Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

“Stables?” Leaning on his crutch, Lane slid the soft felt cap from his head and twisted it between his old, scarred hands. “You mean to rebuild the stables?”


“I mean to rebuild it all,” Rhys told him evenly. “Starting with the stables. I’m a member of a club, you see. It’s called the Stud Club. Membership includes breeding rights to a stallion called Osiris.”

“Osiris.” The old man’s hands began to shake. “The Osiris, the great thoroughbred champion?”

“So you’ve heard of him.”

“Heard of him?” Lane laughed. “In his prime, the sporting papers were filled with nothing but talk of that stallion. I heard he’d been sold to a lord, though, some time back.” He scratched the back of his neck. “What was his name …?”

“Harcliffe. Leo Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe. He’s dead now.”

“Oh. Did you know him?”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend, then.”

Rhys shrugged. “We weren’t close. Be sorry for him, not me.” He walked some distance away and propped his boot on another chunk of stone, rocking it back and forth to work it loose from the soil. This one was rather square, he noted, and not too firmly stuck—he’d wager it belonged to the old house. Must have tumbled this way after the fire.

He decided to leave it be.

He moved on to another rock instead and gave it a swift kick, jarring it loose. “Anyway, as fate would have it, I now control a one-fifth share in that stallion, and I plan to breed a few mares to him next year. I’ll be needing stables. And a stable master.”

“Do you …” Lane paused and sniffed. “Do you mean me?”

“Are there any other candidates around?” Rhys made a show of turning his neck, surveying the barren landscape.

Releasing a slow, wheezing breath, George Lane picked the largest boulder available and sat down, sliding his crutch to a rest beside him. “I’m crippled.”

“Yes, I know.” Of course he knew. That much was Rhys’s own damn fault. “I mean to hire grooms, of course. You won’t need to do the heavy work, merely supervise. There’s no one else in these parts experienced in keeping and training horses of that caliber.”

Lane swore softly under his breath. But when Rhys stole a glance at him, he could see the old man was smiling.

“Posting horses,” Lane said suddenly. “Don’t suppose you’d be of the mind to breed some of those? ’Twould be a great help to Merry, with the inn.”

“Don’t see why not.” Rhys ceased working at the stone and crossed to sit near the old man. “But you won’t have to worry about your daughter any longer, either. That’s why I’m making the cottage so large.”

The old man frowned. “Must be the old age, Rhys. I’m not following you.”

“This house is for you, eventually. But in the short term, all three of us will have to call it home. While the Hall is being rebuilt.”

“The three of us?”

“You, me, and Meredith.” Best have out with it now, Rhys figured. The old man would find out soon. “Mr. Lane, I’m going to marry your daughter.”

He had to hand it to fate. Wedding Meredith was a perfect solution. Beautiful in its simplicity, just like the cloudless sky above. With that exchange of vows, Rhys would take responsibility for not only Meredith’s well-being, but that of her father and the village, too. He could see it all now. With the stables, they’d raise both racing and draft horses, to be sold for a profit. Once he rebuilt Nethermoor Hall, he’d be able to provide employment for half the village and give custom to the rest. The inn could continue, he supposed … they’d simply hire an innkeeper to look after it.

Rhys had so many plans spooling through his mind—years’ worth of them. Perhaps enough to fill decades. It was a foreign sensation, planning more than a day in advance. It felt good. He’d heard gentlemen of his station, fellow heirs to the peerage, refer to their estate responsibilities as burdens. Oddly enough, today Rhys felt markedly lighter.

Lane stared at him in silence for some time. First one bushy eyebrow rose, then two. “Marry her. You plan to make Meredith your wife.”

“Yes.” It was more like the universe had planned it for him, but Rhys wouldn’t quibble.

“Have you told Merry that?”

“I have.”

“Well, then.” Lane cocked his head, peering into the distance behind Rhys’s shoulder. “That would explain why she looks so flummoxed.”

Rhys turned on his heel to see Meredith cresting the rise, striding purposefully toward them with a basket threaded over her arm. The wind pulled strands of her dark hair loose, whipping them in all directions. As she drew near, she impatiently brushed the stray locks aside.

“Just what is going on here?” She addressed her question to Rhys.

“I’m building a house.”