Thinking about what it would mean to her, and to her parents, to have her future secured brought a lump to her throat. Aware of the Prince watching her carefully under those sleepy lids, Stephanie concentrated on making a little parcel of roasted goat meat and couscous studded with pomegranate.
‘What induced you to leave your father’s patronage to work on a stud farm? Did you tire of military work, Miss Darvill? It has been your life, you said so yourself.’
‘Army horses, Your Highness, are heavy working breeds, either draught horses for pulling artillery or chargers, neither of which are used for breeding purposes. Working on a stud farm was, my father felt, an excellent way of filling this gap in my knowledge.’
She had not lied, her experience at the Newmarket stud had been invaluable, it was simply that she wouldn’t have left her army life and gone there were it not for another, much more unpleasant experience. Prince Rafiq’s expression gave absolutely nothing away, yet somehow she was certain he had detected her unease. Flustered, Stephanie picked up her fork then set it down again. Her food was no more than half-eaten, but she had quite lost her appetite.
‘You have had a sufficiency?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her plate was cleared. Another was prepared, of sweet pastries dribbled with honey, dates covered in chopped nuts. The foods representing life. Most appropriate since her presence here was driven by her desire to establish a new life for herself.
She hoped that the changing of dishes and the serving of the final course meant the topic was now closed. The Prince, however, had merely been biding his time. ‘Your desire for independence is intriguing, Miss Darvill,’ he said. ‘A most unusual ambition for a woman. A more common aspiration is marriage, surely?’
* * *
Stephanie Darvill’s glass slipped from her hand, spilling sherbet over the table. In the moments it took for one of his servants to clean the mess up, Rafiq watched her covertly, noting the effort it took her to regain her composure. The robe she wore was cut demurely enough at the neck, but it was still low enough to show the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her curves distracted him. He wondered if the ribbon tied at the neckline was the only fastening of the dress. He wondered what she wore beneath that gown. It looked flimsy enough, but it was most likely an illusion. In his limited experience, the complexity of the undergarments worn by European women seemed expressly designed to repel a man’s advances.
Miss Darvill herself, on the other hand, seemed designed to encourage just such advances, yet she was not married, and nor was she, in her own words that sort of woman. What sort of woman was she? And why did she crave what she called independence? Would she live alone? Why would a woman wish for such a thing? Though admittedly, his experience of Western women was not extensive, he did not think they were so very different from women in the East. Didn’t all women wish for a husband, children? But this woman—he had never met anyone quite like this woman.
‘I have no interest in marriage, Your Highness,’ Stephanie Darvill said, interrupting his thoughts, ‘and I confess I fail to understand what my aspirations—or lack of them—in that direction have to do with my ability to cure your horses. Save of course,’ she added tightly, ‘that as a single woman without a husband to dictate my movements, I was free to travel to your aid.’
‘My apologies,’ Rafiq said, equally tightly, for he was quite unaccustomed to being placed in the wrong. ‘You are in the right of it. What matters are your skills as a horse surgeon, and whether those skills will compensate for the disruption your presence in my stables will undoubtedly generate, for they are an exclusively male domain.’
‘Then they are no different from any other stables in which I have worked.’
‘The difference, Miss Darvill, is that here you have neither your father’s presence nor his reputation to shield you from what can be a rough-and-tumble environment.’
‘Not as rough and tumble an environment as a battlefield,’ she countered, ‘although Papa would never permit me anywhere near the actual fighting. I was left in sole charge behind the lines. My place will be taken by his new assistant, in this conflict with Napoleon that is to come. For all I know, battle may even have commenced by now.’ For a moment she was lost to him, her gaze unfocused, her thoughts clearly with her family, but then she gave a little shrug, a tiny smile. ‘He made me promise not to worry about him. It is a promise we who followed the drum—family, servants, wives, children—were always being obliged to make, though I doubt any of us ever managed to truly keep it. It was worse, in a way, being so far from the battle lines, imagining what was happening not just to one’s family but one’s friends, and of course the horses. Though I would never equate an animal with a human life, I do not subscribe to the view that they possess no feelings.’
‘Nor I,’ Rafiq said warmly. ‘In fact I would go further, and say that there can be a true affinity between a horse and a rider.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Miss Darvill said enthusiastically. ‘If a man is afraid going into battle, he transmits that fear to his horse. I have seen it so many times. And though you may scoff, I have also seen a horse make a man braver with a display of—of eagerness. That sounds silly, but...’
Rafiq shook his head, smiling. ‘Not at all. Arabians, mares especially, are highly valued for their fearlessness in a battle charge, which can give a rider the confidence he lacks, or enhance what fortitude already exists. But it is more than that. In the most hostile parts of the desert, I have seen a horse struggle on, carrying her master to the safety of an oasis when all hope seemed lost.’
‘And in battle too,’ Stephanie said eagerly, ‘there have been many, many times when Papa has witnessed horses returning men almost dead in the saddle to the safety of our lines, often at great cost to themselves. And those same men, they will do almost anything to save their horses too. I have seen the most battle-hardened of soldiers weep for the loss of his steed. And weep too, when an animal which looked beyond recovery has been saved against the odds. That,’ Stephanie Darvill said, clasping her hands together fervently, ‘is one of the very best aspects of my vocation.’
He could not help but be endeared. ‘Your love of horses shines through.’
She beamed at him. ‘As does yours.’
‘I quite literally grew up around horses,’ Rafiq confided. ‘When I was three months old, I was sent out to be raised by a Bedouin tribe. It is the custom here, for a prince’s sons to live outside the palace confines for ten years in this way. Bedouins treat their horses as part of the extended family. They even bring them into their tents at night to shelter from the chill desert air.’
‘Those early years then, sowed the seed of your ambition to establish the Bharym stud farm?’
‘Bharym has a proud legacy of breeding the finest thoroughbreds. It is part of our heritage.’
She flinched at the edge in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea. I was under the impression that this stud was relatively new.’
‘In a literal sense you are correct,’ Rafiq said stiffly. ‘The stables were rebuilt when I inherited the kingdom eight years ago, but I believe—and my people also—that they are a continuation of what has gone before. The seed of my ambition, as you put it, was planted fourteen years ago, on the day when Bharym lost the Sabr.’
‘The Sabr? Aida—your Mistress of the Harem—mentioned this Sabr, what is it?’
‘The Sabr is the most prestigious annual endurance race in all of Arabia.’
‘Like the Derby in England?’
‘There is no comparison,’ Rafiq said. ‘To win the Sabr brings prestige not only to the owner, but to the whole kingdom. The Sabr is a symbol of national pride.’
‘So this race, it is to win it that you established—re-established—the