Manure, wet wool, and cheap gin. That was the smell of a ruined reputation. Basia knew she had no business standing in the Duke's private paddock, boots sinking into the muck, staring down a half-mad gelding that had already broken two men's collarbones. She didn't want glory.
She wanted the 50 guineas heavy in the nobleman's pocket. The wager was simple: survive three minutes in the saddle. She intended to do a hell of a lot more than survive. Calluses snagged against the rough wool inside her pockets as Basia Kelly stood in the courtyard of Ashbourne Hall.
The estate was too large, too quiet. It smelled of damp stone, expensive pipe tobacco, and the distinct cloying scent of generational wealth. To Basia, it smelled like a way out. She shifted her weight.
Her left boot leaked. A steady seep of icy puddle water wicked through the worn leather, chilling her toes. She ignored it. You didn't complain about cold feet when you were three weeks behind on rent, and the landlord had taken to lingering by your door at dusk.
Across the cobblestones, Taryn West, the Duke's head groom, polished a silver snaffle bit with a rag that was cleaner than Basia's best shirt. He didn't look up. He had already told her she was wasting her time. His Grace doesn't hire women.
And he certainly doesn't hire strays off the Brighton Road. Basia didn't leave. She stood like a post driven into the ground, shoulders hunched against the biting November wind, watching the heavy oak doors of the main house. When Henry Cavendish, the Duke of Ashbourne, finally emerged, he didn't sweep out with dramatic flair.
He walked like a man who found the world incredibly tedious. He was tall, but he slouched slightly, as if the sheer weight of his title tired his spine. He wore a dark wool coat tailored so perfectly it looked poured over his shoulders, and his spotless boots clicked sharply against the stones. He didn't notice her at first.