I expected to be dismissed when the danger passed. Instead, Rowan offered me a new position.
"Equine consultant," he said in the library.
I stared at him. "That is not a real occupation."
"It is now."
"What would I consult?"
"Horses, obviously."
"And what would I write on forms?"
"Specialist in animal temperament and criminal inconvenience."
"No one will believe that."
"After the tenants' race, people will believe anything involving Bramble."
The horse was outside the open window and had been listening for ten minutes. Bramble advised me at once: Request salary in carrots and dignity. Mostly carrots.
"Bramble advises compensation," I said.
"Bramble has already bitten my solicitor's hat."
"He said the feather was arrogant."
Rowan laughed, then grew serious. He stood with a cane now—not because he wished to appear dramatic (though he did), but because healing was not a fairy tale. His leg still hurt. Some days he needed a chair; some days he could cross a room. He had stopped pretending either condition made him more or less a man.
"Nell," he said, "you may refuse the position, anything I offer: position, protection, friendship."
"More than friendship?"
My heart became unruly. I looked at the shelves, the window, the carpet—anything except him.
"Your Grace..." I breathed his name. "Rowan. Rowan, you cannot simply promote a horse trainer into a courtship because she heard your horse insult you."
"I would argue there are worse foundations."
"Name one."
"Canal fraud."
"That is not a foundation. That is a prison sentence."
"Arranged dinners with Lady Beatrice's friends."
"Better."
He came closer, slowly enough that I could step away. I did not.
"I am not grateful into loving you," he said. "I am grateful, yes. I am also annoyed, challenged, amused, humbled, and completely unable to enter a stable without hoping you will call me a bad decision with cheekbones."