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She placed her hand in his. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

He opened the wide double doors at the end of the stable and led her inside. The narrow building was lined with stalls on either side of a small corridor, and as Astrid stepped inside, she felt hay crunch under her feet.

Conor led her to one of the stalls. “This is Valor,” he said, and stroked a mammoth brown nose as it poked out.

“Valor?”

Conor nodded. “I raised him from a foal. He was a gift to me from my father when I was young and the first horse I ever called my own. He’s starting to get a bit old now, of course,” he added, scooping a handful of oats from a bag that hung on Valor’s stall and cupping his hand below the horse’s mouth. “I don’t ride him anymore.”

“But you still keep him?” Astrid was impressed. She didn’t know much about horses, but she imagined there was a cost associated with stabling and feeding a horse. It impressed her that Conor was the type of man to continue providing for an animal that couldn’t serve him.

Conor nodded. “We have a long history together,” he said. “He reminds me of my childhood, and of my father.”

Astrid stroked the horse cautiously. “What was your childhood like?” she asked.

“Normal, I suppose,” he said.

She laughed. “Well, it wasn’tnormal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father was an earl. There’s not anything normal about that. And you grew up in this big manor, with servants tending to your every need. You can’t really believethat’snormal.”

He glanced at her, his eyes showing some reservation again. “Maybe not,” he agreed slowly.

“Definitely not.”

Conor was quiet for a long moment. Waiting for him to speak again, Astrid suddenly felt nervous. Had she offended him? Did he feel as though she was criticizing his childhood, his upbringing?

Maybe he even thinks I’m criticizing his father.

That was a terrible thought. For as difficult as things had been for her at times since she had come to Middleborough Manor, she would never have thought to criticize her husband’s late parents.

Besides, I know how it would feel to have my own father spoken ill of. I would hate it. And it’s not as though he’s a perfect person.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I spoke out of turn.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said.

“Why did you go quiet?” she asked.

“I was thinking about my parents,” he said. “I was wondering what they would have thought of a woman like you.”

“A commoner, you mean?”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about,” he said. “Youareof lower birth than me, of course, and that might have…interested them. But I don’t think it would have mattered to them any more than it matters to me, in the long run.”

“Then what do you mean? What would they have thought of a woman like me?”

“They would have thought you had courage,” he said. “You say what’s on your mind.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Would it stop you if it was?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.I couldn’t seem to stop myself at our first supper together at Father’s house. That doesn’t speak well for my restraint.

“It fascinates me,” he admitted. “Your ideas are so different from mine. Your background, the way you see the world—it’s all so different from the things I’ve always thought. In many ways, I’m glad you weren’t born noble. It makes me think about things differently.”