sworn enemies, too.
She swore never to let anyone humiliate her like that again.
But of course it wasn’t that easy. One couldn’t simply decide never to be an object of ridicule.
Not with Weston and Milbotham out there, whispering into every gossip’s ears.
Word of her hoydenish ways reached Town long before Olive arrived four years later for her come-out.
It did not matter that every gown in her trunks was the pinnacle of fashion. Instead of the “horse farm heiress,” scandal columns dubbed her the “horse-faced heiress.”
The appellation caught on overnight.
Olive was a pariah.
She didn’t lose her Almack’s voucher—she was never granted one to begin with. Ballrooms were for young ladies, not horses. The Weston family spread the tales triumphantly. Not that much effort was necessary—the caricatures were not kind.
She left London after one week, rather than endure six months of a social season she wasn’t invited to.
Weston and his father had tried to destroy her, but instead they had given her purpose.
Olive couldn’t beat anyone with beauty, but she could be the best bloody horsewoman England had ever seen. The world might not desire her, but they would dream of having her skills.
And soon enough, they dreamed of having her horses.
No, she would not sell to Prinny.
No, she would not do business with the families of the people who had taunted her. Who had pushed a child, and mocked, and whinnied. As if she were nothing more than an animal. As if she were nothing at all.
The Harper blood horses were infamous not just because of their superior attributes, but because they weren’t easy to obtain. Olive could charge what she liked, because her customers were paying as much for exclusivity as they were for fine horseflesh.
She wouldn’t sell to Lady Jersey, they could tell their friends smugly. But she sold to me.
That’s right. To the devil with the patronesses. The beau monde could have their little world.
Olive ruled hers.
She was a woman now. No longer the cowering, frightened child who had run off in tears of mortification. Olive was strong, and fierce, and capable.
And this time, she would not let Weston win.
Chapter 5
The Third Day
This time, Eli was awake before dawn. He awaited Miss Harper out by the horses.
Well, not too near the horses. He kept a healthy distance between himself and the completely inadequate wooden fence demarcating their territory from his.
Happily, his carrot-tossing aim was improving by the day. Most of the pieces landed in the vicinity of the horse he was aiming to treat without the need to venture close.
When a cube of orange carrot landed in the soft snow in front of Duke, the big stallion gave a great sniff. Not at the carrot—at the wind, which came from behind Eli and appeared to be carrying his scent with it.
Rather than dip his head to eat the carrot, Duke charged toward the fence.
Eli dropped most of the remaining carrot where he stood in a desperate attempt to scramble backward, though he knew from experience he had no hope of outrunning a rampaging horse.
Rather than leap the too-short fence, Duke halted with nothing more than his nostrils over the top and gave another loud sniff.
Eli wasn’t fooled into coming closer. He weighed the last bit of carrot in his clammy palm and tossed it underhand in the direction of the fence. It landed just on the other side.
Duke lowered his head, ate the carrot, and sauntered away, as if Eli’s presence no longer held any interest.
Eli took a deep breath and willed his galloping heart back to a canter.
He had a mission.
Both his father and Miss Harper’s father were expecting their heirs to put forth their best efforts in good faith, but that wasn’t why Eli was out here in the snow, risking life and limb to throw carrots at an ill-humored stallion.
With unsteady fingers, he straightened his cravat and smoothed his lapels. He wasn’t here for his father, who considered Miss Harper’s feelings on the question of marriage to be just as irrelevant as Eli’s.
He was out here tempting fate because he cared about Miss Harper’s feelings. He wouldn’t make this any harder on her than he had to. Although Eli would rather be anywhere but a horse farm, Miss Harper adored these beasts above all else.
So here he was.
Where was she?
From an inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a pencil and a new notebook. He’d started to record scientific observations about the flora of Cressmouth.
So far, the entries bore little resemblance to his detailed studies of healing