Chapter One

The mist lay thick over Astonwood Manor, drifting around the grand chimneys and clinging to the dewy grass as dawn broke. Sophia Atherton slipped out of the house, the tired leather soles of her brother’s old boots whispering against the gravel path. The cool air brushed her face, bringing a faint blush to cheeks shielded beneath the shadow of a woolen cap that tucked her unruly auburn hair out of sight. Alexander’s cast-off riding clothes concealed her athletic but feminine form, allowing her anonymity, which she found both practical and liberating.

The distant sounds of birds stirring in the hedgerows accompanied her as she made her way toward the stables. Inside, the air was thick with the earthy warmth of hay and horses, mingled with a whisper of iron and leather from the stable. Jonathan Fletcher, the head groom, waited patiently for her in the dim lantern light. His weathered face creased with concern as he worked Artemis’s girth strap.

“Good morning, Lady Sophia,” Jonathan said gruffly. His brow furrowed as he glanced up at her. “You have heard no more about Lord Milburn’s visit yesterday, have you?”

Sophia met his gaze with a stern shake of her head. 

“Nothing I have not already dismissed as irrelevant,” she said firmly.

Jonathan’s hand paused. 

“I must confess that I found his inquiries regarding Artemis peculiar,” he said. “His interest in her training schedule seemed far more pointed than any gentleman ought to display regarding animals not his own.”

Sophia folded her arms across her chest, the worn fabric of the jacket straining against her posture. 

“William Milburn can feign interest all he likes,” she said. “Artemis is not going anywhere, Jonathan. Not with anyone.”

The groom gave her a reluctant nod, though the line of his mouth remained grim. As he resumed tightening the strap, Sophia’s gaze drifted to the mare herself, her dark coat gleaming even in the stables’ subdued light. Artemis stood with quiet dignity, her ears flicking attentively as if sharing Sophia’s disdain for the previous day’s unwelcome visitor. 

Yet, beneath Sophia’s calm, unease lingered like an itch she could not quite scratch. The way William’s cold eyes had roved over Artemis had been unsettling enough, but when his gaze had turned to her, it had sent a chill through her that she still could not shake.

“Shall we, then?” Jonathan asked, breaking through her thoughts.

She nodded briskly. 

“Let us see what she’s capable of today,” she said.

Minutes later, Artemis’s hooves pressed into the damp earth of the training field, the rhythm of her stride quickening as Sophia guided her through the warm-up. The mare responded effortlessly to the slightest pressure of her rider’s legs, her movements fluid and precise. Sophia’s gloved hands maintained a firm but gentle hold on the reins, her commands subtle and efficient.

“Extend her stride, miss,” Jonathan said, his pocket watch poised in his hand.

Sophia leaned forward to balance her weight as Artemis’s gait lengthened. The mare surged forward with a grace that brought a rare smile to Sophia’s lips. Around them, the mist began to dissipate, as the soft hue of pink dawn started slowly to spread across the horizon like watercolors bleeding into parchment.

“Yes, my darling girl,” Sophia said, low and soothing. Artemis’s ears flicked back briefly in acknowledgment as the mare shortened her stride at the next reined command. The precision of her movements showcased her years of careful training, a labor of love that had been both Sophia’s escape and her salvation after the turmoil of her family’s recent years.

After the exercise, they returned to the stables, Artemis blowing gently as Jonathan removed her saddle. The quiet satisfaction of the morning’s work quickly gave way to unease, however, as they approached the feed room.

The door stood slightly ajar.

Sophia’s steps faltered, and she reached out instinctively, her hand resting lightly on Artemis’s flank as her eyes scanned the area. Inside the feed room, her carefully organized supplies were in disarray. Hay was scattered across the floor, and the feed bags had been displaced from their usual meticulous arrangement.

Jonathan frowned, stepping inside to survey the scene. 

“It was likely just one of the lads not minding his steps,” he said, dismissively brushing a few strands of hay from his sleeve.

Sophia shook her head as doubt brewed in her stomach.

“I am certain that is not the case,” she said sharply. “They are never so careless.” 

Dropping to one knee, she ran her fingers over the soft earth near the entrance. The imprint of boots far larger than any worn by their stable hands was clearly visible.

“Look,” she said, pointing to the marks.

Jonathan’s expression darkened, though he hesitated, clearly reluctant to alarm her further. 

