nicholas would have knelt beside her, but of course he couldn’t manage to do more than lean on his stick.
The pig, who had gone to the far end of the stall, glared at Nicholas, and he would have sworn it wore a look of reproach. Nicholas gave the animal a pleading look, and perhaps it worked because the animal nudged the woman with its snout. The woman sniffed and rubbed the pig’s head. Finally, she sniffed again, and straightening her shoulders, dabbed at her nose and eyes. When she had composed herself, she took a breath. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I shouldn’t have come here. I was out walking, and I began crying and—well, you see the state I am in.”
Strange. Certainly, she must have noticed his walking stick or the way he stood awkwardly with all of his weight on it. Her gaze had dipped down, but she hadn’t seemed repulsed.
“Has something happened?” Nicholas asked. “Are you ill or is anyone in your family—”