That earned her a look—curious, amused. She nearly voiced her thoughts on riding habits, then remembered who she was meant to be here—and said nothing.
Without waiting for assistance, she gathered her skirts and swung up into the saddle with practiced ease. For a brief, unguarded moment, a glimpse of stocking and boot showed before she settled herself neatly.
The familiar motion eased something in her chest she had not realized was tight.
There. Much better.
Only then did it occur to her—belatedly—that she had revealed more of her leg than was proper, and that the duke’s gaze had lingered there.
It was not her imagination this time, and she did not quite know how she felt about being regarded by this man in that sort of way.
Or… maybe she did. And maybe… she liked it.
While the duke easily mounted his horse, Rosamund adjusted her seat, patted Daffodil’s neck, and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “We’re to have an adventure today,” she confided. “I have no doubt you’ll behave impeccably.”
The mare flicked an ear.
Rosamund smiled to herself, straightening, as she finally looked toward the duke.
“I’m ready,” she said.
And for the first time since arriving at the estate, she felt not like an intruder—but like a participant.
They rode first to the tenant cottages near the upper pasture.
Rosamund did not record names—but she discreetly took notes ofher impressions. For instance, the way men straightened when the duke approached, the way women spoke plainly to him, unafraid.
After introducing her briefly, the duke listened more than he spoke.
Asked questions. Listened some more.
At one gate, he dismounted to examine a broken hinge.
“It’s been catching for weeks,” the tenant explained.
Julian tested it once, nodded, and made his own note in the small ledger tucked into his coat. “I’ll have it replaced before you move your herd up here.”
Rosamund said nothing, content to quietly observe while the duke conducted his business.
By midmorning, the sun had warmed her shoulders and while the duke could never be accused of being talkative, he was… cooperative.
Almost friendly.
They spoke in fragments while they rode between properties.
About soil quality.
About the price of timber.
About Daffodil, and his horse, named Merlin.
“After the magician?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I cannot take credit. He was already called Merlin when I purchased him.”
Rosamund glanced at the gelding and saw the faint scars along his hindquarters—old, but unmistakable. The way Julian rode him now, hands light and voice low, told her everything else she needed to know.
Another rescue.