“Perhaps one of the hands passed through there in a rush and meant to pick it up shortly,” he said, sounding as uncertain as he looked.

Sophia’s eyes narrowed. 

“Passing through does not involve disturbing my feed bags or tracking mud into my perfectly clean stable,” she said with a bit more sternness than necessary. “Move Artemis to the back stall tonight, and lock the feed room, Jonathan. I do not want any chances taken. Not with her.”

The groom nodded, observing his mistress’s authoritative concern. 

As Sophia stood, brushing dirt from her breeches, her gaze lingered on the feed room door, her hand again finding Artemis’s sleek neck.

“Not with her,” she repeated softly, more to herself than to Jonathan. Despite her outward composure, doubt began to form. Whatever had disturbed the order of her stables this morning felt too deliberate to ignore.

***

The warmth of the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Alexander’s study, trickling a pale golden streak all across the worn ledgers strewn across his desk. Sophia paused in the doorway with her teacup balanced carefully on a delicate saucer. The scene that greeted her was all too familiar. Alexander was slouched over his accounts, the faintest shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes. His unruly dark hair, so like their father’s, fell over his brow as he rubbed at his temples.

“Good morning, Brother,” she said softly, stepping inside and placed the tray ever so delicately on the edge of the desk. The faint tinkle of porcelain did most distinctly interrupt the heavy and oppressive atmosphere in the room.

Alexander looked up. His expression was weary, but he seemed grateful for her interruption. 

“Good morning, Sophia,” he said from a fatigued throat. Straightening, he gestured vaguely at the ledgers surrounding him. “Three more creditors came yesterday. They demand immediate payment of two thousand pounds. I have not the faintest notion how we are to meet their terms.”

Sophia’s hand froze mid-motion, the delicate porcelain cup halting just short of her lips. 

“Two thousand pounds?” she echoed, her disbelief thinly veiling her mounting frustration. “That is impossible, Alexander.”

He exhaled sharply, closer to a sigh than a retort. 

“I am well aware, Sophia, but the debts do not vanish simply because I acknowledge their absurdity,” he said.

She set down her cup with deliberate care, her eyes narrowing as she watched him fidget with a quill. 

“What exactly did you tell them?” she asked.

Alexander waved his hands idly at his desk.

“That they would receive what is owed in due time,” Alexander said, his words faltering. “They are not inclined to patience, I fear.”

Sophia moved toward the window, staring out at the distant stables. Their precarious financial situation felt like the mansion itself had sat heavily upon her chest, and it was as familiar to her as the air she breathed. It had become an unwelcome companion since their father’s death, and it haunted Alexander’s duchy relentlessly and every decision they made.

“Perhaps there is another solution,” Alexander said, breaking the strained silence. “Lord Burendale was very clear…”

“No,” she said, almost shouting. The single word cut through the room like a splintered fragment of ice. She turned to face him, her posture rigid, her eyes alight with defiance. “We are not entertaining his offer, Alexander.”

He frowned, his expression somewhere between exasperation and resignation. 

“The offer for the stables is more than fair, Sister,” he said. “It would resolve much of our…”

“Neither the stables nor I are for sale,” she said, interrupting him once more with cold conviction.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Sophia crossed her arms over her bosom, her gaze drifting back to the window. Despite her best efforts, her mind drifted to her mother. 

“Do you remember the opera?” she asked, softer now as the memory itself had sapped the very strength from her.

Alexander tilted his head, now puzzled as well as frustrated. 

“The opera?” he asked. 

Her hands fell to her sides, clenching the fabric of her skirts. 

“That night Father seated his mistress within sight of our mother,” she said. “Do you recall how we found her, weeping alone in her dressing room?” She closed her eyes briefly, as if to ward off the images, but they came flooding in nonetheless. “She endured years of his disregard, his humiliation, until it hollowed her out entirely. By the time she died, there was nothing left of the woman she once was.”

Behind her, she heard her brother sigh again. This time, it was with defeat, however, as he was beginning to understand what she was going to say.

“Sophia,” he said, but he cut himself off this time, unable to argue against the truth of her impending point.

Sophia turned back to him, her chin lifted in defiance against the emotion that threatened to break through her composure. 

“I shall not live that life, Alexander,” she said. “I shall not enter matrimony with a man who looks at me as though I were a thing to be owned rather than cherished. A man like him would likely bring his mistresses to my bed on top of me. No. I would sooner sleep in the stables than subject myself to that existence.”

