"Stop," I ordered after he had crossed the ring twice.
"One more circuit."
I answered at once: "No."
"Miss Finch, I am still your employer."
"At midnight in slippers, you are mostly a bad decision with cheekbones."
He stopped. Slowly, he turned his head. "A bad decision with cheekbones?"
I wished the moon would show some mercy and go behind a cloud. "A medical description."
Bramble made a wheezing sound. Bramble supplied an unhelpful report: She thinks you're handsome. I also am handsome. This is not relevant, but should be recorded.
"What did he say?" Rowan asked.
"Nothing helpful."
"Nell."
He had started using my name three nights earlier, when he nearly fell and I scolded him until he sat on an overturned bucket. I had pretended not to notice; my heart had noticed and written a pamphlet.
"He said you were handsome," I admitted.
Rowan's expression changed.
"He also said he is handsome," I added quickly. "That part mattered more to him."
"And to you?"
I looked at Bramble. "To me, the horse is vain."
"That was not my question."
The night held still around us. I could hear crickets in the hedge. I could hear my own pulse being foolish.
"Your Grace," I said, "you should sit down."
"Because my leg hurts?"
"Because this conversation has no railings."
His eyes softened. "Nell, I know the difference between gratitude and affection."
"Do you? You've been cursed by tragedy and horse insults."
"Even so."
"And I know the difference between sense and disaster."
"Do you?"