Another pat to her shoulder, and then he gathered up his reins and signaled to the steward that the horse and rider wearing the Denning colors were ready for the start.
Eve nudged William over to the starting line—the start was a dangerous, tricky moment—gathered up her reins, and crouched low over William’s glossy neck. Lucas Denning had just told her he loved her, he trusted her, and he would love her for all the rest of his days.
He believed she could win. He believed she would win. Eve tried to believe it too.
* * *
“Dolan is headed this way on a showy buckskin.” Kesmore passed his flask to Lady Louisa, who took a delicate sip and offered it to Deene.
“No, thank you.” Not for one instant would Deene take his eyes off the horses sprinting forward from the start. The start was a critical moment in any race—a dangerous moment—but Eve had taken up a position off Goblin’s left shoulder. She could pace Dolan’s stallion from there without being at risk for getting kicked or—inadvertently or otherwise—thwacked by the riding crop Goblin’s jockey held in his right hand.
Kesmore put his flask away and kept his voice down. “One hesitates to point out the obvious, Deene, but by every Jockey Club rule book in the known world, a female jockey’s ride will be disqualified.”
“One comprehends this.”
Lady Louisa’s horse shifted, as if Eve’s sister might not have been aware of this fact.
“Then why in blazes,” Kesmore went on in a rasped whisper, “would you put your wife at risk for injury or worse, much less scandal, if no matter how well she rides, the results cannot inure to your benefit?”
“Yes,” Louisa echoed, her tone truculent. “Why in blazes?”
The horses cleared the first fence almost as a unit, clipping along at a terrific pace.
“On this course, on that horse, my wife is as safe as Lady Louisa is perched on that pretty, docile mare. And as for the rest of it, I know exactly what hangs in the balance. There will be some talk, of course, but weathering a bit of gossip is almost a Windham marital tradition.”
He fell silent, lest he part with a few other things he knew.
For example, because he knew his horse and jockey so well, Deene saw Eve subtly check William as they approached the shadowed jump. The horse did not slow, but rather focused his attention more carefully on the upcoming obstacle. They cleared it a half stride behind Goblin—who’d chipped, taking a short, ungainly stride for his takeoff—and landed in perfect rhythm.
“Whatever else is true,” Kesmore said quietly, “that is one hell of a rider on your colt.”
One hell of a rider, indeed, and one hell of a colt. Aware of Dolan approaching on his showy mount, Deene did not share what else he knew of that rider, which included the fact that in all the weeks of their marriage, she had not been burdened with the female indisposition even once.
* * *
Three strides away from the start, Eve had known she wasn’t on some flighty two-year-old. William knew his job, relished his job, and intended to see to the matter of trouncing Goblin without a great deal of interference from Eve.
She had been tempted to use the first fence to disabuse the colt of his arrogant notions, to use a safe, easy fence to insist on a little submission from three-quarter ton of muscle and speed—except William’s pacing was perfect, his takeoff flawless, and his landing so light Eve merely murmured some encouragement to him.
Where an argument might have started, she instead complimented the horse, and so when she had to point out to him that a fence lay in the upcoming shadows, he was attentive to her aids and cleared the thing in the same perfect rhythm.
Goblin’s jockey hadn’t fared quite as well, the big gray being more intent on maintaining the lead than listening to his rider. Because of their bickering, they took off too close to the jump again, while Eve kept William a few feet off Goblin’s shoulder and snugged herself down to the colt’s back. The brush fence was coming up, and brush had been known to reach up and pluck an unwary rider from the saddle merely by getting tangled between boots, stirrup leathers, horse, and rider.
* * *
“Lady Kesmore, Kesmore.” Dolan spoke from the back of his golden gelding. “Deene. Your colt is giving a good account of himself.”
Deene nodded, not trusting himself to speak to a man who would stoop to drugging either horse or jockey, much less both.
The crowd roared as the horses, neck and neck, thundered up to the water… the goddamned water, with the goddamned mud that scared Evie so.
“Holy Christ.” Dolan’s oath underscored Deene’s own prayers. Whether William had taken the initiative or Eve had cued the horse, the colt soared high over the water, jumping bank to bank in a mighty, heaving leap, landing clear on the other side but losing ground to the other horse merely by spending so much time in the air.
“Your colt is a formidable jumper,” Dolan said, frowning. “Though perhaps not in the hands of the most prudent rider.”
* * *
“Good boy.” Eve didn’t risk patting William again, but the horse flicked his ears as if listening for her voice. Their decision at the water had been justified when Goblin had landed closer to the far bank and had to scramble for footing. The instant’s loss of forward momentum by the gray had William surging forward, claiming the lead. The horse would have widened the gap even farther, except Eve countermanded his wishes. Too much of the race lay ahead to be using up reserves of speed that would be needed for the long straightaway at the end, and much could happen between one jump and the next.
* * *
“I hate this fence.”
Deene didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Dolan nodded. “It sits up there on that small rise, an oasis amid boggy ground, tempting the unwary to overjump, and all manner of mayhem can ensue when the horses are running this closely.”
As Eve and William galloped headlong toward the fourteenth fence, Deene was aware of resentment that, of all the thousands of people gathered around the racecourse that morning, he and Dolan were sharing a particular bond exclusive to the two of them. Maybe it was what he’d sought—some acknowledgement of their familial connection—but watching Eve put herself on the line, jump after jump, it was hard not to hate Georgie’s father.
“God help them.” Kesmore went on to swear viciously as Eve’s horse cleared the big oxer only to land in bad footing.