The silence was filled with understanding, though it offered no solutions. Alexander leaned back in his chair, brushing his hand over the cover of the ledger nearest him. 

“I only wish there were another way,” he said quietly.

Sophia nodded. She was not unsympathetic to her brother’s distress or their family’s plight. Their father had left them in a dire financial position, and Alexander had inherited all the troubles. However, she could never reduce herself to being an abused possession of a cad of a nobleman. They would simply have to find some other way.

Before she could respond, there came a knock at the door. Both siblings turned as the butler stepped inside, his presence as unobtrusive as ever. 

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “The Marquess of Montingdale has arrived.”

Alexander immediately straightened in his chair, the fatigue lifting from his expression like the fog that had dissipated under the sun earlier that morning. 

“James has arrived?” he asked.

Sophia stiffened, her stomach twisting uncomfortably at the mention of the marquess. She had been happy to avoid the marquess since she had had an unsettling interaction with him at a social ball. What was worse, however, was that her recent column critiquing his prized stallion had been far from flattering. She had argued with him and had defended the anonymous author’s words, knowing very well that it was she herself who was behind the quill and paper. She had no doubt in her mind that he had forgotten it.

“How fortunate,” Alexander said, rising to his feet with more vigor than Sophia had seen all morning. He caught her wary expression and arched an eyebrow. “Surely you are not still avoiding James. He is my oldest friend, Sophia.”

She frowned, turning her gaze toward the window.

“That is precisely the problem,” she said, muttering under her breath, but before she could elaborate, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. The marquess’s arrival was heralded by his commanding presence even before he stepped into the room.

Sophia inhaled deeply, forcing herself to adopt an air of indifferent composure. Whatever disquiet his gaze stirred in her, she would bury it beneath her composed exterior. After all, she thought, I have little patience for men who embody both charm and arrogance in equal measure.

Chapter Two

Sophia leaned closer to Alexander, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. 

“You might have warned me of his visit,” she said with frustration. She glanced quickly toward the door, where the sound of approaching footsteps sent a cold unease through her already taut nerves. “You know I have been avoiding him since Lady Jersey’s ball last winter.”

Alexander merely shrugged, his response one of deliberate nonchalance as he adjusted his cravat. 

“James is my friend,” he said quietly. “He is not a plague to be circumvented.”

Sophia opened her mouth to retort, but she faltered as Lord Montingdale stepped into the room. His tall frame seemed to command the space effortlessly, his broad shoulders were outlined by the cut of his perfectly tailored coat. For a moment, she could not seem to look away, her annoyance at her brother momentarily eclipsed by a surge of awareness that made her pulse quicken.

“James,” Alexander said warmly, striding forward to clasp his hand. The two men exchanged the easy camaraderie of a long-held friendship.

Then the marquess’ gaze shifted, settling on Sophia with a focus that lingered a moment too long for propriety’s sake. She stiffened, her hands gripping the fabric of her skirts as his eyes traced her features. That same piercing blue intensity she remembered from their last encounter now left her breathless once again.

“Lady Sophia,” he said, inclining his head in greeting. He appeared mildly amused, as though he found her flustered expression particularly entertaining. “At last, I have the pleasure of seeing you again. You have proven most elusive of late.”

Sophia felt the unmistakable heat of a blush creep up her neck, though she forced herself to remain outwardly composed. She returned his greeting with a cool nod, willing her voice to remain steady. 

“The demands of responsibility leave little time for social frivolities, my lord,” she said, each word carefully measured.

The marquess raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by her detached response. His lips quirked into a faint smile, the kind that suggested he found her deflection both predictable and amusing.

Despite herself, Sophia’s thoughts turned to memories of that single dance at Lady Jersey’s ball. The marquess’ hand at her waist had felt impossibly warm, the strength of his grip steadying her even as it sent a thrill of awareness through her. 

The subtle scent of sandalwood and leather, so distinctly his, had lingered in her senses long after the music had ceased. She had spent the rest of the evening pointedly avoiding him, though the effort had done little to banish the impression he had made.

Now, standing before him, she was acutely aware of the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of mischief in his eyes, and the confident air he presented so effortlessly. That same unwelcome flutter stirred in her stomach, a sensation she dismissed as nothing more than irritation.

