Felicity smiled weakly.
“—but I can sleep happy knowing you’ve made an incredible match with a husband who will treat you like a lady and give you every advantage High Society has to offer.” Cole’s eyes shone with brotherly love. “Raymore will have no problem signing a betrothal contract with a charitable works clause. He’d probably insist upon it. Just imagine what the two of you can do!”
She was imagining. She’d been imagining this very thing since she and her brother were two urchins covered in dirt and axle grease. The dream of someday had kept them alive.
The last thing she’d ever do was let her brother down. He was happily married now, but before that, he’d spent years sacrificing for Felicity. The first promises they ever made had been to each other. The kinds of lives they’d live if the opportunity ever arose.
This was opportunity rising. She couldn’t let Cole’s sacrifices be for nothing.
“There you are,” said a cheerful voice. “The loveliest lady in the ballroom. Lady Felicity, may I have this dance?”
Of course he could. Lord Raymore was the reason she was in this ballroom.
She couldn’t let herself forget.
At her brother’s encouraging smile, Felicity gave the marquess her hand and let him lead her before the orchestra.
The music began. A waltz.
Her shift itched. The stagnant air was unbearable and her layers of skirts far too heavy. She wished she were wearing trousers. No, she wished she were wearing breeches. They were half as long as trousers, and in this ballroom soup, she’d take any relief she could get.
Except there were no more breeches in her future, were there? Just thousands more balls just like these, her clothing growing stiffer and less airy every year as she aged into a respected old matron.
A respected old matron with the bottomless purses of the ton at her beck and call.
There were children out there with no fresh clothing at all. Felicity had once been one of them. “Forced to marry a rich marquess” was hardly an impressive sacrifice if it meant keeping her vow to do everything in her power to help others.
“Your brother tells me you’ve a passion for charitable works.”
This particular personality quirk had sent half a dozen spendthrift suitors running. Lord Raymore’s eyes were kind; his voice interested. He wasn’t disappointed. He was delighted.
“I’d like to start a foundation.” Her legs wobbled nervously. She’d never admitted her goal aloud to anyone but Cole and Giles. Donating spare coin was a far cry from running a charitable organization. “I’ve never managed one before, but…”
Lord Raymore didn’t scoff. He smiled instead. “As it happens, I have a bit of experience in that regard myself. The Children’s Circulating Library now runs like clockwork, but in the early days—”
“You’re the anonymous benefactor behind the library?” Felicity blurted.
Hester donated to that cause. So did Lady Donnell, Lady Mortram, the Earl of Fortescue, and countless others.
Lord Raymore’s cheeks tinged with pink. “Slightly less anonymous now that I’ve told you my secret, but yes. That’s one of my projects. I dislike being in the public eye, but I am passionate about improving the lives of children. Tell me about the foundation you’d like to start.”
The words tumbled from Felicity’s mouth of their own accord. Raymore listened attentively, interrupting only with insightful questions and thoughtful suggestions.
If she married him, there would be no need to spend the rest of her life wheedling every penny out of him. The marquess was not only already willing to do everything Felicity dreamed, but also possessed the means and status to make the rest of the ton follow his lead.
This was it. Mission accomplished. Success was in sight.
So why did it feel like her heart was breaking?
Chapter 11
Dawn. The air was crisp, the heavy sky was streaked with orange, and Rotten Row was as crowded as Vauxhall on balloon launch day.
This was it. The big race.
Despite having been on her feet for the past twenty hours, Felicity was wide awake.
Six immaculate curricles were inching toward the starting line, two-by-two. As prior champion, Giles was in the final row next to Silas Wiltchurch. The chariots might have to bank slightly off-track in order to pass each other, but no one was worried about the grass. Today was about winning.
Most of the spectators swarmed near the waiting curricles, in the hopes of shouting words of encouragement—or good-natured insults—to the drivers.
Felicity had chosen a spot twenty yards past the starting line. She had no desire to glimpse Giles sitting still in a stationary carriage. That wasn’t his natural state. She wanted to witness him flying down the track, moving from last to first in the blink of an eye, to the roar of an exuberant crowd.
Not to mention that somewhere in this packed crowd, her brother was here to monitor the outcome of his wager. Felicity had made certain to blend with the crowd on the opposite side of the track. Her brother might indulge her eccentricities by allowing Felicity to tinker safely out of public sight, but Cole would kill her if he knew she was out and about unchaperoned. Dressed as a lad or otherwise.
If the first race she’d watched had been capital fun, this one was twice as exciting. These weren’t any old carriages out for a Hyde Park jaunt. There was her brother’s carriage. The curricle Felicity had worked on for the past fortnight.
And the appointed driver was her Giles. The man whose bare hands had, on more than one occasion, been deep in her hair as he claimed her mouth. Not this morning, unfortunately. She was dressed as a lad in trousers, not his great-aunt Melba—neither of whom it would have been appropriate to kiss in public.
But there would be no more kisses in their future. Felicity shouldn’t even be here now, not with a marriage proposal from Lord Raymore on the line. No, not a mere proposal on the line, but her charitable foundation, and the lives of countless children. That was Felicity’s future.
