Page 48 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Nicholas held perfectly still under the touch, a patience Penelope found remarkable. He didn’t flinch or argue; he simply absorbed the correction and waited for the next.

“Good,” Malcolm said.

Nicholas’ chin came up half an inch, the praise hitting him like a physical bolster.

They began to walk. Malcolm held the lead rope, his voice low and steady as he paced beside them. He watched Nicholas’ elbows, and the direction of his gaze, which kept pulling down toward the horse’s ears.

“Look where you are going,” Malcolm encouraged. “Not where you are. The horse knows where he is, but he must know where you intend to be.”

Nicholas looked up, nodding affirmatively.

They went three times around the yard. Then Malcolm stopped and looked at Nicholas’ hands.

“All right, now, drop the reins,” he instructed.

Penelope was off the fence before she’d decided to move. “He has not even been on a horse more than a handful of times!”

“He is sitting on a stationary horse in an enclosed yard.” Malcolm’s voice was even. Entirely maddeningly even. He didn’t even turn his head to look at her. “Nothing is going to happen.”

“You cannot know that. A horse is a living thing, not a piece of furniture.”

He turned then, holding her gaze without heat, his eyes the color of a winter sea. “If you would like to understand why, you are welcome to try it yourself. Otherwise, I would ask you to let the lesson continue. You are making the horse nervous.”

She looked at Nicholas. He was sitting perfectly still on Bramble, the reins in his hands, looking at a point in the middle distance between Penelope and Malcolm.

She stepped back, her face burning.

Malcolm turned back to Nicholas, giving a slow nod. “If you feel comfortable to do so, Nicholas, drop the reins.”

Nicholas placed the reins on the horse’s neck. He tipped slightly to the left, caught himself, and stilled.

“I feel it,” Nicholas said, his voice hushed. “The difference. It’s like sitting into him instead of just on top of him.”

“Yes,” Malcolm agreed. “Hold that feeling.” He watched Nicholas for a long moment, a strange, unreadable softness in his jaw. “Now, take them again.”

Penelope resumed her position against the fence, her heart still hammering.

They worked through the walk, the turn, and the halt.

Malcolm stopped them three more times to correct things Penelope couldn’t even see. Small adjustments to the grip, the breath, the subconscious lean of a shoulder.

Nicholas made the same mistake twice. His left knee drifting on the curve, and Malcolm used the same words both times, patient and exact. On the third pass, Nicholas fixed it himself.

Malcolm stopped walking. “You are doing just fine,” he praised.

At the affirmation, Nicholas sat up two inches taller, proud and happy with himself.

They went around the yard twice more before Malcolm stopped again. This time, he turned fully and looked at Penelope.

“Do you ride?” he asked.

“Adequately,” she replied, tilting her head.

“How often?”

“When it is required.”

“Then you ride the same way your son was taught to, I imagine. By someone who wanted you to stay on, not someone who wanted you to ride.” He tilted his head toward a smaller gray mare already saddled near the far stall. “That is Mira. You will understand what I am correcting in your son if you feel it yourself.”