“Responsibilities are admirable, of course,” he said with subtle teasing. “Though I hope that they will not always keep you so occupied.”

Sophia lifted her chin, willing the blush to retreat from her cheeks. She was determined not to let him unsettle her further.

“There are some tasks which cannot be neglected,” she said with polite dismissal, though her heartbeat remained regretfully erratic.

The conversation paused, the silence filled with tension that neither seemed inclined to break. Alexander, oblivious to the uncomfortable atmosphere, clapped James on the shoulder and began speaking to the marquess of the estate matters the two of which he had been discussing before Lord Montingdale had arrived. 

Sophia seized the opportunity to step back, her composure precariously intact. Her brother’s dear friend seemed to take pleasure in disquieting her. She would not give him the satisfaction, even if he somehow knew she was the person behind the article she had written about his beloved steed.

***

James eased into the high-backed chair with practiced grace, declining the offered refreshment with a polite but firm wave of his hand. 

“No, thank you, Alexander,” he said, a trace of a smile lingering on his lips. “Though I appreciate your hospitality.”

His friend, though visibly burdened, managed a good-natured chuckle. 

“I envy your ability to remain unruffled, James,” he said, the strain evident despite his effort to remain lighthearted. “I would offer you wine, but I fear even our cellar has fallen victim to my father’s legacy of extravagance.”

James gave Alexander a small smile, concealing his concern for his oldest friend’s circumstances.

“Let us hope your creditors do not take a liking to good claret,” James said lightly. Though his tone remained conversational, he knew well enough to tread carefully around the subject.

Alexander gave a small, rueful shake of his head. 

“I suppose I ought to count my blessings that they demand only coin and not the entire contents of Astonwood itself,” he said. “Including us.”

James glanced across the room, noting the faint traces of wear on the lavish furnishings, the signs of a once-flourishing estate now strangled by relentless creditors. He turned back to Alexander, growing more serious. 

“If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,” he said, knowing the answer even before Alexander shook his head, as he always did when James offered his help.

“You have already done more than your share, James,” Alexander said, warmly but with great fatigue. “Your advice on restructuring the tenant leases was invaluable.”

James nodded. He would have gladly loaned his friend the money needed to save both his sister and himself, but Alexander had rejected every offer James had made. So, for the moment, James remained reluctantly willing to leave the matter at that. 

“The tenantry is the heart of the estate,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Loyalty and fair terms will sustain you more than all the riches of the ton combined.”

A brief silence followed before Alexander visibly rallied, his posture straightening as he sought to steer the conversation to more pleasant matters. 

“And how fares Poseidon?” he asked. “Is he still the envy of every gentleman with a trained eye for bloodstock?”

James’s smile returned, this time with amusement.

“Indeed, he is,” he said proudly. “Though I recently read a fascinating argument suggesting a change to his regimen might benefit him further.” He paused, allowing the faintest flicker of curiosity to play across his expression as he glanced toward Lady Sophia, who stood near the window with her back to him. How odd that she stiffens at the mention of my steed and the article about him, he thought with a smirk.

“Oh?” Alexander asked. “What sort of change?”

James’s eyes lingered on Lady Sophia for just a moment longer before replying. 

“Shorter, more frequent training intervals, rather than the extended gallops we so often rely upon were among the rather pointed suggestions,” he said. “The argument was well reasoned and thought-provoking, really.”

There was no mistaking the slight tightening of Lady Sophia’s grip around her teacup as James spoke. Her voice, when it came, was calm and composed, though James caught the brief hesitation that preceded it. 

“Such training philosophies are often tailored to specific bloodlines,” she said, turning to face the men with widened eyes. “What suits one may be ill-suited to another.”

James met her gaze, intrigued by the quiet defiance that flickered in her amber eyes. There was a sharpness and precision to her words that suggested more than a passing interest in the subject. He leaned forward slightly, his attention now fully fixed on her. 

“A fair point, Lady Sophia,” he said thoughtfully. “Your understanding of such matters is remarkable.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her expression remained guarded. 

“One must take care to understand the creatures in one’s charge,” she said coolly.

The corner of James’s mouth turned upward, but he resisted the urge to press further. There was something undeniably compelling about the way she carried herself, a quiet strength that piqued his curiosity even as it challenged him.

Alexander leaned back slightly, his hand brushing over the worn armrest of his chair. 

