Free A Brooding Beauty by Jillian Eaton Page B

took it and drank thirstily, hiccupped, and set the glass aside on a dusty table. “I have told you not to call me that,” she reminded him sternly.
    “It is your name,” he said.
    “No, it is my husband’s name. And we both know I am hardly a Lady, so why bother with all the fuss? Call me Margaret if you must, Maggie if you want, and never, ever,” she paused to shudder, “address me as Duchess.”
    The hint of a smile appeared beneath Hastings ’ rather impressive salt and pepper moustache. “As you wish, Lady Winter.”
    Margaret threw her hands up in the air. “ Egags , why do I bother? What time is dinner tonight, Hastings ?”
    “Half past five o’ clock, Lady Winter.”
    She shot him a narrowed eyed glance. “I have time for a ride, then?”
    “If you wish.”
    “Ha!” she cried triumphantly. “You didn’t do it that time.”
    “Do what, Lady Winter?”
    Her shoulders slumped. “I give up. If I am not back in time for dinner, start without me.”
    “Certainly not,” said Hastings , looking aghast that she would dare suggest such a thing.
    Margaret rolled her eyes. “There are five people living here besides myself, Hastings. Why should you all have to wait if I am running late? Just keep a plate warm and I will eat when I return.” Turning on her heel, she trotted down the steps before Hastings could argue with her, and went directly to the stables.
    Destroyed by a fire and rebuilt recently, it was the only building on the property that had not fallen into a state of disrepair and Margaret was determined to keep it that way. She called each horse by name as she strolled into the barn and one by one they popped their heads over their stall doors to greet her with warm nickers of affection.
    “Are you hungry?” she asked, pausing to scratch Poppy, a dark palomino, under her chin. In her younger years Poppy had plowed the fields that now lay fallow behind the main house, but now she had more gray hairs on her face than brown and walked with a slight limp. Her sweet nature made her one of Margaret’s favorites, and she often spoiled the mare with carrots and apples stolen from the kitchen.
    Hay was piled neatly at the end of the barn. Filling a wheelbarrow with the sweet smelling dried grass, she fed each horse in turn and when they were all nibbling at their hay exchanged the wheelbarrow for a large bucket of oats. She soaked Poppy’s grain for the old draft mare had little teeth left to chew with, and opened up all of the stalls to let the horses out into their evening grazing pasture when they were finished eating. They filed past her one by one, too used to their daily routine to raise a fuss, and she followed them out to swing the gate closed behind them.
    Now came the not so pleasant part, but it had to be done, and after scooping her hair up underneath a floppy hat and rolling up her shirt sleeves, Margaret fetched another wheelbarrow and began mucking out the stalls.
    It was hard labor, but she enjoyed the simple quietness of it. A wry smile captured her lips as she remembered how her muscles had screamed in protest when she had first taken over care of the entire stables, but now her arms were strong and easily capable of dumping manure and hauling pails of water to and from the stalls.
    She was on her second to last stall when an unfamiliar whinny rang through the air. Still holding her pitchfork, Margaret poked her head out of the entrance of the barn and watched with interest as a gleaming bay approached. She was so entranced by the horse’s fine build and elegant way of moving that she didn’t even notice the rider until he dropped to the ground in front of her and placed the horse’s reins in her hands.
    “Here,” he said, not looking at her. “Cool him out and groom him.”
    Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Oh, she noticed the rider now all right, although he certainly did not notice her. “Would you have me feed him as well?” she asked,