Page 9 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

“Just look at that glorious mane.”

What? Mane?

Ophelia blinked as heat burned dual paths up her cheeks.

Nincompoop.

Her friend spoke of the horse they approached and not the Duke of Asherford as he murmured softly to a dove gray mare and rubbed her forehead. She pressed her head into him, welcoming his caress.

Sophronie released Ophelia and approached the horse.

“He’s mine, lass,” came a distinctly frosty Scottish burr.

Giving Asherford her back, not that he knew she was there, Ophelia regarded the tableau before her. Tension fairly sparked in the air, as if a bolt of lightning might shoot from the heavens and strike the ground where they stood.

The Roma holding the horse’s halter swung his dark-eyed gaze from Sophronie to the Duke of Waycross. Ah, the perceptive traveller had detected Sophronie’s keen interest and seized the opportunity as any shrewd hawker would.

The Friesian nickered softly when Sophronie ran a practiced hand along his wither. She cut the gypsy a sideways look. “Is he sold?”

“Aye,” came Waycross’s instant, clipped reply. “To me. Yer too late this time.”

“Not yet,” the Roma said with an apologetic shrug and grin toward the duke. “Let’s discuss this noble creature, shall we?”

“Nae,” Waycross all but growled. “I saw him first.”

“Fiddle faddle.” Waving her hand, Sophronie swept her mouth into a falsely bright smile. “Good sir,” she said to the gypsy, “I do believe a thorough discussion is in order.”

“Shall we leave them to their argument?” A masculine voice rumbled near Ophelia’s ear.

How had Asherford approached so silently?

She’d hadn’t been that engrossed with the quarrel playing out before her.

“It may take some time,” he mused. “Waycross is still livid that Miss Slater outbid him at Tattersalls. He shan’t give that magnificent beast up without a fight.”

He was right.

God only knew how long she might stand here eavesdropping on their squabble. The Duke of Waycross could escort Sophronie back to Gabriella and Maxwell. Being forced to bear one another's company for propriety’s sake served the two of them right for always quarreling.

“I don’t know how long Maxwell and Gabriella plan on staying, and there are several other things I should like to see before we leave.” Ophelia wrinkled her nose, her attention migrating from Sophronie and the Scotsman. “Are you certain we should leave them alone together?”

“Indeed. They need to have this out.” Black eyebrow cocked rakishly, Asherford presented his elbow. Humor had softened the harsh contours of his face. “Permit me to accompany you, Miss Breckensole.” He caught the Duke of Waycross’s eye. “Waycross, I leave Miss Slater in your care.”

“What? No,” came Miss Slater’s immediate, horrified reply. “You cannot.”

“Nae, I want nothin’ to do with the banshee,” Waycross objected with a ferocious scowl toward Sophronie.

“Pretend you don’t hear them, Ophelia,” Asherford whispered, steering her away. “Waycross is too much of a gentleman to desert her, even if he can’t stand Miss Slater. She’ll be fine. I promise.”

Ophelia slid her hand into the bend of his arm, doing her utmost not to notice his deliciously firm muscles. Or that he smelled rather pleasantly of a woodsy cologne.

Cedar? Pine? Eucalyptus?

Without stepping nearer and sniffing deeply, she couldn’t be certain.

Casting a glance over her shoulder, Ophelia relaxed. Both Sophronie and Waycross had turned their backs and were immersed in a deep discussion with the horse handler. He’d tied off the Friesian and brought over two more impressive horses.

“Where to Miss Breckensole?” Asherford asked as if she were the queen, and he was her devoted courtier. This Duke of Asherford was almost likable.