She just knelt there, head hanging, coughing violently as her lungs burned. West rushed forward with a lead rope, snatching Ruin's halter. The horse didn't even flinch. He just dropped his heavy head, thoroughly beaten by his own exhaustion.
Footsteps approached. Slow, deliberate clicks on the wet stones. Henry stopped in front of her. Basia stared at the immaculate, polished leather of his boots, now splattered with mud.
She forced her arms to work. She pushed herself up, shaking violently, until she was kneeling upright. She looked up at him. Henry Cavendish stared down at her.
The apathy was gone. The aristocratic boredom had been burned away. In its place was something intense, sharp, and deeply unsettled. He reached into his heavy coat pocket.
He pulled out a small, heavy leather purse. He didn't hand it to her. He knelt down the wet mud, instantly ruining the knees of his bespoke trousers. He brought himself down to her eye level.
The scent of his cedarwood tobacco washed over her, cutting through the smell of sweat and horse. 50 guineas. Henry said quietly, placing the heavy purse into her trembling, bleeding hand. His fingers brushed hers.
They were warm. And the breaker's position is yours, if you want it. Basia gripped the leather purse. The weight of the gold coins inside felt heavier than the saddle.