Derbyshire – Ashford Manor, Spring 1840

The stables smelled of hay and leather. William tugged at the reins, his jaw tight as the gelding shifted beneath him, its ears flicking back in irritation. "Steady, lad," the stable master, Mr. Hayes, murmured, his broad hand settling on the horse's bridle. "Patience. He's green yet. You've got to earn his trust same as he's to earn yours."

William’s lips thinned. He was fifteen, heir to an earldom, and no amount of careful words eased the sting of failing at something that ought to have come naturally. Stable dust clung to his boots, to his pride, to the part of him that already feared he would never be enough. He wanted the horse to bend to him, to obey at once; instead, the beast tossed its head, and William’s pride burned hotter than the midsummer sun.

“Take him back,” he snapped, sliding from the saddle with all the grace of a tumble. He shoved the reins into the horse master’s hands, his voice clipped. “He’ll never take to me.”

Mr. Hayes only sighed—the same weary sound he’d made yesterday when William refused to listen then, too—and turned to lead the gelding toward the stalls.