Page 64 of The Lord Meets His Lady

“A little,” he said, touching gingerly near the wound. “That’s why I’m doing my best to gentle her.” Inch by inch, his expert fingers slid along the horse’s leg.

“How do you gentle them?”

The horse neighed, the whites of her eyes showing. Genevieve sprang back against the stall’s gate. The horse yanked against her tether, her ears twisting back and nostrils flaring.

Lord Bowles grabbed a brush and stroked the horse. “Shh. Sweet girl,” he cooed. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

Patient caresses flowed over the dirty horse to the cadence of soothing words said under his breath. For all she knew, Lord Bowles could be reciting Ben Franklin’s pamphlet on electricity, yet his magic worked. The horse’s ears turned forward, and snorts slowed to even breaths.

“Is she young?”

The flat of his hand rubbed the horse’s chest. “She’s a filly. Not yet four years, I’d guess, but injured from overwork and lack of proper care.”

“How can you tell?”

“Her teeth.” He grinned at Genevieve over his shoulder. “When she lets me see them.”

“I shall have a care with my smile then.”

“You’ve become generous with your smiles, Miss Turner, but more would do you good.”

It was true. She’d smiled often these weeks serving Lord Bowles. Stepping off the gate, she craned her neck for a better view of the horse’s hoof. “Her injuries… Is that why she’s so nervous?”

“That and being unsure of her new surroundings. Toss in having a strange man’s hands on her, and you’ve got a nervous filly.”

“Tell me how I can help.”

Lord Bowles faced the horse, one hand stroking her neck. The other extended the brush carefully outside the horse’s sight line. “Use this. Keep your hands low. No sudden movements.”

She took the brush and slid it along the horse’s neck. “There, there, sweet girl,” she whispered.

“Keep that up even if she startles.”

Genevieve drew the brush along the thick hair splattered with mud. “What’s her name?”

Lord Bowles scooted the wooden pan with his boot, the side touching the abscessed hoof. “She doesn’t have one,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why don’t you name her?”

He was poised, an eye on the horse, waiting. He stroked the filly’s haunches, nudging the pan with his foot. The horse stepped back, lifting her hoof as if favoring it. Lord Bowles quickly toed the pan under her, and the flat of the filly’s hoof dropped into the salt water with a splash. The young horse snorted, her ears twitching backward.

“Shh, Hester,” Genevieve cooed. “Yes, that shall be your name.”

Lord Bowles stood still, hands splayed to react. Little Hester snorted but stayed put. “You’ve worked a miracle. She kicked over two other pans and tried to unman me.”

“Tell me,” she said, calming the filly with soothing strokes. “How do you gentle a horse?”

He smeared the poultice onto a linen strip. “You wish to know all my secrets.”

“You know a few of mine.”

“A trade for a trade.”

From her side vision, Genevieve could see Lord Bowles tying the wrap. Comforting sounds of horses settling in for the night echoed in the barn. Sweet little Hester snickered her approval of the attention she received.

“How did you come by your knowledge of horses? Your grandfather?”

“Northampton’s stable master,” he said at her shoulder.

She startled, and Hester jerked against the tether, her hooves dancing. How did he get so close?