In Bed with a Spy (30 page)

“Gentlemen are just not what they used to be.” She sighed. Despite his amused smile, her mind chastised her tongue. What devil was pricking her sense of humor?

“Having lived here for so many years you are probably familiar with the people in the community and countryside,” he said. “No doubt there would be any number of friends to help you find your way.”

Grace cast a glance at the earl. The calculating, watchful look returned to his eyes, turning a rogue into a predator. “Indeed, my lord,” she answered warily. “One can meet any number of people in ten years.”

“I’ve met a fair number myself.”

“In London?”

“And on the Continent.”

“The Wandering Earl. I have heard the sobriquet.”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“You are an earl, my lord. The only one in these parts, in fact, which makes your various activities interesting.”

“I haven’t been to this part of Devon in years.”

“That doesn’t negate the fact that you are the only earl. The others are merely barons, knights, honorables or, as in my case, mere misters and misses.”

His eyes gleamed. “Somehow, I don’t think you are a mere miss.”

“I’d like to think you’re correct.”

The earl pulled open the stable doors and stood aside for her to enter. The faint scents of horse and hay drifted on the air. Grace let her eyes adjust to the dim light as he closed the door behind them. In the first stalls she saw what must be the earl’s horses busily munching their feed. They passed the animals and Grace pointed to a large stall near the end of the row. “My mount is there.”

As they approached the stall, a massive black horse thrust its head over the door. The stallion’s head was huge, his eyes a little wild. Grace watched man and beast eye each other with distrust. The horse snorted, nostrils flaring, and a hoof pawed the ground. His ears pricked forward and a decidedly irritated glint appeared in his eyes.

“An ordinary horse, Miss Hannah? That horse is definitely not ordinary. In fact, he looks to be a Thoroughbred.”

“Demon is descended from the Darley Arabian.” She crossed the few feet to the stall that housed her stallion. The animal whinnied softly at her.

“I assume he earned the name
Demon
.”

“Would you expect otherwise?” Grace stroked the stallion’s muzzle. “Demon has the speed and stamina for racing, but not the temperament, poor fellow. He has trouble following directions. Which is why my uncle dislikes him and handed him off to me.” She was lucky, really. If he didn’t bring in a fee for acting as stud, her uncle would have sold him years ago.

The earl eyed the horse again. “I would be remiss, Miss Hannah, if I did not ask whether you could handle this animal. I don’t believe I’ve met a lady that would ride a stallion.”

“Such ladies are rare, I’m sure.” She tilted her head, met his gaze. “But she only needs to know how best to handle the stallion.”

He paused. The blue of his eyes was intense. “An interesting theory.”

Grace glanced at the watch pinned to her riding habit. It was nearly five, and she was allowing herself to be caught up in a conversation she shouldn’t have. She schooled her features. “It is past time for me to depart, my lord. I must return home to—” To what, she thought frantically. What could she tell him? To oversee dinner preparations? To ensure the linens were properly washed and aired?

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Gracie,” a voice called out. A young groom hurried between the stalls, carrying Demon’s saddle and other tack. “I would’ve ’ad Demon ready for you, but ’is lordship came home and is—”

“Right beside me,” she said quickly.

“Milord.” He acknowledged the earl with a nod before hurrying to saddle Demon. The horse shied away from the groom, as usual.

“I’ll hold him steady.” She slipped into the stall to murmur to Demon, stroking his forehead. When the groom stepped back she took the reins and led the horse through the stable and into the sunlit courtyard beyond.

She approached the mounting block, but the earl stayed her course.

“Allow me to assist.” He linked his fingers together and offered her a leg up.

She couldn’t politely refuse and leave him standing there. With an inward sigh, she placed her foot in his linked fingers and boosted herself onto the sidesaddle. Her breath caught, then rushed out again when he gripped her waist to steady her. His fingers, hot and strong, lingered for a moment, imprinting their heat onto her waist. He squeezed gently, then let his hands glide down her hips and drop away.

Breathing seemed impossible. The caress was intimate. Too intimate. Worse, her reaction—the sudden awareness of her body, the drumming of her pulse—was discomforting. She struggled to keep her expression serene.

“Welcome home, my lord. And good-bye.”