He strode toward the stables. Madeleine was almost never seen around the stables during the afternoon because of her father’s ridiculous sense of her “reputation,” although Braddon actually thanked him for that, because it meant that he didn’t have to compete with every shabby-genteel officer who strolled in looking for a broken-down mare.

Braddon walked quickly down the long corridor. The stables smelled dimly of a molasses-sticky poultice, and where there was a poultice, one could usually find Madeleine. It was she who was in charge of all minor ailments such as sprained hocks and forelegs.

Madeleine was in the very last stall on the right. She was kneeling on the ground with a horse’s bent leg poised before her. She must have heard Braddon’s boots clopping on the stone walkway, but she didn’t look up, just kept crooning to a sweet brown-eyed mare while she applied the poultice to its front leg.

Braddon waited for a moment, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

“My lord,” Madeleine said without turning about, “if you are not too bored, you might help me by holding Gracie’s head.”

“How did you know it was me?” Braddon moved to the horse’s head, keeping Gracie from blowing warm kisses down Madeleine’s bent neck.

Madeleine threw him a glance over her shoulder. “You invariably appear around this hour every morning, my lord.”

“Hmm.” Braddon was a bit nonplussed by her matter-of-fact tone. Didn’t Madeleine want him to come? He dropped the horse’s bridle and crouched next to her, trying hard not to puff as he went down.

“What is the problem?”

“Strained right foreleg,” Madeleine replied shortly.

Braddon cast the horse’s leg a quick glance. Then he edged a little closer to Madeleine.

“My lord!”

She sounds cross, Braddon thought resignedly. No kisses today. Why, oh why, was he enamored of a French miss who was possessed of a demon temper and the morals of a nun? She wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Arabella, the mistress he had stolen from Patrick last year. In fact, an objective person might label her short and plump.

But just looking at Madeleine made Braddon’s heart beat faster. Bent over as she was, rubbing the foreleg hard and not meeting his eyes, he could just glimpse the ample curve of her bosom between her arms. His eyes kindled, and his hand itched to slip under her arm.

“Don’t!”

Startled, Braddon swung up his head to meet his beloved’s infuriated eyes.

“Why not?” he asked boldly.

Madeleine clambered to her feet, pulling her thick, stiff skirt out of the way. Her French accent thickened, as it always did when she was in a fret.

“Please do not try to balboozle me!”

“Balboozle?”

Braddon was confused and his lower lip opened a trifle. It was hard to keep his mind straight when Madeleine was standing right before him, her lovely chest heaving. She had such luscious hips….

“Bamboozle! That’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I said,” Madeleine retorted impatiently. What was she to do with this muffin-brained lord? How could she do an honest day’s work with him following her about the stables, gaping at her bosom and generally cutting up her peace?