Julian wanted to humiliate her. He wanted to display her poverty to the entire county, to the one man whose influence was absolute, the Duke of Blackwood. The Duke owned the neighboring lands, and his word could sway any magistrate Julian might try to corrupt. If she was to be made a spectacle, then let it be a spectacle of her own making. She lifted her chin.
"I will be attending. " Julian's smile was a thing of sharp, predatory satisfaction. He believed he had just driven her into a trap of her own devising. "Excellent," he purred. "I shall look forward to it immensely. Do try not to get left behind in the first meadow. " He rose, placed his napkin on the table, and sauntered out, leaving the scent of his expensive cologne to curdle in the damp air.
Eleanor sat for a long time, the thick card cold beneath her fingertips. She did not cry. She had learned a long time ago that tears were exactly what Julian wanted. Instead, she thought of Perseus, of his broad, steady back, of his calm, brown eyes, of his strength, which was not the flighty, nervous strength of a thoroughbred, but the deep, unyielding power of the earth itself. He was not a hunter, but he was hers, and he was all she had.
That afternoon, she found Thomas in the stables. The air was thick with the sweet smell of hay and old leather. Perseus stood in his stall, his massive head hanging over the door. He was a Percheron, gray and dappled like a stormy sky, with feathered feet and a placid wisdom in his gaze. He nudged her hand with his soft nose, searching for the apple she always carried.
"He wants her to fail, Thomas," she said, her voice low as she stroked the horse's powerful neck. "He wants the entire county to see me fall. " Thomas, a man of few words and even fewer illusions, continued to methodically polish a piece of brass from an old harness. He had served her father and his father before him. He was as much a part of Oakhaven as the ancient oaks that gave the manor its name. "A horse knows the land," he said, not looking at her.
"And a horse knows its rider. That's all there is to it. " "The Duke will be there," she murmured. "They say he is formidable. " "He's a man on a horse," Thomas replied, setting down the brass. "Same as any other. Some sit taller is all. " The preparations were a quiet act of defiance.
Eleanor brought out her father's old saddle. It was heavier than a lady's side saddle and worn, but the leather was supple and strong. Thomas checked every stitch. She spent hours in the paddock with Perseus, not training him to jump. That would be madness, but reacquainting him with the feel of a rider, the subtle shifts in weight, the pressure of a knee.
He was intelligent and willing. His gait was a rolling, ground-covering trot that felt less like riding and more like being carried by a gentle hill. She worked on her riding habit. It was her mother's, made of a sensible gray wool, refitted for her years ago. The seams were strong, but the color was faded.
The style hopelessly out of date. She mended a small tear near the hem. Her stitches small and neat. An invisible repair. A metaphor for her life.
The night before the hunt, Julian found her in the study. The ledgers spread out before her under the light of a single candle. "Still wrestling with your sums? " he asked, leaning against the doorframe. "There is an easier way, you know. My man of business has drawn up a most generous offer. " ""My home is not for sale, Julian. "" "It is not a home.