He was younger than she had expected the Earl of Brayford to be, younger than the weight of the name: seven or eight and twenty. He was dressed for riding, though in no hurry to ride, in a dark green tailcoat, double-breasted and cut close, a black silk cravat, a dark waistcoat across which a gold watch chain caught the brown-gold light, and buff trousers strapped under his boots. His hair was dark and would not stay where it had been combed. His eyes were the palest blue she had ever seen in a human face, the colour of a winter sky over the fens, and they were fixed on her hands.
He stopped an arm's length away. Absalom flung his head up; Harriet clicked again and the horse subsided, trembling.
"Who trained you?"
She did not look up. She ran her palm down the gelding's neck, over the place where the crest ran into the withers, and felt the long muscle there loosen a fraction.
"My father."
"Name?"
"He is dead."
"Convenient."
She turned sharply then, before she could stop herself, and met that pale stare full on.
"Not for him."
For a moment neither of them moved. The fog moved instead, rolling across the yard in a slow tide, beading on the brass of the harness hanging in the open coach-house, on the brim of her cap, on the dark wool of his coat. Somewhere behind the stables a rook complained.
Then he stepped close, too close, close enough that she could smell starch and horse and the cold of the morning on him.
"Remove your hat."