‘I have no wish to “redo” myself,’ she said angrily.
‘I don’t know if the moneyed crowd will hold it against you. I mean, after all, you’re a gringa, but—’
Arden stamped her foot. ‘I hate the way you say that!’
‘Why?’ He swung towards her, smiling. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but you make it sound as if—as if being North American is something I ought to apologise for.’
He laughed, showing even white teeth. ‘Have I asked for an apology?’
‘I didn’t mean it that way and you know it. I only meant...’ Arden blew out her breath. ‘Why does it give you such pleasure to insult me?’
His smile faded and his gaze swept over her, lingering on the thrust of her breasts and then on her lips.
‘Is that what you think?’
‘You’ve thought heaven only knows what about me from the beginning, and I resent it!’
Conor gave her a long look and then he smiled tightly. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He turned and began walking slowly down the aisle. ‘As I said, our stock is primarily Arabian. The current count stands at eight stallions, twenty-four mares, and half a dozen foals...’
Arden followed blindly after him, listening as his voice droned on but not hearing the words. Why had she said that? She’d made a point of never defending herself to him, not after that first ugly night. Then why... ?
‘If I’m boring you, just say so.’
She blinked. Conor was standing facing her, his hands on his hips, his mouth narrow.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘no, you’re not. I don’t know anything about horses, just how to ride a bit.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you made a point of learning that.’ His eyes were like chips of green ice. ‘Riding is a way of life here, on the finca, but I suppose it’s a sort of a prerequisite for the life you prefer.’
Arden’s eyes flashed as dangerously as his. ‘I don’t suppose it would ever occur to you that I simply like to ride.’
He smiled tightly. ‘You’re right. It wouldn’t.’
‘I hate to disappoint you,’ she said with a toss of her head, ‘but I do.’
‘What do you like best about it, hmm? The people you meet? The Hunt Club balls? Come on, Arden, this is me, remember? I know the truth about you.’
‘If you did, you’d know that the last thing I’d want to do is go to a ball—’
‘Why?’ Conor’s smile was sly. ‘Wouldn’t the wealthy old gentleman who paid for your lessons pay for the gowns you’d need?’
‘I paid for my own lessons,’ she snapped, jabbing her forefinger against her breast. ‘I paid by mucking out stalls—’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, why? Because I wanted to ride, that’s why! Because riding meant getting away by myself, into the woods where it was quiet, where no one looked at you and judged you by whether you lived on the Hill or in the valley, because sometimes I got tired of watching my mother wait hand and foot on other people...’
She fell silent, shocked as much by everything she’d said to him as by the fact that she’d needed to say it.
‘That’s not a great way to grow up.’
Arden looked up sharply, searching Conor’s face for some hint of sarcasm, but she found none. She sighed.
‘It wasn’t,’ she said. ‘I mean, when I look back I realise that it was—it was just that my mother worked so hard for everything she had...’ Her chin lifted defiantly. ‘And so have I.’
A long moment seemed to pass. When Conor finally spoke, there was an abrasiveness to his voice Arden had never heard before.