Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) Read Online Free PDF Page B

after them. 
    “You weren’t this stupid two years ago,” Cato remarked when the silence lengthened. 
    Or perhaps the mares could trample the stable master. 
    “You are big enough and fast enough to make outrageous comments like that, Cato,” Trent replied placidly, because Cato was goading him for some purpose known only to himself. “Don’t think getting a rise out of me will provide a result you’ll enjoy.” 
    Cato shrugged broad shoulders and grinned a charming, robust fellow’s grin. “Here in the wilds of Surrey, one finds one’s entertainment where one can, your lordship .” He rose with the easy grace of the strong and fit, though his observation went far beyond impertinent. “Let me know what you decide.”
    As Cato strode off, Trent’s foot, independent of any decision by its owner, shot out and neatly tripped the stable master, who was laughing outright when he regained his balance. 
    Cato saluted with two callused fingers. “Better. Not your best effort, but a start.” 
    Arthur would probably agree with that assessment.
    Trent did, too. 
    Chapter Three
     
    The weather was glorious, his neighbor punctual, and Trent in a toweringly bad mood as a result. What— what ?—had possessed him to invite this Lady Rammel onto his property, much less offer her a gardening project that could stretch for weeks? Even as he knew his anger was irrational—and he knew staying busy was a means of survival early in a bereavement—he resented the way she sat her horse, as if born on its back. He’d ridden like that, once upon time. Darius still rode like that. Cato road as if statues should be erected on his model alone.
    And did Lady Rammel have to fill out her habit so…robustly? He used to take pride in the cut of his clothes and the elegance of his turn-out. 
    Did she have to damned smile at his useless stable master when Cato appeared from nowhere to help her off her horse?
    “You’re acquainted with my stable master?” Trent managed as Lady Rammel’s mare was led away. 
    “He and Dane were thick as thieves in hunt season.” She beamed as if this was famous good news. “They could natter on about cubbing and tail braiding and line breeding and heaven only knows what else for hours. I expect Mr. Spencer will miss Dane when the hunting starts up in the fall.” 
    Mr. Spencer, being Catullus Sandringham Spencer, or Cato, to his many adoring familiars. Trent hated riding to hounds on general principles. 
    Also because his father thrived on blood sport. 
    “What have you done with Dane’s horses?” Trent heard himself ask. 
    Could he have fashioned a more gauche question to put to a huntsman’s bereaved widow? 
    Lady Rammel’s smile dimmed. “Odd you should inquire. Dane’s cousin is coming up at the end of the week to take them in hand. The stable lads are going through another round of mourning as we speak.” 
    “His cousin?” Trent offered her his arm and searched the viscous morass of his memory for who that might be. Hampton had been titled, and somebody was no doubt dancing a jig on his grave in consequence.
    “Drew,” she said, with no inflection whatsoever. “Dane called him Dutiful Drew, and not only behind the poor man’s back. Drew is the heir and takes his duties seriously.” 
    “Is he putting your dower property to rights?” 
    “My dower…” Hers brows knit, then her smile reappeared. “I suppose, but I’m happy at Deerhaven. Papa owned Deerhaven outright and set it aside for me in the settlements, so here I’ll stay.” 
    “Lucky for me,”—the sentiment was genuine, though sentiments had also, until recently, gone into eclipse along with Trent’s urges —“and for my flowers.” 
    What tripe .
    As the lady chattered on and they made several slow circuits of his gardens—he kept up with Lady Rammel easily—Trent began to enjoy his bad mood. Tripe? Tripe? How long had it been since he’d indulged in such a word, even in the privacy of his