A duke. She couldn’t help but watch him from her eye’s corner, as they passed the conversing men and stamping horses at the lamppost. A duke not only took notice of her; he’d also asked for her friends to be presented, offerred to dance with them at the assembly, requested the first two with her--
The saddle dipped. Tricksey’s head followed, leaving Beryl hanging in air on her custom-designed Owen saddle and defying gravity. Her innards surged into her throat. She’d been dumped before — of course she had, anyone who rode regularly would be — but she’d never before been dumped while riding at a sedate walk. On Rotten Row. In front of everyone. Everyone who mattered.
In front of the two men whose clashing mounts, stallion and gelding, had just symbolized their all-too-human clash over her.
But Tricksey’s next step was a limp, her head bobbing down then up. And again.
Alarm flooded Beryl. Lame; Tricksey was lamed and she’d left Paul at home, thinking his expert assistance would not be needed since she rode in company. Without pausing, she kicked her foot from the stirrup, slid from the saddle. Her habit’s skirt bunched against the leather, had to be showing an indecent amount of leg. Let it. Easing dear Tricksey’s distress was more important than any momentary immodesty. Twisting in midair, she landed with a hard, startling thump beside the glossy chestnut shoulder. The mare blew and stopped, nodding a final time at her final step.
Thanks for stopping by. Cheers,