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Mal
Malcolm ran his hand down the bay’s foreleg, squeezing lightly at the fetlock, and the horse obediently lifted for him.
He did a quick scan of the horse’s shoe and then gently lowered the beast’s hoof to the ground.
He crossed over to the other side, inspecting the bridle, harness, and straps.
Then repeated his examination on the other leg.
It was his habit to perform a final pass over before the carriages departed. He knew the grooms under his supervision did a thorough job, but one could never be too careful. A mistake could have serious consequences—a lame horse, a damaged carriage, injured passengers. Or worse.
He gave the gelding a pat on the rump and turned toward the tack room.
“Mr. Campbell, a word?”
Malcolm’s gaze flew to Lord Bentley, who was striding toward him. With purpose. His heart plummeted. Oh God. Had the man learned of the Countess visiting him last night?
The Earl passed him and made for the tack room. “In here, if you please.”
The man’s tone brooked no argument, and unease slid over Malcolm as he followed the Earl. Lord Bentley shut the door behind him, then doffed his topper and patted it against his leg. His gaze traversed the ceiling. The walls. Did the man find something interesting there?
“Is there something I can assist ye with, my lord?”
“I will be traveling to London and gone for a fortnight.” Lord Bentley paused, his lips rolling in. Finally, his gaze landed on Malcolm’s, serious and sharp. “It has come to my attention that my wife is lonely.”
Malcolm went perfectly still. He had no idea what to say to that. So he remained silent. Completely at odds with the cacophony currently taking place in his chest.
A pained expression crossed Lord Bentley’s face. “Perhaps you could assist in that area, if you would be amenable.”
If he would be a-fooking-what-now? He stared, blinking dumbly at his employer. Because if his mind hadn’t, in fact, deserted him, then he thought Lord Bentley might be hinting that Malcolm should keep Lady Bentley company. In the biblical sense.
“Mr. Campbell?”
“I apologize, my lord. But I am not sure I follow what you are asking of me.” Because no husband asked another man to…take care of his wife for him. Did they?
Nae. They don’t. Stop being hopeful.
Lord Bentley blew out a breath. “If you are not interested, then please forget we had this conversation. It is just… I want you to know if you are interested… I will not stand in your way. Does that make things clearer?”
Nae. It really didnae. “Lord Bentley, I am going to have to ask you to state outright what you mean. My mind…it is going places that I am sure you are no’ intending. I—” He floundered, couldn’t form a coherent thought. He wouldn’t believe it unless he heard the words.
Lord Bentley rocked on his feet and nodded. His chest rose and fell on a heavy breath. “I have gotten the impression my wife has developed an…interest…in you. I am stating here and now: I will not stand in either of your ways if that is something you both want to pursue.”
Malcolm’s mouth dropped to the dusty tack room floor.
“But”—Lord Bentley lifted a finger and settled a glare on him—“that is only if it is something she does truly want. If she decides she is not interested, or at any point changes her mind, you are to leave her alone. My wife is my dearest friend. If you hurt her, it won’t just be your position you’ll be worrying over.
Do you understand what I am saying now?”
Malcolm would never, ever do anything to harm Lydia. He’d tear his heart out of his chest and offer it up in her stead before he did anything that would cause her the slightest pain.
“Yes, my lord. I believe I do.”
Dear Lord. Was this truly happening? The woman of his dreams wanted him. And apparently, her husband wasn’t standing in their way.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Almost asked if Port was around to dunk him in a bucket of ice water again. Because he must be soused. Fate didn’t hand out chances like this, not to men like him.
Yet here it was, within reach.
And he’d be damned if he let it slip through his fingers.