At the threshold, Beth turned to look back. “Jane, aren’t you coming?”

“Yes! Please do. I saw your card when I returned, so I had another mare saddled for you.” Mr. Dunkirk kept possession of his sister’s arm, but turned his body toward Jane. “It would give me great pleasure if you would join us.”

“I—I am not a horsewoman. I would only hold you back from your pleasure in the ride.” On horseback, her stiff carriage showed itself even more clearly than on the dance floor.

“But, really, you must come. I do not doubt that I shall only want to go slowly.” Beth loosed her hand from her brother’s arm and reached imploringly to Jane. “I shall not want to go unless you come with us.”

“In that case, I would be delighted to accompany you.” Her dress did not suit, but neither was it one which she feared to injure; indeed, for the Dunkirks, Jane would have shredded her favourite gown with only a small pang of regret.

She followed them out onto the front steps. Another groom stood with two other horses to the side of the door. Mr. Dunkirk saw his sister safely onto the new mare and then walked with Jane to a placid gray beast. She knew that it was placid, and yet she could only see its size, and remember the exhilarating fear she experienced every time she was on horseback. Before that memory of fear could overwhelm her, Mr. Dunkirk was handing her up to the horse and helping her settle in the saddle. His hands were strong; his movements sure.

He handed her the reins, seeming to sense the fear in the line of her back. “Her name is Daisy. She will follow my horse, and I will be certain to keep the pace slow. Beth may forget her promise and want to run her new mare, but I will stay back with you.”

“No, you must not. You must stay with her.”

He shook his head and looked down, resting his hand on Daisy’s neck. “Do not protest, unless it is to truly and honestly declare that you love to gallop. I rely on your honour, Miss Ellsworth.”

Closing her mouth, Jane sighed. “No, I will be happiest at a walk. It is true.”

“Then we understand each other.” Mr. Dunkirk swung into the saddle of his tall black gelding. “Shall we?”

As Mr. Dunkirk predicted, Beth enjoyed the walk for about a quarter of an hour before she succumbed to the need to gallop her new mare. “I cannot name her until I do. It is quite impossible, and she must have a name which suits her.” Beth wrinkled her nose. “Bacon? Who would name a dainty mare that?”

“I think it is the pattern in her sock. The area where the roan blends down to the white does look very much like the marbling in bacon.”

“Well. My horse will not be called Bacon. It is utterly ridiculous. She is grace and elegance itself, but I must know how she runs to know her name. I must know if she yearns for it or is a more timid creature.”