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Victor made his way to his mount—a massive black stallion whose temperament mirrored his own: strong, unpredictable around strangers, and not one with a penchant for unnecessary noise.

“I see the heir of Cuthbert is eager to join the hunt instead of just watching from the sidelines like most boys his age,” Nathaniel noted as they prepared to mount.

Victor followed his friend’s gaze to where Tristan Bickford, the Earl of Cuthbert, was being helped onto a chestnut gelding that seemed far too big for his small frame.

“He can’t ride.”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by Victor’s take on the situation. “I didn’t realize you had taken the time to study the boy’s riding skills.”

“I haven’t,” Victor shot back, effortlessly swinging himself up into the saddle. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes and a basic grasp of horsemanship. The kid looks like a sack of grain ready to topple over.”

“Then maybe,” Nathaniel suggested, mounting his own horse with a bit more flair, “someoneshould step in and offer some advice before the lad ends up breaking his neck trying to impress the adults.”

Victor chose to ignore the jab, though his gaze drifted back to Tristan as the hunting party began to form up. He felt a flash of irritation—more intense than he had expected—when he noticed that the boy’s uncle, Lord Sidney Bickford, had taken his place at the front of the group next to Lord Griggs, seemingly indifferent to his nephew’s struggles.

“One might think,” Victor muttered under his breath, “that the boy’s guardian would care more about his well-being.”

“One might, indeed,” Nathaniel replied, eyeing Lord Sidney with open disdain. “But I suspect the man’s interest in guardianship goes only as far as the societal and financial perks it brings him and not a step further.”

The hunting horn blared, its clear call marking the start of the chase. The party moved forward across the rolling meadow that lay east of Griggs Manor, a vibrant mix of tweed and leather set against the lush backdrop of early summer.

Victor let his horse drift toward the back of the group, positioning himself so he could keep a close eye on Tristan without drawing attention to his scrutiny.

The boy was clearly struggling to stay in the saddle as the pace picked up, his small hands gripping the reins tightly. He bounced awkwardly with each stride of his mount, yet the determination on his face was unmistakable—a child desperately trying to navigate a world meant for adults.

“The lad’s got spirit, I’ll give him that,” Nathaniel continued, guiding his horse closer to Victor’s so he could continue his annoying rhetoric within earshot. “He reminds me a bit of a stubborn young man I once knew. Though that particular fellow had a rather unfortunate habit of?—”

“Your reminiscences are neither required nor welcome,” Victor cut him off sharply.

“My, my. Such hostility,” Nathaniel replied, completely unfazed by his brusque tone. “I was just noting that sometimes determination can outweigh experience when it comes to horsemanship. The boy might surprise us all.”

As if to contradict this optimistic view, Tristan’s horse suddenly shied away from a rabbit darting out of the bushes, making a quick sideways move that nearly threw the young boy off.

The boy managed to hold on with impressive grit, but the incident only reinforced Victor’s worries about whether this was a good idea to venture out with the adults.

“Does Lord Griggs have a decent physician on hand?” Victor asked, keeping his tone neutral, even though his posture betrayed the tension in the rigid lines of his body.

Nathaniel shot him a sidelong glance, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Worried about the boy’s safety, are we? How utterly unexpected.”

“I merely don’t want to witness a preventable disaster during what should be an outing meant for fun,” Victor replied stiffly. “The child is clearly overmounted and under-experienced.”

“Then maybe thefearsomeDuke of Westmere should consider giving him some lessons,” Nathaniel suggested innocently. “I seem to remember you were quite the horseman in your younger days. Before you turned into a reclusive, grumpy misanthrope, that is.”

Yes, his patience was tested every waking moment by this knave he called his friend.

“And why should I?” Victor grumbled. “I have nothing to do with the runt.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Oh, your cantankerous exterior may fool others, but I know you’re worried about the little chap.”

Victor did not reply to his friend’s nagging, more so because he knew that it was true.

The hunting party had now reached the edge of the woods, where the paths narrowed and required more careful navigation.

Victor watched with growing concern as Tristan’s horse, sensing its rider’s uncertainty, began to test its limits with small acts of rebellion—tossing its head, resisting the bit, and choosing its own path rather than responding to the boy’s tentative commands.

“The situation is getting even worse,” he observed grimly, his tone sharp.

“Indeed,” Nathaniel agreed, sobering as he too recognized the developing problem. “But I fear that a direct intervention from the Beast of Westmere might be more traumatic for the boy than a tumble from his horse. Your reputation certainly precedes you, especially among the impressionable youth.”