Robert rode a figure eight, which Revanche executed at a marvelous steady tempo. “Halt.”

Just like that, motion ceased. Four hoofs remained planted in the sand, until Robert gave another nudge with his calves.

“If you are concerned for Constance,” Robert said, executing a line that moved both forward and to the side at the same time, leaving a diagonal track in the sand, “you should ask her.”

Lord Stephen perched upon a barrel in the center of the arena. “I hope to live to see my next birthday, Rothhaven. Con has that come near me at your peril look about her.”

And yet, she clung to Robert whenever they found a private moment. “She is concerned for her daughter. Halt.” Again, Revanche heeded the command, even though it had been buried behind normal speech. “Good lad, walk on.”

“Con has been concerned for her daughter for years, apparently. What has changed?”

The challenge of navigating between Wentworth siblings was new, and Nathaniel was of no help regarding its perils. He was as puzzled by the Wentworth family dynamics as Robert was, though at least Nathaniel could cuddle up with his wife of a night for an occasional consultation.

“Constance cannot approach Reverend Shaw to renew negotiations until my situation is resolved.”

“Your situation will be resolved by this time tomorrow, barring last-minute lawyerly posturing.”

“Which one should never bar. Canter.”

The horse lifted into a scrumptious, cadenced canter, circling the arena as gently as a breeze. The motion was magic, banishing worries and doubts with sheer bodily joy. Dear God, I have missed this. Missed this freedom and pleasure…

The next thing Robert knew, the horse was once again standing motionless, and Lord Stephen was hobbling over from the center of the arena.

“Your usual calm has deserted you, my lord. Is something amiss?” Robert patted Revanche soundly, for such joy should be rewarded.

“Rothhaven, you stopped listening to me.” Lord Stephen spoke carefully, as if Robert held a loaded gun casually pointed at a live target.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You went around the entire arena three times at the canter, while I admonished you to sink your weight in your heels, and relax your elbows and all manner of whatnot. You ignored me.”

The joy vanished like a candle snuffed by a stiff breeze. “I did not hear you.”

Lord Stephen leaned against the horse, who was puffing slightly. “A staring spell?”

“Apparently so.”

Robert sat atop his horse as a chorus of emotions tried to join him in the saddle: Terror galloped at the front of the pack, eager to drag him back to a boy’s helplessness and confusion. Worry followed close behind, because this development must be conveyed to Constance, who had enough burdens already. Resentment—never far away—prepared to shove aside even the terror of falling, because the bloody illness had to taint every joy and hasten every sorrow.