“You may be right,” he mused. “I can’t imagine any woman would appreciate that.”

His gaze roved over Natalie’s face, and when he glanced at her mouth, his eyes lingered for a second. She knew enough about men to recognize that flicker of heat. A reciprocal warmth swept her with the desire to be clasped against his hard body and to experience his burning kiss. The sensation was so strong that it seared her insides.

Then a chilly gust of wind slapped her back to her senses. What madness had scrambled her brains? She had no interest in any Englishman—least of all a duke who was on the verge of betrothing himself to one of his own kind.

“Well,” she said lightly, “if you’re looking for ways to charm Lady Ellen, you could always try your hand at writing poetry to her.”

“Poetry?” The horror on Clayton’s face was almost comical. “You can’t be serious.”

“It was just a thought.” Biting back laughter, Natalie took pity on him. “By the way, if that coat is the same one I remember from a few days ago, I’m happy to see that your valet did an excellent job of cleaning the mud left by Leo’s shoes.”

Clayton glanced down at the pristine garment. “Chumley is a gem.”

The conversation ended as they arrived at the stable complex, which included an enormous barn, a red-brick carriage house, and several paddocks where some horses had been turned out for exercise. The yard had a fair amount of activity under way. In front of the barn, a young groom shoveled a pile of fresh manure into a wheelbarrow. A handyman stood on a ladder and touched up the white trim with a paintbrush. Another worker could be seen through the open doors of the carriage house, polishing the brass fittings of a coach in preparation for the family’s departure to London in a few days.

Natalie didn’t want to think about the future just now. It was too wonderful to breathe in the perfume of horses and leather. She had always loved the freedom of riding, the rush of the wind in her face, the excitement of discovering what lay over the next hill. Several fine mounts pranced inside the fenced enclosures, tossing their manes in the sunshine.

“Oh, I do miss riding!” she said impulsively. “Are all stables on English estates so large and well kept?”

Clayton turned an appreciative smile at her. “We Brits love our horses. Racing is a national pastime. I myself run a breeding program at a property I own in Suffolk near Newmarket. It has twice the capacity of this stable. Last year’s champion was sired by one of my stallions.”

“Newmarket. I remember my father mentioning that racetrack. He raised horses, too, on our farm just outside of Philadelphia.” At least until he had died suddenly and she’d been forced to sell the place.

“Did he, indeed?” His expression alive with interest, the duke raked her with an assessing look. “He must have visited England, then.”