Ophelia declined to commit herself to any opinion. The dogs snored and emitted periodic statements that Gillian refused to consider as a comment on her situation.

“It would serve me right for trying to aid such a maddening, obstinate man. No”—her anger turned quickly to sadness as she mused upon her sorry situation—“it must be Charlotte whom Lord Weston has come to call upon. After all, he’s an earl and I’m…I’m…”

“Completely fascinating.”

Gillian’s heart leaped up to her throat as the Lord of Magnificence leaned negligently against the stall door. Her breath caught as she stared at him—it simply wasn’t fair. No man should be as attractive as he was.

The earl’s left eyebrow rose. “Thank you. I’m flattered you think so.”

Gillian groaned and dropped her head to her hands. Her Unfortunate Habit had appeared again. “Is it possible to die of embarrassment, my lord?”

“If it were, there would scarce be a handful of people left. Good Lord, what is that smell?”

Gillian blushed even harder and peeked out from between her fingers at him. “It’s my dogs. They have a little problem with their inner workings.”

As if to emphasize the point, both dogs released proof of their affliction.

“I’ve been varying their diet weekly,” she said, fanning the air in front of her, “but I don’t seem to have struck upon the right combinations of food yet.”

Weston flinched but stood his ground. “Keep trying. What are you doing with that mare’s head in your lap?”

Ophelia rolled an eye back to look at Weston and blew loudly out of her mouth.

“She’s ill. She tends to colic when I am unable to ride her.”

“Hmmm.” Weston entered the stall and squatted down next to the horse, prodding her gently on the belly. Gillian couldn’t tear her eyes from the two large and extremely well-muscled thighs directly in her line of vision. He was wearing gleaming black Hessians and buckskin breeches that fit like a second skin. A midnight-blue waistcoat and jacket and a modest cravat completed his informal outfit. She wondered what would happen if she were to reach out and run a hand along that thigh.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine, thank you,” Gillian choked out, tearing her eyes and her mind from her unseemly imaginings. “I seem to have swallowed wrong. I thought you always wore black?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Black. I was told you always wear black as a form of penance, and yet here you are wearing buckskins.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

A noise from the corner proved the verity of his statement. Gillian pretended the dogs weren’t present and covertly wiped at her stinging eyes.

“Has she been biting at herself?”

“What? Oh, no, she’s quite content to lie here and have her head stroked. It keeps her calm.”

“Yes, I can see she’s content. She’s not off her feed?”

“No, but she isn’t always when she has colic. MacTavish—he’s the head groom—he claims she’s just shamming, but I don’t believe he likes Ophelia very well. She tries to bite him whenever he’s near.”