"Your Grace," I blurted, "I was singing."
Rowan tilted his head. "Were you?"
I nodded once. "Badly."
Rowan looked unconvinced. "I heard no melody."
I lifted the bucket between us. "That is why I said badly."
The corner of his mouth twitched. It vanished at once, but I saw it. Bramble did, too.
Bramble's thought sounded disgusted: He likes you. Appalling. His taste improves.
My cheeks warmed. "Your horse is clean."
He looked smug. "That may be permanent."
The Duke rolled closer. I tried not to look at his legs. Everyone probably looked at his legs. I looked at his gloves instead. They were black, fitted, and worn at the fingers from reins, not from chair arms. He noticed that, too.
"My steward tells me you grew up around horses," he said.
"Yes."
"And that difficult animals trust you."
"Not all of them. Geese hold grudges."
"I was not aware geese had the discipline."
"They have nothing but discipline and bad intentions."
The corner of his mouth moved again.
Bramble swung his head toward me. Bramble announced in my mind: Make him laugh. He has been sour so long the silver tarnishes when he enters a room.
"Do you require anything else, Your Grace?" I asked quickly.
"Yes. Keep away from the North Lane after dusk."
"Why?"
"Because I pay you wages, and I dislike funerals."
"That is almost an answer."
His eyes narrowed. They were gray—not cold, exactly, but guarded, like winter seen through glass.
"There have been accidents on the estate."
"The accident that hurt you?"
Silence fell hard. Peter the groom suddenly found urgent business elsewhere. Bramble stopped chewing the door.
The Duke's voice came softer: "Curiosity is dangerous at Alderwick."