A Gentleman’s Game Read Online Free

employment with Sir William. It had been a quick introduction and quicker good-bye as he exchanged one set of luggage and horses for another before setting off to London.
    Secretaries don’t was true for her when it came to personal desires. Just as governesses don’t and housemaids don’t were before that. She was twenty-three years old, and she’d been alone for the last ten years, even in a crowd.
    And that was fine. It was the way matters had to be. She was accustomed to it.
    But when she had met Nathaniel Chandler, and he’d smiled at her as though she was truly worth meeting…well, maybe she wasn’t as accustomed to it as she’d thought.
    She allowed herself one final glance at the tall figure walking away, then got on with her work.
    A nearby stable boy directed her to unused buckets. Grabbing two, she hurried toward the front of the stable. She caught up to her employer’s son at the door of the feed room, where he was working on the difficult latch. It had to fit so tightly that no rodent, no matter how small, could slip within.
    Without looking up, he said, “You are out of breath.”
    “This is Newmarket. Everyone runs.” Rosalind extended the buckets. “I have what you wanted.”
    She flushed a little at the words.
    He flashed a quick smile at her, then returned his attention to the latch. “Good. We only need the salt then.” He paused. “I am going to check the hay for mold.”
    When he shoved the door open, Rosalind set the buckets on the clean-swept floor and stepped into the feed room after him. “But you said you were sure. That you trust the man who supplies the hay.”
    His pause was long. “No harm in checking again, is there?” The feigned lightness in his tone did not fool her.
    The feed room was dimmer than the wide stretch of the stables, though a high-cut window let in daylight. Grain bins with tight-fitting lids held—curious, she peered into them one by one—oats and barley. The maligned hay was stored in a loft reached by a narrow wooden ladder, though a single bale had been pitched down.
    Nathaniel Chandler stared at it as if it were a beast.
    “I could check it if you like,” Rosalind suggested. “So you don’t have to. I could be a cruel, shrewish harpy who refused to take your word on trust. Here, I’ve found a hay knife.”
    As she crouched before the hay, looking up at him, his gaze seemed to snap into focus. “Nonsense, Miss Agate. You’ll dirty your pretty dress. I’ll check the hay.”
    You look pretty .
    This was not what he had said, of course. The tight scars webbing her side were a reminder. When he sank to the floor of the feed room beside her, she turned the hay knife over to him. “Please do not pay me false compliments, Mr. Nathaniel. I am a secretary, not one of your imaginary milkmaids.”
    He rose to a crouch, regarding her with eyes that were very blue and just a little wicked. “Why imaginary?”
    “The sheer number of them. There cannot be so many cows in all of England.”
    He granted this with a shrug. “And why must compliments be false?”
    The words were practiced and smooth, like a sauce poured over a dish to mask its true flavor. This was a habit of his, doubtless, and she must remain proof against it. “Compliments are…” She tipped her head, sending a cursed lock of hair falling from its pins. “They are not relevant when we have sick horses to care for.”
    “Or hay to check for mold, I suppose? Come now, Miss Agate. One can look for mold and pay compliments at the same time.”
    She raised a brow.
    He laughed. “All right, maybe not. No compliments, then, Miss Agate. As you wish. Er—am I permitted to be friendly, or ought I to be serious all the time?”
    “Can’t you be both?” She was beginning to ache, crouching on the floor, and with a wince she straightened up.
    “I really don’t think I can.” With the long-bladed knife, he began to slice at the bale of hay.
    “Just be…” She frowned. “I don’t know. Just