Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) by Grace Burrowes Page B

carry their young?” 
    “Nearly, and then it’s another two or three years before they can be sold as riding stock.” 
    “Four years before I see any profit?” 
    “If such an arrangement with me has no appeal, you could sell them off now, but in any case you’re better off breeding them before you do.” 
    She did not appear offended at that blunt speech. “Because they’re brood mares.” 
    “And because Greymoor will lend you his stud to breed the lot of them at a very reasonable rate, rather than make you take the mares over to Oak Hall where he stands his stallion.” 
    “Why would he be so reasonable? I’ve barely been introduced to the man.” 
    “He’ll be reasonable because he sees the quality of your ladies,” Trent said. “His stud’s reputation will be enhanced if the foals live up to their mamas’ promise. Then too, summer is upon us, and it will soon be too late to breed anything. For Greymoor, it would be a small windfall. He’s reputed to be a decent sort. He’d do a good turn for a widowed neighbor.” 
    Particularly if Trent nudged the earl stoutly in that direction.
    “What would you do, if you were me?” 
    Interesting question—shrewd, actually. 
    “If I were a lady recently cast into widowhood, I’d be reluctant to embark on any substantial venture, particularly one that will take years to see a return—on the one hand.” 
    “On the other hand?” 
    A gentleman would use a lot of pretty words to present the other hand. A gentleman would probably have left the door open, too, and to hell with staying warm when proprieties were at risk. A gentleman would not have mentioned breeding, Greymoor’s stud, or profit, much less all in the same conversation, with a recently widowed lady. 
    Trent was apparently not that much of a gentleman. 
    “You’re too damned smart to pretend you’re content to crochet gloves and tat lace, Ellie Hampton. You are competent with horses, your estate runs like a top, and grieving doesn’t preclude looking forward to a meaningful future. Your husband was letting those mares go to waste, and you can do better than he—much better. I think you should consider it, not for the money, not for the homage to your late husband’s taste in horseflesh, but because you’d enjoy it.” 
    Her hand went to her throat, as if a lump had formed there, while she digested this dose of plain speaking. “Gracious Halifax.”
    “My apologies. I did not mean to imply that you were going to waste, I simply…” 
    She waved a hand at him to shut him up, for clearly, he’d struck a tender nerve. 
    Or maybe he’d said the right thing to inspire her forward in any one of several positive directions. Inspiring the bereaved was a delicate, fraught art, as Trent well knew. 
    She studied a spot above his right shoulder. “I’ve always liked horses, but Vicar warned me that mourning can be a time of folly, and I should not embark on any course impetuously.” 
    Folly—an apt description for the last fifteen months or so of Trent’s life.
    “Heaven forfend you act impetuously with such a rackety fellow as I,” Trent rejoined, but he wasn’t teasing and his tone gave him away. 
    The lady’s posture lost the last of its sweet, sleepy softness. “I am not inclined to set up a stud farm here, but I am loath to miss the chance to capitalize on those mares. Andy’s future is less than assured, and ample funds for her dowry could address that situation.” 
    Trent kept his tone diffident. “I suppose we could fashion some third alternative.” 
    “Such as?” 
    She was being cautious or coy; either one, Trent had to approve of—they were, after all, negotiating. 
    “I don’t know.” He rose again and took up his spot leaning on the mantel. “Some combination of coin, services, breeding rights, shared profits….” He let the ideas hang in the air, just within her reach. 
    She shot him a dubious look. “You’re suggesting a