“Have you heard the latest about Lord Ellsworth’s escapades?” he asked. “He has managed to acquire a property in Brighton that has the ton positively buzzing.”

James chuckled, following his friend’s change in discussion. 

“It seems Lord Ellsworth is determined to ensure his name graces every drawing room conversation this season,” he said. “Though I wonder if his affinity for theatrics will eventually exhaust his purse.”

Alexander laughed.

“One would think so,” he said, shaking his head in amused disbelief. “But somehow, he always manages to land on his feet.”

James looked briefly toward the window, where Lady Sophia stood in poised silence. Returning his attention to Alexander, he twirled a finger in the air. 

“Perhaps Lord Ellsworth ought to teach us the art of turning chaos into opportunity,” he said. “Our estates could use a bit of his knack for resilience.”

Alexander snorted, though his grin was genuine. 

“If only he would bottle his luck and sell it alongside that revolting port that he insists on serving at every gathering,” he said.

James leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees as his amusement deepened. 

“I will admit, I have often wondered how he makes such atrocious vintages seem indispensable,” he said. “I suspect it is more a testament to his charm than his skill as a vintner.”

Alexander nodded, his sour expression a testament to his feelings about Lord Ellsworth and his spirits.

“Ellsworth has charm in abundance, I will grant you that,” he said. “Though I am uncertain how much longer he can use it to conceal the lack of substance behind the mask.”

James inclined his head thoughtfully, looking again at Lady Sophia, who now seemed to be listening with muted interest. 

“Substance is often underrated within certain circles,” he said with subtle introspection. “Charm may open doors, but substance keeps them open.”

Lady Sophia’s lips twitched, her expression that of amusement before she resumed her indifferent composure. James allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, noting her reaction with quiet interest before turning back to Alexander. 

Though the conversation was cordial and light, and the laughter came easily, James found his attention drifting back to Lady Sophia time and again. Her presence filled the room in a way that was both understated and impossible to ignore. Her posture remained poised, her expression composed, yet there was a fire in her eyes beneath the cool, polite surface. 

He had almost forgotten the dance he had shared with her at Lady Jersey’s ball until he saw her that morning. Now, however, he remembered how he had felt her in his arms long after the dance had ended. And her behavior at his mention of the criticism of Poseidon remained in his mind. He had never been especially close to Lady Sophia, but why did she seem so strained in his presence? Was it the struggles she and Alexander were enduring, or was it something about James?

When the time came for him to take his leave, James rose from his chair, smoothing the lapels of his coat with a practiced motion. 

“There are informal races at the village green this afternoon,” he said casually, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Poseidon will be running. Should you find yourselves free of obligations, I would be most pleased by your presence.”

Alexander shook his head, and his expression suggested that he meant to politely decline the invitation. Before he could, however, Lady Sophia interjected. 

“We will attend,” she said with surprising decisiveness.

James turned to her, intrigued by the sudden spark in her tone. Their eyes met, and he tried to stifle the slow smile that spread across his face. 

“Wonderful,” he said, inclining his head. “I shall see you there.”

Lady Sophia dipped her head, but she did not say anything more. Instead, she averted her gaze, and James thought he saw her blush. He glanced at Alexander, but his friend just shrugged, looking as puzzled as James felt. 

James took his leave with formal bows to both siblings. As he stepped out onto the drive, he felt Lady Sophia’s eyes on him from the window. Mounting his horse with smooth efficiency, he cast one final glance toward the house. The sunlight caught the glint of auburn at the window, and though her expression was indiscernible from this distance, James felt a distinct satisfaction settle over him. He was eager to learn more about this enigma that was his friend’s sister, and it seemed that he would get that chance.

Chapter Three

The village green stretched wide beneath the hazy afternoon sun, alive with the hum of activity. Vendors called out their wares, children darted between the legs of elders, and grooms hurriedly tended to restless horses. Normally, the lively scene would have stirred in James a certain sense of satisfaction, as racing days had always held a particular charm for him. Yet today, his attention was elsewhere.

Positioning himself near the entrance, James leaned casually against the railings, his figure a study in nonchalant elegance. The paddock, with its array of finely bred horses and bustling preparations, held little appeal at the moment. His gaze remained fixed on the dusty road leading to the green, his focus singular. He was eager for his friend to arrive. However, he was just as eager for Alexander to not arrive alone. If Lady Sophia had not changed her mind, he thought with a smirk.

