Page 19 of Seduction of a Widow

Early that afternoon, Leslie waked with Evan toward the stables. She liked the way the muscle of his forearm flexed beneath her fingers. She longed to feel those arms around her again.

“Your hair is quite fetching,” he told her.

She resisted the urge to run a hand over the braid wound tight at her nape. “Thank you. I find the style very functional when I race.”

He chuckled. “You have a hairstyle just for racing? Hmm.”

Hmm?

“How much have you raced, my lady?”

“Enough to know that hair flying in my face is dangerous, Mr. MacLaren.”

“Are we not close enough friends that you might feel free to call me Evan—at least when we are alone?”

“If it pleases you,” she said, and managed to keep her voice even. “But only in private, and you may call me Leslie.”

“I am very fortunate.” He covered the hand that lay in the crook of his arm.

Leslie gasped softly at sight of the Arabian held by the stablemaster just outside the stable door. Evan slowed to match her pace. The snow white of the Arabian’s coat fairly shone in the early afternoon sun. He tossed his head and the muscles in his neck appeared almost chiseled. He carried his tail high, a testament to his fine breeding.

“Spectacular, is he not?” Evan asked.

“Aye,” she whispered as they neared the animal. She tracked her gaze from his tail, along his back, up his neck to his head. Her heart sped up. “He must be fifteen hands, if he’s an inch.”

“Sixteen, in fact, my lady,” Sir Stirling said as he and Baroness Trent stepped up beside them.

“Indeed, Sir Stirling is correct,” Baroness Trent said.

“A veritable beast,” Sir Stirling murmured.

Something in his voice drew her attention to him. His gaze remained on the horse, but he angled his head. A corner of his mouth ticked up and she almost thought he asked if she was certain she wanted to go through with the race.

“As Baroness Trent said, he is a spirited horse,” Leslie said.

As if to demonstrate the truth of her words, Ares pawed the ground with his left hoof. Leslie left Evan’s side and stepped close to the horse. She lifted a hand and he shifted his head as if to make eye contact with her and give permission for her to touch him. Leslie flattened her palm against his neck. The thick corded muscle beneath her fingers tensed. If he’d been a man, she would have said he was showing off. Who knew? Perhaps the male of any species shared that trait.

Baroness Trent beamed. “Did I not say you would be pleased?”

From the corner of her eye, Leslie caught sight of Lord Barnton as he emerged from the stables leading a horse. His bay was just as magnificent as the Arabian. Its chocolate brown color mingled with copper in a spectacular blend.

“He is at least two hands taller than the Arabian,” Evan muttered.

“Never fear,” the baroness whispered. “Size isn’t everything. Would you not agree, Leslie?” The older woman’s eyes twinkled.

Leslie laughed before catching herself. Sir Stirling lifted a quizzical brow. Evan however, turned a cool eye on her that said, I am not the least bit worried—and neither are you.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She wasn’t a schoolgirl. What was it about him that set her heart aflutter with a mere look? A corner of his mouth curved in a tiny smile that told her he was well aware of her thoughts. This would not do.

Lord Barnton reached them. “Baroness Trent.” He angled his head. “Lady Carr, I am pleased to see you.”

“I feel certain you knew I would be here,” she said.

“I did. I am still pleased.” He looked at Sir Stirling. “Stirling.”

Sir Stirling canted his head. “Barnton. You slept well, I hope.” His eyes twinkled. “I suspect you will need all your senses this afternoon.”

“I did, thank you.” Lastly, his eyes shifted to Evan. “MacLaren.”