to herself. It made no sense. It was, in a way, repulsive.
It also confounded her that the marquess seemed a different person this morning. The figure she had thought so painfully thin the night before now seemed merely lean. It was nice that he was so tall, too. She was often self-conscious about her height. She could appreciate the autumn color of his eyes today, because he appeared to have overcome his distaste for her, looking directly into her face, even taking her arm as they left the house.
She didn’t know how to manage the confusion of her feelings. Fortunately, there was no confusion when it came to the Andalusians.
There were a dozen of them. Four were in the pasture, grazing in the summer sunshine. Eight were still in their loose boxes, their big heads hanging over the half gates to inspect the visitor.
The marquess spoke their names and stroked each of them in turn. “This is Seastar, our stallion. That big fellow is Shadow, our only black. It happens among Andalusians, though not often. Here’s Dancer, and across from her is Isabella. You’ve met Breeze already, of course.” They went on down the rows. Annis pulled off her gloves to feel each satiny coat, to caress the wide cheeks and strong noses, to rub the warm necks beneath those rich, wavy manes.
She stepped up on a crosspiece in Isabella’s gate for a better view of the horse. Like Breeze, she was stout of leg and chest, with a short, powerful neck. The mare nuzzled at her jacket pockets, looking for treats, and Annis chuckled. “I’m sorry, Isabella. I had no opportunity to get anything.”
“She’s a beggar,” the marquess said with an indulgent smile.
“Your horses have easy dispositions, I see,” Annis said.
“They do. They’re known for that.”
“Bits—that is, Black Satin—is easy with me, but he can be testy with other people. Well, not with Robbie, but—”
“Robbie?”
“Our stableman.” She glanced around the stables. “Where are your other horses? Those were Andalusians in harness yesterday, I think.”
“Yes. Come this way, I’ll show you the carriage horses. And my old pony.”
“Your pony? That’s sweet. I still have mine, too, though she’s getting a bit slow, poor old thing.”
The two of them walked on to another wing of the stable, side by side. Annis had forgotten, until that moment, her odd feelings of the morning. Now they came back in a rush. The sweet, pungent smells of horses and fresh straw, leather and sawdust, mixed with the scent of soap and shaving lotion that clung to the marquess. Her belly contracted strangely, and she cast him an uneasy glance, as if he could guess.
His eyes were brighter today, alive with enthusiasm. His hair was unoiled, and it fell every which way over his collar and over his forehead, which suited him. He sensed her regard and turned. “Are you well, Miss Allington? You look a little flushed.”
They had reached the corner of the aisle that led to the other wing of the stables. Several horses looked out of their boxes. Annis turned sharply toward one of them, as if especially interested. “I am quite well, my lord,” she said. Her voice sounded strange in her ears, husky, a little hollow. “Is this your pony?”
“Yes. An Icelandic pony. Quite old now, twenty-two or -three, I think.”
“He’s a darling.” She let the fat pony nuzzle her palm, and she scratched behind his ears. He had once been coal black, she thought, but now his coat was grizzled here and there with gray. “I wish I had something for him.”
She left the pony as the marquess came to her side, and she moved on down the aisle, glancing at the heavier horses, who gazed incuriously back at her. She wanted distance from the marquess, even as she found herself, unaccountably and distressingly, wanting to be close to him.
This was not natural, she thought. There was something wrong with her. Perhaps, in truth, she was not completely well. But what illness would cause such strange sensations, such conflicting emotions?
Something was definitely the matter, but she didn’t know what to do about it, and there was no one she could consult.
She wanted to be her usual independent self, even though being herself so often got her into trouble. At this moment she felt as vulnerable as a newborn foal. She loathed the sensation of weakness.
She felt better once she was mounted. The stableman had pointedly placed a sidesaddle where she could see it, though he had prepared a horse