It did not take long for acquaintances to begin approaching him, as was the custom on such occasions. James donned his performer’s smile as a young man who James only knew as Fredricks approached with an eager grin.

“Lord Montingdale,” he said, bowing slightly. “Might I inquire as to the regimen you have employed for Poseidon? His stride and musculature are magnificent. It is clear that only the most discerning care has been given.”

James’s smile softened slightly, and he straightened from his relaxed posture. 

“Your observation flatters him, Fredericks,” he said. “His regimen is indeed precise, though the credit belongs as much to his nature as to his training. Indeed, a noble horse proves its worth through both its inherent spirit and the skillful direction of its rider.”

Fredericks nodded, clearly eager to continue the discussion, but James’s gaze shifted back to the road. The young man, sensing his lordship’s attention was elsewhere, quickly bowed with an eager, sheepish smile.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “I wish your stallion a swift and victorious race today.”

James dipped his head with a quick, cool smirk, not taking his eyes off the road as the young man excused himself.

At last, the Atherton carriage appeared, its silhouette rising above the heat-hazed horizon. It was a well-made vehicle, with its fine craftsmanship evident even beneath the slightly worn lacquer and understated styling. The marks of quality were unmistakable, despite the subtle evidence of reduced circumstances.

The carriage came to a halt, and James’s interest sharpened as Alexander emerged slowly and carefully from the carriage as his pronounced limp was all the more evident due to the long and tiring journey. He cast a quick glance over the gathered crowd, his eyes narrowing slightly as they found James already stationed by the railings.

And then, as James had anticipated, she appeared.

Lady Sophia stepped gracefully from the carriage, her gloved hand resting lightly in her brother’s for balance. The sunlight caught the fiery undertones of her auburn hair, though the flawless poise of her movements ensured all attention was drawn to her confident demeanor. When she turned her head and followed her brother’s gaze, her amber eyes met James’s with a spark of unmistakable challenge.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. Straightening, James remained where he was, his expression one of casual composure as the siblings began making their way toward him. The lively crowd bustled around him, but at that moment, his attention was fixed solely on the approaching Athertons.

***

The grass crunched faintly as Alexander and Sophia made their way across the field to join the lively scene. It did not take long for the whispers to begin. Alexander’s practiced ear caught the subtle murmur of voices behind fluttering fans, sharp disapproval hidden beneath feigned decorum.

“Just like her mother,” one woman said with false pity.

Alexander struggled to keep his features relaxed and calm, though he allowed his eyes to pierce through anyone who dared glance in their direction as they whispered.

“A shame to see good breeding gone to waste,” said another young lady, quieter but no less cutting.

Alexander’s jaw tightened, but he kept his limping pace steady, unwilling to acknowledge their prying eyes. Glancing at his side, he noticed the subtle change in Sophia’s posture. Her chin was tilted slightly higher and her steps were purposeful. 

To most people, she would have appeared utterly composed, but Alexander knew his sister too well. A certain stiffness in her carriage betrayed her discomfort. He recollected her blunt declaration that morning concerning their mother, and how she had no desire to share the same fate of that poor, ruined woman before her demise. 

“Do you hear them?” Sophia asked, softly enough to remain unheard by anyone else. Her amber eyes briefly moved to his, shadowed with pain and defiance. “They watch as though we are some tawdry stage play, and their only role is to provide commentary.”

Alexander’s grip tightened on his walking stick as hers tightened on his arm.

“They are cowards, Sister,” he said, gently. “They hide behind fans and whispers because they lack the courage to say their barbs aloud.”

Sophia pressed her lips together, her eyes fixing ahead once more.

“They are vultures, waiting to feast on the carcass of our name,” she said bitterly, admirably not changing her mild expression. “They did the same with her, all of them standing by, detached and fascinated, as our dearest father tore her apart piece by piece.”

Alexander’s heart clenched, a wave of guilt mingling with his resentment toward those who whispered now as they had whispered then. 

“She was stronger than they ever truly understood,” he said softly. “And so are you.”

Sophia’s expression did not waver, but the faintest flicker of gratitude touched her eyes before vanishing. Together, they walked on, leaving the whispers behind. Yet Alexander’s guilt lingered. How could he ever expect her to suffer more of the same fate as their mother by asking her to marry Lord Burendale?

