the unbridgeable gulf between her own lowly origins and those with lofty pedigrees to protect. More than anything, experience had taught her a very hard lesson in the differing social status afforded to men and women. While a gentleman could boast about his conquest with impunity, the conquest herself was branded a harlot. The iniquity of it could still make her clench her fists with fury.
But there was one field in which she could succeed on her own terms. One field in which, second only to Papa, she knew herself to be expert—more than the equal of any man, no matter how well born he might be. It was time for her to prove that. Returning to her chamber, Stephanie began to prepare for the long and taxing day ahead.
* * *
A little over an hour later, breakfasted, dressed and armed with her precious box of instruments, Stephanie emerged from the royal palace in the wake of a servant, into bright morning light and what was clearly the stable complex. She was dressed simply, in a cambric blouse teamed with her wide, plain skirt, belt, riding boots, and her broad-brimmed hat. Despite having decided to leave her jacket behind, she was already too hot, and despite the confidence-boosting talk she had given herself en route, she was already feeling nervous.
Rafiq, in contrast, looked cool, confident and regal as he strode across the cobbles to meet her. Today, he wore a plain white open-necked shirt tucked into riding breeches, worn with long boots. His hair was swept back from his brow, the natural curl forming a wild halo which, combined with the smattering of dark hair at his throat, gave his handsome looks a savage edge. Despite herself, Stephanie’s stomach lurched as he approached, a combination of attraction and apprehension that did nothing for her composure.
‘Good morning, Your Highness,’ she said, making a curtsy, conscious that there would be many eyes watching them.
‘I trust you slept well?’
‘Oh, like a babe in arms,’ she said, the silly lie making her colour. Panic threatened to render her ineffectual. There was a world of difference between her dream of treating the thoroughbred horses of a royal prince and the reality which now confronted her. These stables were overwhelmingly and entrancingly beautiful, and clearly more prestigious than anything she had ever before encountered. She wasn’t just daunted, she was petrified.
‘As you can see from the position of the sun, we are on the north side of the palace,’ Rafiq said. ‘It is cooler here, which makes it the ideal location for the stables.’
Stephanie felt far from cool. Perspiration trickled down her back. Her corsets, though she had laced them loosely, felt far too tight. The huge paddock to the front of her was shaded by clusters of tall palms and acacia trees with their feathery leaves and white flowers. At the furthest side a large pool of water gleamed, reflecting the tall spikes of papyrus grass in shades of sea-green, their fronds tipping down to the pool as if to sip from it. The dusty ground was covered in patches of scrub, burnt brown, acid-yellow and silvery-grey in colour, but nevertheless giving the paddock a veneer of lushness.
‘Bharym’s relative proximity to the sea, and those mountains over there,’ the Prince said, pointing to the rugged violet-coloured hilltops in the distance, ‘mean that we are blessed with unusually high rainfall and consequently produce a good quantity of succulent grazing. The pool over there is a birket, a cistern dug from one of the many underwater springs which Bharym is fortunate enough to possess. That is one of the reasons why our horses thrive. Though the Arabian breed is renowned for its stamina compared to other horseflesh, they are still horses and not camels.’
More stands of trees provided shade for the stable buildings themselves, which featured a long, low façade of mellow stone in the classical Greek style, with a large central arch which provided entry to the courtyard and which was topped by a pediment carved with the image of Pegasus, the legendary winged horse of ancient mythology. Terraces flanked the inner courtyard, mirrored by the balcony which ran all the way around the first floor.
The business of the day was just getting underway. A string of horses were being led out for their early morning exercise. Rafiq greeted the riders, a mixture of stable hands and grooms, casually by name. Formalities were dispensed with here, Stephanie noted. The men returned his salutations only with a small bow, their eyes shying away from direct contact with hers.
‘Unfortunately, I’ve had to despatch Jasim on urgent business,’ Rafiq informed her. ‘We had promised two of our yearlings to a Bedouin sheikh, but the transaction simply cannot be completed while the stud is under the shadow of the plague. It is imperative that both the sickness and knowledge of its presence here be kept secret, so Jasim has gone armed with a plausible excuse as a delaying tactic. It therefore falls to me to act as your chaperon.’
Stephanie, having braced herself for a first encounter with the Master of the Horse, had mixed feelings at this surprise development. ‘I was keen to meet Jasim as soon as possible. I believe I made it clear I prefer to fight my own battles, without assistance.’
Rafiq stiffened. ‘Your tenure is dependent on your not ruffling too many feathers here at the stables. Talk of fighting battles is not conducive to that.’
He spoke coldly. He clearly was not accustomed to being challenged. Stephanie straightened her shoulders, wishing she did not have to look up quite so far to meet his eyes. ‘Sometimes one has to battle in order to gain respect. I would not expect you to understand that, since you are automatically accorded it,’ she said with far more confidence than she felt. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. She felt like a very small mouse looking up at a very large hawk.
‘Your honesty is refreshing, your resolve admirable, but your judgement is flawed. I sent Jasim away because winning the trust and respect of the other stable hands and grooms should be your first priority. Jasim would be hostile to your presence even if you were a man. You must not forget, he has failed to cure the sickness himself. As my race trainer, he has every reason to want this sickness cured, but as a man nursing considerably bruised pride, he will grudge any success you have. I am trying to facilitate that success, not patronise you, as you seem to imagine.’
While he talked, Stephanie had the distinct impression that she was shrinking. Now, she felt as if she really was the size of a mouse. ‘I see that now,’ she said, in a voice to match.
‘To that end,’ Rafiq continued, as if she had not spoken, ‘I have fully briefed the men on the nature of your appointment, and emphasised the respect with which I wish you to be treated.’
Which explained the lowered eyes, the sidelong glances she had been receiving. ‘Thank you,’ Stephanie said, in a voice which singularly failed to sound grateful.
Rafiq laughed gruffly. ‘If you had witnessed the outrage on their faces an hour ago, you would say that as if you meant it.’
‘Rafiq, what I do know is that your belief in me means a great deal. Thank you.’
‘An apology, but not a capitulation. You are a very stubborn woman, Stephanie Darvill.’
‘I prefer to call it determined.’
He had the kind of face that was quite transformed by a genuine smile. It softened the austere perfection of his looks, but paradoxically added considerably to his allure. Her body responded with a jolt of pure lust that left Stephanie smiling idiotically back, quite transfixed for several seconds, oblivious of where they were and who was watching, until Rafiq broke the spell, turning abruptly on his heel.
‘Come,’ he said brusquely, ‘let us proceed with your introductory tour. The stable layout is straightforward. There are horse stalls lining both walls. The tack rooms and the feed stores are at the back, and in the centre
