The Countess by Catherine Coulter

slowly, every few seconds looking back toward the windows, picturing those lines

of holes, picturing black bars not more than six inches apart, picturing a vague

image clutch ing desperate hands around those bars, screaming to the night air

to be freed.

I left George to sleep off his bacon and went downstairs to meet Amelia.

Chapter Ten

Amelia was waiting for me just outside the great front doors of Devbridge Manor.

It was a warm day, quite unexpected for November. A light breeze stirred the air,

with only a lingering hint of chill. Yorkshire wasn’t a thing like the counties

to the south. It was ruggedly beautiful, and everything seemed oversized?huge

clumps of trees, all densely clustered together in the midst of a barren plain,

grand masses of rocks in the oddest places, as if strewn there by a god’s

whimsical hand. And, of course, there were the endless Yorkshire moors. The

Grannard moor was just off to the east, so desolate with its stark and forlorn

barrows and hillocks and its deep gullies that sliced haphazardly through the

land like very old scars. I loved it, always had. During the past three years,

though, Grandfather had preferred either the small manor house in Penzance at

the end of rugged, mournful Cornwall, or the fifty-year-old Putnam Square town

house in London that now belonged to Peter. Deerfield Hall was also now Peter’s

responsibility. Everything was now Peter’s responsibility. I wondered if he

would sell out and return to England to take over his duties as the seventh duke

of Broughton. I hoped he would come to Deerfield Hall, his country seat now, and

so very close to my new home. I felt a deep ache thinking of how we had parted

in London just before my marriage to Lawrence. But Peter was fair. He would

observe that I was happy, and he would come about.

I breathed in the richly scented country air, pulling it deeply into my body. I

couldn’t see the Grannard moor from here, but it was close, and just knowing

that, made me want to take George there. I could see him staring at the strange

landscape, wondering exactly what I expected him to do with it. George was used

to London and all its noise and traffic. There wasn’t a dray or a cart or the

most elegant carriage he wouldn’t chase until his short legs finally buckled

under him.

But here, he would learn about an entirely different life. Perhaps I could take

him to the Grannard moor this afternoon. I had left him sleeping soundly, after

stuffing himself at breakfast.

Amelia said, as she carefully eased a pin into her hair, “It’s lovely today, isn’t

it? I remember standing here just like you are, just looking around and taking

everything in. It might take some getting used to. Many people hate Yorkshire.”

“Do you?”

“I come from Somerset. Gentle valleys and hills and easy little streams

crisscross the land through all the farms.”

“Sort of like an innocent maiden mated to a violent warrior?”

She blinked, and I couldn’t blame her for that. As a comparison, it was perhaps

not all that accurate.

“If by that you mean that Somerset is the innocent maiden and Yorkshire is the

warrior, then, exactly,” Amelia said. “I’ve gotten used to it during the past

year. Now I quite like it. Come with me to the stables. I want you to meet

Buttercup, my sweet mare that my father brought over from Wexford. Also, has

Uncle Lawrence yet offered you a mount?”

“No, not as yet.”

The Devbridge stables were immaculate, the sun shining brightly down on the

bright red tile roof. The paddocks were white, obviously kept freshly painted,

and as I looked out into the nearest paddock, I fell in love.

He was an immense black-as-sin stallion, with a streak of white down the middle

of his head and four white socks. His head had the proud tilt of an Arabian mare

I once rode, but there was little else graceful and lithe about him. He was at

least seventeen hands high, heavy strong legs, and thick powerful chest.

“What is it, Andy?”

“Just a moment, Amelia. I’ve lost my heart. I’ll join you in a bit.”

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