***

The hum of voices around them rose and fell like waves crashing against a distant shore, as spectators milled about the field and gathered near the viewing area. Sophia’s grip on Alexander’s arm remained firm, her brother’s limp more pronounced as he leaned heavily on his cane. She adjusted her pace to match his without comment, though her attention was drawn sharply forward as a figure blocked their path.

William Milburn’s slick smile preceded his greeting. His bow was perfunctory as his eyes barely brushed over Alexander before focusing entirely on her. 

“Ah, Lady Sophia,” he said as smoothly as oil dripped over glass. “How splendid it is to see you here. I might have known your admirable devotion to equestrian matters would lead you to the green today.”

Sophia inclined her head, her expression composed but cool. 

“Lord Burendale,” she said with equal civility. “It is a fine afternoon indeed.”

As she straightened, she caught the unseemly dropping of his eyes to the modest neckline of her riding habit with a familiarity she found both presumptuous and repellent. He stepped closer, his presence imposing, though she remained steady, holding firmly to Alexander for the comfort his arm offered.

“Perhaps I might escort you to the rails for a better view,” Lord Burendale said with thinly veiled salaciousness, extending a hand toward her. His fingers brushed against hers with unwelcome warmth, the contact setting her nerves on edge.

“I am perfectly comfortable, thank you,” Sophia said evenly.

The bold earl ignored the subtle dismissal, a sly smile curling at the corner of his mouth. 

“You know, my dear Lady Sophia, my offer remains open,” he said. “One word from you, and your family’s financial troubles could vanish as quickly as morning mist.”

Before Sophia could pull away, Lord Burendale’s thumb brushed lightly against the center of her palm, the fleeting touch presumptuous and intimate in a way that made her stomach twist with revulsion. She extracted her hand with practiced grace, her motions deliberate yet devoid of the panic she immediately felt.

“My family’s concerns are our own, my lord,” she said, firmly but politely. “We do not require assistance at present.”

The earl’s smile tightened, though he maintained his polished demeanor. 

“Of course,” he said with patronizing understanding. “I only meant to convey my willingness to…”

“Thank you for your concern,” Sophia said, interrupting him with calm definitiveness. “We are well capable of managing our affairs.”

As she maneuvered away from Lord Burendale, Alexander’s hand adjusted on her arm, his grip gentle but supportive. Sophia felt her pulse quicken for an entirely different reason a moment later as her attention was drawn to the far side of the field where Lord Montingdale stood watching them. His gaze burned with an intensity that sent heat through her cheeks despite her determination to remain indifferent.

Her spine stiffened as she reached a slight distance from the gathering crowd, Alexander settling beside her with visible effort. She cast him a glance, her brow furrowing faintly as she observed his reliance on the cane. 

“Are you well, Brother?” she asked with warm gentleness.

Alexander gave her a curt nod, his expression speaking little. 

“The journey was taxing, but I am fine,” he said.

Before Sophia could press him further, the marquess approached, his strides measured and confident as he joined them. His presence, as always, seemed to fill the space effortlessly. 

“I see you are not lacking for admirers, Lady Sophia,” he said with dry humor. “Milburn’s attentions appear robust, if misplaced.”

Sophia raised an eyebrow, her fingers tightening around her brother’s. 

“Lord Burendale’s interests extend beyond admiration, I assure you,” she said with an uncharacteristic, rare bitterness. “He values our bloodlines, both equine and human, above all else. Make of that what you will.”

The marquess’ lips turned upward in spite of the gravity of his words. 

“Then you are wise to keep your distance,” he said. He shifted his focus briefly to Alexander, his concern apparent. “I fear standing in such crowds may be less than ideal. Perhaps we might find a better vantage point along the rails.”

Alexander hesitated, his hand brushing lightly over the handle of his cane. 

“It would be preferable,” he said after a pause. “Shall we?”

Sophia nodded, though her attention lingered on Lord Montingdale as he fell into step beside her. The closeness of his presence sent a bloom of awareness through her. It was a sensation she found both irritating and intriguing. Each accidental brush of his shoulder against hers seemed to amplify the tension between them, her thoughts storming as heat coiled low in her belly.

The scent of sandalwood drifted subtly from him, that familiar and maddening fragrance that had haunted her since Lady Jersey’s ball. Sophia resisted the urge to glance at him, her focus remaining straight ahead even as his proximity unsettled her composure.