This race was goodbye.
Giles would not be shocked to learn she intended to accept the marquess’s suit. She’d never hid her plans from him. They’d known where each other stood from the beginning. What they’d shared was magical, but temporary. They’d walked into it with open eyes and would walk away the same way.
Boom.
At the crack of the starting pistol, all six curricles were off.
Felicity’s heart lurched. Every inch of her brimmed with pure, unadulterated joy whenever she was near Giles, even if she could only watch from the shadows.
A wet droplet splashed on her nose, and she cast her gaze skyward. The dark clouds overhead had been spitting occasional raindrops, but it didn’t look like it would storm quite yet.
Not that Giles would need that much time to annihilate the competition. No one could hold a candle to his skill at the reins.
As the carriages thundered past, one, two, three, four, five, six—there he was!—Giles turned his head at the last second as if he sensed Felicity’s presence despite the cover of the crowd.
He couldn’t see her. Could he?
Giles winked.
A giddy laugh threatened to spill from her chest. He had seen her! She was at her most invisible, dressed in trousers in the least likely spot of a very large crowd, and he had found her as easily as if their souls were entwined.
Was it any wonder she’d fallen hopelessly, irreversibly in love with this maddening, wonderful man? Goodbye or not, as soon as he won this race, she’d be tempted to sail straight into his arms and kiss him senseless. He was—
In trouble.
Barely fifty yards past the starting line, Silas Wiltchurch drove his horses into Giles’s path in a bald attempt to force his chaise out of the running. Horses reared in alarm as flying puffs of dirt and the crunch of wheels rent the air.
Any closer, and wheels would touch wheels, risking the safety of both carriages—and the lives of the drivers.
Wiltchurch veered toward Giles again, this time even more recklessly. Giles would either crash into the driver ahead—or a tree to the right.
Giles swerved his curricle off the road and onto the grass, expertly threading the narrow distance between the track and the tree trunk.
It might have worked, had a low branch not dipped directly in his path.
Giles threw up his arms just in time to prevent the thick, knobby branch from pulverizing his face.
It got his arm instead.
Dust and blood went flying, the curricle stopped dead in its tracks, and Silas Wiltchurch—
Continued on as if nothing had happened, gleefully speeding up to overtake the next carriage in line.
“Bloody villain,” Felicity hissed under her breath as she plowed through the crowd, sprinting toward Giles as fast as she could.
“Check the horses,” he gasped the moment he saw her.
“Your arm,” she replied in horror, ignoring the carriage. Her lungs seized. The sleeves of his jacket were flayed open. Patches of red spread beneath. She couldn’t breathe.
“My silk racing shirt didn’t tear,” he said. “I’m bruised and bloody, but fine. Check the horses.”
He still meant to win, she realized in awe. Heart racing, she ran to the horses. They were unhurt, but agitated. They calmed at her familiar touch. In a trice, they seemed ready to fly back onto the track and trounce Silas Wiltchurch.
As much as Felicity supported such a plan, safety came first. She hurried to the other side of the curricle, where the two wheels had almost come into contact. Filthy, but no fractures. The carriage was still sturdy and well-seated. Wiltchurch had failed.
“Everything’s fine,” she called up, then frowned at the sight of Giles’s swelling arm. “Are you certain you can drive?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. Then, “Maybe.”
She grabbed the splinter bar and hauled herself up into the curricle beside him.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
She grabbed the reins from his lap and jerked her head toward the side of the track, where a crowd was forming. “Meet me at the finish line.”
“Be safe.” He clutched his arm to his chest and managed to leap to the ground. “And win!”
The crowd echoed his shout.
She could do this. Felicity knew these horses; knew this carriage. She would win or die trying.
“Yah!” she yelled, and nearly fell back against the seat as the horses leaped back onto the track and took off after the others as if they wanted Silas Wiltchurch to choke on their dust just as badly as she did.
Rage spurred them to speeds they’d never reached before.
Felicity had known Wiltchurch was a petty snob and a poor loser, but she’d never expected him to stoop to sabotage at the potential cost of human life. Not in front of all these witnesses. She would not let him get away with it.
Thunder shook the sky. She could barely hear it over the rumble of wheels and the roar of wind in her ears.
She wasn’t driving. She was soaring.
This was who she was. A demon in trousers, here to make him rue the day he’d endangered the life of the man she loved. They were no longer horse and driver, but an unstoppable bullet speeding through the air faster than the eye could see. But it wasn’t enough. They’d lost too many precious seconds.
Dusty rivulets of rain streaked across her face as she reached the first carriage.
She wouldn’t beat Giles’s time from the last race.
He’d turned around before the others had even neared the end of the track, and today it was Felicity who was watching the others turn and speed toward her, then disappear.
But she’d caught up; or close enough. She was now only a few yards behind the next curricle.
She made her turn at the end of the track and tore back toward the finish line.
Chapter 12
Giles cradled his swollen arm to his thundering chest and stepped one foot back onto the dirt to squint down the track. Rain matted his hair, his clothes. The crowd tried to swarm him at once.
