Page 68 of The Winter Companion

Betty’s milk was beginning to come in, but Neville wasn’t taking any chances. He intended to continue feeding Firefly warm cow’s milk from a teakettle for the next several days, until the foal was nursing successfully.

“I wish I could come with you,” she said.

“Can’t you?”

“Not this evening, no.” Her features settled in a pensive frown. She seemed distracted. Not entirely herself. As if something wasn’t quite right.

His old insecurities rose to the surface. Had he done something to upset her? Said something wrong? Something stupid?

He tugged at his cravat. His evening clothes were perfectly tailored. They nevertheless left him feeling awkward and constricted. He didn’t belong in a black evening suit with a cream silk vest and matching neckcloth, no more than he belonged hunched over a desk all day. He’d far rather be with the horses.

And she would too, he had no doubt.

Beautiful as he found her, she never shone so brightly as when she was helping him with Firefly. She smiled and laughed—finding humor in her missteps and fairly glowing at each small accomplishment.

“Perhaps in the morning?” she suggested. “Before Mrs. Bainbridge wakes?”

“At dawn?”

“We can meet in the kitchens again. Or I can come straight to the stable if you’d rather not wait.”

His heart pounded. “I’ll wait.”

There was something exciting about arranging to meet her. It felt illicit. Thrilling.

Though their time together was hardly a secret.

The entire household knew that Clara had been visiting Betty and her foal whenever she had a chance. No one had so much as batted an eye.

Which was a bit depressing, really.

Neither Mrs. Bainbridge, Mr. Boothroyd, nor even Justin seemed to suspect that there was anything going on between Neville and Clara. As if Neville could pose no possible threat to her virtue. As if the thought of romance would never enter his mind.

But it had entered his mind, almost from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her—and every moment since. Scarcely an hour passed that he didn’t think of her, whether in the house, the stables, or alone in his bed.

Last night he’d even dreamed about her. One of those hazy dreams that disintegrates upon waking. All he could recall of it now was the feeling of deep contentment it had left him with. A warm sense of rightness.

Only eleven more days.

The rain beat heavily against the drawing room windows. If not for the blazing fire and the gasolier, and countless lamps and taper candles flickering on the marble mantelpiece and the inlaid side tables, the room would be swathed in darkness.

Normally, Neville wouldn’t have given a thought to the oncoming storm. The elements hereabouts had always been fierce and unforgiving. As brutal as the cliffs sheering down to the sea. One simply got on with things. Acclimating to the climate—just as one acclimated to every other cruelty.

Clara didn’t belong here.

It pained him to acknowledge it. But it was the truth. One that became more evident with each passing day. Despite her eccentricities—her aspirations for education, and employment—she was made for a gentler world. She deserved a gentler world.

“I never noticed the storm,” she said. “Not until I returned to the house this morning.”

“It isn’t so b-bad.”

“No? I shudder to think what could be worse.”

He replied without hesitation. “When the rain c-comes sideways. And when…when the road washes away.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Once a year. Sometimes m-more.”