“The troupe was on the way to stage the private performance that Rosalind had mentioned. Most of the players were in the carriages and lead wagon, while Stephen followed, driving the wagon that contained the costumes and sets. The horses were nothing like his own highbred teams, which meant he could pay attention to his passenger. Rosalind had tossed her bonnet into the wagon and rode bareheaded, her face and hair full of sunlight. The warmth of her autumn-colored tresses made him realize that t...he first nip of autumn was also in the air. Time was passing by. Preferring to forget that, he asked idly, “By the way, where are we going?” “Bourne Castle, the seat of the Duke of Candover. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard Papa mention it. He’s immensely proud of the fact that for the last four years we’ve performed there at the duke’s personal request.” Bourne Castle? Christ have mercy! Stephen’s hands tensed involuntarily, and the horses whinnied in complaint. Automatically he loosened the reins, hoping Rosalind hadn’t noticed his shock.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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