“Back away,” he growled. “I’ll answer your questions after the race.”
He did not know whether their acquiescence was a testament to how much they revered him, or to their equal desire not to miss a single moment of whatever might happen next. His pulse raced with excitement and fear.
Giles had shown up this morning with the sole goal of winning a race, but now his heart was in his throat as he watched Felicity take his place. He wanted to win, but not at the expense of her safety. Yet she was fearless on the track.
They’d lost valuable time with the crash, the inspection, the bickering as to which one of them belonged behind the reins, but she was already closing the lost distance and was coming up fast on the curricle in second-to-last place.
The rain was coming down harder, but he blinked it away. Giles rarely watched a race from the sides. It was excitement and chaos and loud and crazy and almost as much fun as being the one up in the driver’s seat, racing for his life.
His heart swelled with pride as Felicity neatly passed the other carriage with a wide, safe berth.
He screamed his encouragement, his heart racing more wildly than the horses tearing down the track.
It would take a miracle to make it first to the finish line, but already this race would be the talk of the town for months to come: Giles Langford, Curricle King, had handed the reins to an unknown lad when that insufferable Silas Wiltchurch had run him from the road.
And the unknown lad was catching up with the competition.
Lord Felix, indeed. Master of his carriage and keeper of his heart.
When she passed a second curricle, he let out a war whoop that was drowned by the equally hysterical reactions of the deafening crowd. His legs and fingers shook.
She was doing it. She was doing it.
Giles bounced on his toes despite the jarring pain to his arm. He was thrilled and terrified, lightly panicked and insanely proud.
Felicity wasn’t mere competition. She was a master at the helm, an avenging goddess, an unstoppable force.
The nearer she drew to the finish line, the closer she came to Silas Wiltchurch. Giles didn’t trust that blackguard as far as he could throw him.
But he’d trust Felicity with his life.
It had been past time for her to take the reins and finally do as she wished. Whatever that might be, he wouldn’t stand in her way. He’d support her, come what may. That was what partners did.
Despite the rain and the accident and the spectators and the clouds of dust, she looked as calm and competent as ever. Her body was relaxed at the reins, and her face was smiling. The sight filled his chest with warmth.
Giles knew exactly what it felt like to fly high in a perch, overtaking competitor after competitor to the roar of an adoring audience.
He hadn’t known it would bring him the same joy to watch Felicity experience that same rush. To share that sense of being one with God and nature, with curricle and horses, with the crowd.
No wonder she’d begged for the opportunity to take Baby down this track. Felicity was born for this. A natural.
She passed a third carriage, leaving only two more between her and the finish line.
Ice snaked through Giles’s chest.
The finish line meant winning, but it also meant losing Felicity. She had commandeered his heart and taken him on the ride of a lifetime. Their partnership had always been temporary. This was the end.
Unless he did something about it.
They were meant for each other. He knew it; she must suspect the same. There was only one thing to do. His pulse jumped.
Ask her to marry him.
He had never quit anything just because there’d been a high chance of failure. He was in this race to win it.
Felicity passed a fourth curricle. Now it was just her and Silas Wiltchurch, less than two hundred yards from the end. Wiltchurch’s fancy connections might let him
get away with murder in Felicity’s world, but here at the races, he was nothing but a petty blackguard. The crowd had been on Felicity’s side from the moment she took the reins.
But she would need more than a cheering crowd to win. Wiltchurch was an insufferable, egotistical bully, but he was a ruthless driver in an exquisite carriage. He was used to winning and already had a head start. Giles could only stand helpless, his heart thundering as he watched.
Wiltchurch stuck to the center of the track, weaving back and forth so as not to allow any space for passing him on either side.
But all that weaving cost him momentum. His fifty-yard lead was now a thirty-yard-lead, then twenty, then ten.
When Felicity went left, Wiltchurch went left to block her.
When Felicity went right, Wiltchurch went right to block her.
When Felicity tried the left again, Wiltchurch—
But she wasn’t trying the left! It was a feint; meant to make her opponent overreact to a perceived threat.
It was all the opening she needed.
With a final burst, she rounded him on the right, the nose and neck of her horses crossing the finish line half a second before Wiltchurch’s did the same. Giles’s heart exploded.
Complete pandemonium.
The crowd erupted in screams and whoops, cheering delightedly because the villain had got exactly what was coming to him.
Giles’s throat was already hoarse from all of his own yelling, and he took off running toward the finish line to sweep Felicity into his arms, trousers and all. She was his and they had done it, because they were a team and un-bloody-stoppable.
He couldn’t wait to swing her around—albeit with one arm—and kiss her, twirl her, dance with her, propose to her…
So where the devil was she?
Panting from exertion and pain, Giles stared in befuddlement at the Duke of Colehaven’s empty curricle.
Felicity had been right here. Seconds ago. But now the only nearby person he recognized was—
The Duke of Colehaven.
Giles gulped at the duke’s understandably stormy expression.
One Night to Remember: Wicked Dukes Club #5 Page 11
