Thoroughbreds could be mean. Imogen had seen her papa’s prize horse, Patchem, watching, watching, watching. He knew she was afraid of him. He would wait until she wasn’t expecting it and chomp on her hair, or catch her coat in his yellow teeth. Posy would never think of such a thing. She had a whiskery nose, and she loved to put her chin on Imogen’s shoulder and huff into her hair and snuffle a bit while Imogen leaned against her and smelled her horsy smell.

In short, Imogen loved Posy, and if she couldn’t have the man who made her knees weak and her head swirl…at least she had Posy.

“Oh, Posy,” she whispered into the horse’s mane. Posy whickered softly and slobbered a bit on Imogen’s arm.

“Would you like a saddle on her, miss?” The stable master, who’d introduced himself as Ridley, was standing at the door to the stall. He was a tall, overly thin man missing a quantity of teeth. Oddly enough, his lack of teeth only made his smile more cheerful.

“Yes, I would, thank you, Ridley.”

Ridley led Posy into the yard and nimbly threw a saddle over her. “I’ll have a groom saddled in a moment, miss.”

“Groom?” Imogen asked.

Ridley nodded, tightening Posy’s cinch.

“Must I?” Imogen asked. “I’m quite used to taking Posy out on my own.”

Ridley thought about it for a moment. “It won’t do in London, of course,” he said to her. “A young lady mustn’t be seen alone. But perhaps if you were to stay on His Grace’s land, you’re unlikely to meet another. But I’d feel more comfortable sending a groom out with you, or perhaps your maid?”

“I don’t want a groom or my maid,” Imogen said firmly. There had been an early frost the night before, and the cobblestones had glittered beneath her boots as she walked to the stables. The early-morning air was chilly and promised to take away the aching misery of watching Lady Clarice blather on about Miss Pythian-Adams while Draven passively accepted his future marriage. “I’ll go alone,” she said again.

Ridley nodded with obvious reluctance. “His Grace’s land goes as far as the eye can see to the south, and to that ridge of trees to the west. Past there is Maitland land,” he said. “Don’t go north, because the Woolly River can be treacherous if you don’t know precisely where it’s cutting through. We’ve had men tumble right down her banks. If you’ll just tell me your direction, miss, I can send someone after you if you don’t return.”

Imogen looked at him and saw the firm set of his jaw. “I’ll—I’ll go west,” she said with a deep breath. Of course, west was the direction of her heart. West was Draven. West was—“I’ll go west, and I should be back in an hour. Posy has a mind of her own, and she doesn’t like cold weather very much.”

“You’ll be chilled yourself if you’re out much longer than that,” Ridley said, tossing her up on Posy.

Her horse shook her head and pawed the ground. Imogen smiled down at Ridley. “Posy is not the sort to make a run for the river, Ridley.”

“I’d still feel more comfortable if you had an escort,” Ridley said, giving Posy a bit of carrot. “Don’t go too far now, miss.”

They clopped out the gate and turned into a field. This field, and probably another, and then it would be Draven’s land, Imogen thought. Posy was picking her way through cow parsnip crystallized into fantastic curls by ice. The morning sky was chilly blue, not the gray that promised snow, but a high, arching sky that would turn warm by noon.

Of course she could live without Draven. Of course she could. It was only that he was so very—so very—

She couldn’t finish the thought. He was so very everything: so beautiful that her heart hurt to look at him, and her head felt dizzy. So entrancing to hear speak, that she could listen to him talk of races and bets and things that, coming from her father’s mouth, bored her to tears.

Posy was wandering through the field. Imogen made up her mind not to allow a single tear to fall because it would probably freeze on the spot. She could feel her nose growing red.

“Let’s go a little faster, Posy,” she urged, and clapped her foot against the mare’s belly.

Posy snorted and sped up slightly. They began trotting along through the field, and then Posy stretched into a canter, clomping through a stubble field of barley stalks caught with silver ribbons of dew.

The world was silent but for the sound of Posy’s hooves. She probably should turn back, but instead…Imogen guided Posy through a barrier of thin white birch, onto Draven’s land. Her heart was beating so quickly that she could hear its thumps in her ears. Posy shook her halter. Clearly, she thought they’d been outside long enough.

“Just one second, Posy,” Imogen said, patting her neck. Posy pawed the ground and shook her halter again. She was sweaty after their brief run, and Imogen knew she had to bring the mare back to the stables before she grew chilled. Besides, there was nothing to be seen. No Draven, just a huge stone house that sat squarely in the chilly sunshine, looking ancient, and monied, and all the things that made her an ineligible bride for Draven.

Imogen sighed. She and Posy walked closer, to the very edge of the gardens stretching before the house. The heroine of a book that she and Tess read last summer had walked across the fields toward a neighbor’s manor, shivering the whole way, and then managed to take ill. That girl was smart enough to come down with an influenza that led to her and her sister staying in the manor for a number of weeks, even though they were poor and quite ineligible to marry the gentlemen who lived there. Imogen sniffed tentatively, but she had shockingly good health and showed no sign of growing ill. Besides, were she ill, she had a feeling that Draven’s mama would simply toss her into the carriage and send her back to Rafe’s house.

Posy pawed the ground again and even reared up a bit, expressing extreme displeasure.

“Stop that,” Imogen said to her. “Ridley would be shocked by your behavior!”

Posy reared again and the world tilted backward as Imogen automatically adjusted her leg even more firmly in her saddle.

Suddenly an idea darted into her head. A twisted ankle. If only she fell from Posy, she would be certain to injure something, Posy being such a tall horse. Actually, she wouldn’t even really have to injure anything.

Blinking, she looked down at the ground. Tess wouldn’t approve. Tess would think she was cracked for even having such a thought. But then Draven’s face crept into her mind, the way he’d looked at her so tenderly last night. If only she had more time with him. She was certain she could win his heart even though Miss Pythian-Adams was irritatingly beautiful.

And before the thought even left her mind, she relaxed the reins and Posy took immediate advantage, rearing high in the air and pawing just like a foolish Thoroughbred. Imogen automatically shortened the reins. And just as suddenly, she let go of them. A second later she was flying through the crisp air, the birch trees a dizzying whirl of black branches before her eyes.

And slamming into the hard ground, before she even had time to remember that she meant to stop being so reckless.

Within a second of hitting the ground, she knew that she wouldn’t have to pretend to have an injury. Her right ankle was throbbing as if someone had poured boiling water on it. Posy turned around and looked at her, and she whispered in a rough voice, “Go! Go to the house!”