She could not scamper away, lest he realize how much he affected her.
Nor could she be expected to spend the morning standing here at kissing distance, pretending her heart wasn’t beating out of her chest.
“As you wish,” he said, that warm dark voice gliding over her skin. “Show me the stables.”
Yes.
He’d given her the perfect excuse to break the moment, to turn away.
Now that he had, however, she remembered what had happened the last time they were alone together in a stable. It was not an experience she hoped to relive. Come to think of it, it would be best if they avoided mention of horses altogether.
But he was right about something else, too, damn him. She didn’t have anything else in her life besides horses. Olive was the farm, and the farm was her. She couldn’t allow him close to Duke. If she was meant to stall him somehow until the ten days ran out, it would have to happen in moments like these.
“You jumped that fence very… smoothly.”
What? What kind of salvo was that?
She spun around before anything worse could happen, and strode swiftly toward the stables. This was her land. She was safe here. He was the outsider that would be leaving soon, never to return. Duke would never accept him. Neither would she.
Eight more days. Nothing more.
He hung back as she walked through the open stable doors.
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t make you vault over the stall doors. If you want to see a particular yearling, I promise to let you in.”
There. That was rude enough, wasn’t it? Reminding him that here, she was in charge. Nothing would happen unless she allowed it.
Her jibe had the opposite effect.
Confidence poured into him like sunshine. He swaggered into the stables as though he had won the game, and this was his land already.
Olive tightened her lips.
Blackguard.
Their fathers might believe that every woman needed a man, but she would show Weston she didn’t need him.
She picked up where she’d left off during the tutorial the day before. Olive had started with the basics. Footing, clipping, exercise. Now she moved on to situations that were specific to Cressmouth. What were the differences in care between a blanketed horse and an unblanketed one? How should salt be fed differently? What about the care of teeth?
They were barely past the third stall and already it was painfully obvious she knew everything about caring for her animals in this climate and Weston knew nothing at all.
Instead of giving her the smug satisfaction she expected, she was filled with more questions than answers. London had winter, too. Weston was heir to the largest and most profitable horse farm for miles around.
What the devil was going on down there?
“I’ve never broken a wild horse,” he told her. “The papers say you’re one of the best in the country.”
She glared at him. How was she supposed to mock and belittle him when he led with her strengths and his weaknesses? Instead of feeling like she had the upper hand, her footing felt less secure with each step.
“Our newest was a challenge,” she admitted. “Belligerent at first, but now he comes when I call.”
Weston looked impressed.
“Go on,” he said encouragingly. “Show me up. I want to see Rhiannon in action.”
Her muscles tensed.
Was that a compliment or an insult? She narrowed her eyes. Rhiannon was a Welsh fairy goddess with dominion over animals, which might sound lovely to be compared to.
Rhiannon was also so closely tied to horses that she was sometimes portrayed as one in the accompanying illustrations.
She gave him a close-lipped smile. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re legendary,” he replied without hesitation. “Prinny tried to purchase one of your horses and failed.”
Oh. That.
Olive was so used to being famous in her small village that she sometimes forgot she’d become infamous outside of it.
“You believe I’ve been boasting.” She knew the answer. They both did.
His expression was serious. “If I tell you I can walk, am I boasting or stating a fact? Why should your abilities be any different?”
Had there ever been a more confounding man to argue with? If there was an instruction book on Being a Mortal Enemy, Weston was breaking every rule.
He was also within arm’s reach again.
Not quite as close to her as when he’d jumped the fence, but not so far that a quick tug of her wrists wouldn’t send her tumbling against his chest.
Her pulse fluttered.
He hadn’t tried to touch her. Was he going to?
Would she stop him?
She wasn’t certain she was breathing. She’d become a marble statue of herself. Frozen, waiting, wondering what might happen. Dying for him to touch her and terrified that she might let him.
Olive didn’t allow others close for a reason. She didn’t allow Weston close for an even better reason. To let her guard down now was to allow him within hurting distance.
Again.
“Go inside,” she said while she still had control over herself. “I have work to do, and don’t need you underfoot.”
At first, he didn’t move. She feared him about to call her bluff by proving how much a damnably large part of her wanted him to stay.
Wanted this to be real.
But they both knew it wasn’t.
“Very well.” He made a gorgeous leg. Such elegant manners should have been incongruent with the sight and the smell of the stables. Instead, it felt courtly. “You’ll know where to find me.”
That was it.
No argument; no pressure. She stated a wish and he complied.
Olive was suddenly certain that if her wish had been to feel his lips on hers once more, he would have complied with that as well.
She was not that foolish. Not anymore. She’d kissed him once, and the experience was more than enough for one lifetime.
The thought of doing it again... She lifted her fingertips to her lips as he walked away.
Weston had hurt her.
He was uniquely capable of doing it again and having it hurt worse because this time, Olive should know better.
She’d been innocent before. Falling into the same trap twice would feel like her fault. As though she’d invited him to destroy her all over again.
It had been a stable just like this one.
Ten years ago, on a trip to London, she’d experienced a moment that had defined who she was to this day.
Summer. Children’s steeplechases. Shiny medallions for the best girl and the best boy of each age group. Olive had been fourteen then, and as excited as if it were Christmas.
She and Papa had arrived too late to watch the boys race. Weston hadn’t won. Some other lad did. Papa said Weston’s father must be frothing at the mouth. Losing was what he deserved for all of the evil Milbotham had wrought.
Olive took his word for it. She’d never met the marquess or his heir. This was her first competition. Her first time around other children who loved horses as much as she did.
It didn’t go well, even before the girls’ steeplechases began.
She was strange and different and awkward. Too tall, too gangly. Ugly, they told her. Worst of all was her smile, with her too-big teeth. It was a wonder she didn’t frighten the horses away.
When her turn to race came, she did what she always had done: closed her mouth tight and flew like the wind.