Mia let go of Jafeer and rose on her toes to look over his door. He instantly backed up to give her room.
Sure enough, his manger was full of oats. “Jafeer,” Mia said, pointing to the box. “You must eat.”
He made a funny noise, almost as if he were talking to her.
Mia leaned against the door. “I suppose I could stay here for a little time,” she told him, “but I must go for a ride. Lancelot is waiting for me.” Jafeer bent his head and began to lip up the oats.
“Well, damn my britches,” Mulberry exclaimed, instantly adding, “Please excuse me, Your Grace.”
Mia laughed. Jafeer had obviously remembered how delicious oats were; Mia patted his neck and he raised his head and whickered at her, but lowered his head again immediately.
After a few minutes, Mia made her way out to the paddock. Mulberry hoisted her onto Lancelot’s broad back just as a groom emerged from the stable on his own mount. Mia’s heart sank. She was desperate for escape, and the last thing she wanted was the quizzical gaze of a bored young groom as she and Lancelot meandered down the path, stopping now and then, which allowed Lancelot to fortify himself with some grass due to the unwonted exercise of carrying her.
“I have no need for an escort,” she told Mulberry. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she added, nodding to the groom.
“Your Grace,” Mulberry objected, “you cannot think to go for a ride without an escort.”
“That’s exactly what I intend,” she said. When he started to protest, she drew herself upright. She might as well practice looking like a duchess. “I shall ride alone,” she stated. “I shall return in an hour or thereabouts. Good afternoon, Mulberry.”
With that, she pointed Lancelot toward the open gate. He ambled through it, resigned to the fact that she was forcing him to take her for a ride.
Mia leaned forward and patted his neck. “Good boy, Lancelot.” Behind her she heard Jafeer’s infuriated bellow and the pounding of hooves. He must have realized that she had left while he was eating.
She followed a path that wound from behind the stables, skirted the edge of the lawns and wandered off into the woods. The moment she was out of sight of the looming house Mia felt as if she were finally able to breathe. It was as if she’d been swept up in a whirlwind, only to find there was no air in the middle of the storm.
A short time ago, she’d been in the local church, waiting to become Mrs. Edward Reeve, when Sir Richard had announced that Edward had fled, and she had instantly plunged into a panic from which she had yet to emerge.
In the last weeks, her every muscle had remained taut with fear. Now she could relax. Whatever happened to her, Charlie would be secure, financially as well as physically. Vander would prudently administer the estate, not like Sir Richard, who would have wasted Charlie’s patrimony in frivolous lawsuits.
Vander would never do that, and Edward wouldn’t have either. For the first time she let herself really think about the fact that her fiancé had left the country rather than marry her.
Her throat tightened. It felt terrible.
Edward had kissed her as if he meant it. After their first kiss, he had pulled back, laughing. And yet he looked at her in such a way . . .
Obviously, desire was not enough to ensure loyalty. She had believed Edward loved her, but in hindsight, he had been temporarily lustful. Like Vander.
For a moment she wobbled in the saddle, struck by the realization that someday Vander would take a mistress, a beautiful sylphlike woman, someone he might love the way Thorn Dautry loved his wife.
Tears began to slide down Mia’s cheeks. There was a reason she wrote Lucibella novels: she longed to be loved, and to fall in love.