As they approached the rails, the marquess moved slightly to allow Alexander a comfortable position, his movements deliberate and considerate as he stood against the rails. Sophia’s grip on the railing tightened briefly, her knuckles whitening as she released a slow, steady breath. Whatever she thought of him, it was clear that he cared for and respected her brother. The realization did nothing to calm her, however. Instead, the heat within her burned hotter still.

***

James stood at the edge of the rails, adjusting the brim of his hat as Poseidon snorted impatiently in the paddock, his powerful form squirming with restless energy. The murmurs of the crowd hummed around him, but his attention flickered instead to the movement beside him. Lady Sophia Atherton walked slowly alongside her brother as they searched for a comfortable position for Alexander, her amber eyes alight with what he could only describe as fierce determination. She exuded a composure that rivaled her mare’s elegance, though he had already learned there was far more to her than grace alone.

When she and Alexander reached the rail beside him, James allowed himself a faint smile. He had not thought of it until he saw his stallion just then, but there was something he wanted to mention to his friend’s clever sister. 

“Lady Sophia,” he said curiously. “You spoke of equine matters earlier, which reminds me that I was remarking on Poseidon’s training regimen with a young man just before you and Alexander arrived. Some would say his gallop lacks sufficient consistency and that his stride is uneven in the final furlong. Would you agree?”

Lady Sophia glanced at him, her expression carefully neutral. Her lips parted briefly as if considering her response, but her eyes shifted to his horse instead. 

“I would not presume to question your methods, Lord Montingdale,” she said smoothly. Yet her fingers betrayed her, twitching ever so slightly at her side, as though she was mentally cataloging adjustments she might make. The corner of James’s mouth quirked upward. So, she saw it too, did she? He thought wryly. If only she knew that Fredricks just told me the exact opposite of what I just told her…

The notion amused him, though he kept the revelation to himself. As they moved along the rail to secure a better vantage point, their arms brushed briefly, as they had on their way to the rails. It was an accidental touch, yet one that sent an unexpected jolt through him. He glanced at her, catching the faint furrow in her brow and the way she stepped away, as though she had been disconcerted by the reaction.

A knowing look passed between them, and though James resisted the urge to tease her, the silent exchange lingered longer than either might have expected. He wondered what it was about her that seemed to unsettle him. 

Perhaps it was her perceptiveness, or the spark of defiance she carried like a hidden flame. Whatever the matter, it was truly perplexing, and it contended for his attention together with the race, which was to commence at any moment.

 How had his friend’s sister suddenly become so prominent in his thoughts that he could not concentrate on his prided stallion?

Once he was certain that Alexander and his sister were comfortable, James hurried to mount his stallion. He had but just settled himself when the commencement was announced. The crack of the starter’s pistol shattered his musings, and James tried to turn his focus to the race. Poseidon surged forward, his stride measured and powerful, overtaking the field with ease. 

Every muscle in the stallion’s frame moved with precision, his breeding and training on full display as he claimed the lead. Yet rather than reveling in the familiar spectacle, James found himself glancing back toward Lady Sophia. Her focus was not on the race itself but on Poseidon’s recovery after crossing the finish line. The thoughtful crease between her brows deepened as she studied his gait and breathing patterns, her keen eye-catching details no casual observer would notice.

When Poseidon finally slowed to a canter, James made his way to her, sensing the observation forming on her lips before she spoke. 

“That was a remarkable victory, Lord Montingdale,” she said deliberately. “His recovery stride extension is rather interesting. It must require tremendous discipline to maintain balance under such intensity.”

The remark was subtle, but James caught the meaning behind it. It was a precise observation. Too precise, in fact, to be mere coincidence, he thought, his suspicion confirmed. Those were the exact words used in the paper regarding his stallion. And Lady Sophia’s eyes spoke something her lips did not as she stared firmly at James. It was becoming more than obvious that she was the illustrious author of the critique about his horse and his training methods.

His smile widened, despite his measured words. 

“Indeed,” he said, thinking of something else that had been mentioned in the article in question. “Balance is the foundation of all strength, would you not agree?”

Lady Sophia nodded, though her expression gave little away. Yet James could sense the flicker of recognition in her eyes, and James believed she looked proud as well as nervous at the idea that her words might not have gone unnoticed. Though she said nothing further, James was sure there was more to say. And he intended to ensure that it was discussed, especially now that his suspicions seemed to be accurate.