Deene was already spurring Beast forward, when Dolan’s hand shot out and grabbed the reins. Deene brought his crop down hard on Dolan’s wrist and was prepared to use it on Kesmore’s restraining hand as well when Lady Louisa spoke.
“You can’t do a thing to help, Deene. Not now.”
* * *
The fence Deene had dreaded, the fourteenth, was coming up quickly. For no other reason than that Goblin had dropped back almost even with William’s quarters, Eve gave her horse the suggestion of a check on the reins. Look up, focus, beware.
William cleared the jump in excellent style, knees under his chin, back rounded in perfect form, and all going swimmingly—until the landing.
With the clarity of one in the midst of a pitched battle, Eve realized as the horse’s shoulder slipped from beneath her that the top of the oxer had not been quite level, and rain had drained off to puddle closer to one back corner of the jump—the corner nearest where William landed. In the soft footing, the colt slipped, and when he slipped, Eve’s world nearly came to an end.
This horror had befallen her seven years ago, a horse galloping along one moment, and in the next instant, heading for a disaster that could be fatal to horse and rider both.
As William pitched forward and fought for balance, instinct screamed at Eve to yank up on the reins, to try to haul the horse to his feet on main strength, to defy gravity itself.
She defied instinct; she defied every primitive imperative of self-preservation and relied instead on hard-won wisdom and experience. As William thrashed to keep his feet under him, Eve’s arms shot forward
, giving the colt as much slack in the reins as she could without actually dropping the leather from her grip.
He used the leeway she created to throw the great weight of his head and neck up, and in one tremendous surge, got himself organized and moving forward again. The magnitude of his effort was so great, Eve was nearly unseated as leap followed bound followed leap, until stride by stride, they reunited their efforts and took off after the gray, who’d already opened up a gap of several yards.
* * *
“Bloody game pair you’ve got there,” Dolan muttered. “Begging the lady’s pardon for my language.”
Deene said nothing. How Eve had managed to avoid disaster eluded him. Sheer grit, luck, skill… or her husband’s unceasing prayers. One more fence, and it would come down to a grueling test of stamina—a test where Dolan’s more experienced jockey and bigger horse might hold all the advantages.
* * *
“You can do this,” Eve whispered. “We can do this. Catch him, William. Catch him and show him who owns the bloody course.”
She didn’t need to shout. William’s ears swiveled, proof he was listening for her voice. In Eve’s mind, she heard her father’s voice, though, imparting a piece of advice she’d never understood until that moment.
“In any fair contest, the horse with a sense of rhythm will beat the larger, stronger mount who lacks rhythm. Rhythm is what makes the beast efficient, so he’s not working against himself, his rider, or his job. Let your horse develop his own rhythm, and then time the aids to his cadence. It’s like dancing, my girl. Just like dancing.”
They cleared the second-to-last fence flawlessly, William’s strides to the fence perfect, his move off a graceful bound.
“Well done, Your Highness. One more, and we’ll be bound for home.”
They were closing the distance to Dolan’s stallion too, stride by stride. Eve resisted the urge to check William’s increasing speed. The colt had yet to mistime a fence, yet to misjudge a single distance. She crouched lower over his neck and gave the reins forward a hair.
“Go, William. Get us home.”
He tackled the last fence from an impossibly long distance, his leap flat and efficient enough to gain half a stride and bring him up to Goblin’s quarters. The gray was breathing in great, heaving bellows as the jockeys turned their horses into the straightaway toward the finish.
William galloped on, his stride, if anything, lengthening, while beside them, Goblin threw up his head. His jockey cursed over the thundering of the hooves and screaming of the crowd, and Eve knew a moment’s sympathy.
Had Deene not insisted she show William that final stretch, the waving flags, the shifting crowd, that might be William registering a protest at having to gallop on into what could appear to a horse to be absolute mayhem.
But it wasn’t William. Deene had recalled this detail, and so Eve gave the reins forward another hair.
“It’s your race, William. God bless you, it’s your race.”
* * *
“Deene, congratulations are in order.” Dolan stuck out a hand, which Deene merely glared at.
“The stewards have yet to render a decision.” Deene nudged Beast forward, intent only on getting to Evie and William, on holding his wife in his arms and taking her somewhere safe and private where he’d never, ever let her go, nor even sit on a horse again.
“Deene.” Kesmore trotted his black up along beside Beast. “Greymoor will stay with her, you needn’t hurry.”
“Shut up, Joseph. When Greymoor finds out my jockey is a woman, there will be hell and a half to pay, and I don’t want Evie dealing with that alone.”
The stewards would keep any horse crossing the finish line in sight at all times until they’d confirmed the horse was the same one that began the race, and this would very likely result in Eve’s gender becoming common knowledge. Greymoor was a gentleman, but he’d resent like hell that his race had been tainted by a breach of the rules.
Kesmore kept pace even when Deene moved up to the canter. “Given what Dolan attempted, I’m not sure you need worry so very much for your jockey.”
“Two scandals for the price of one. I’m counting on it.”
“You’re counting on both horses being disqualified?”
“Aelfreth will swear he was drugged—the man’s still barely able to stand, and you saw the condition Beast was in this morning.”
Eve was up in her irons, hand-galloping William in a great sweeping arc while Greymoor on his black paced her a few lengths back. As she brought William down to the canter, then the trot, Greymoor closed the distance, reaching William only a moment before Deene did.
“Well ridden,” Greymoor pronounced. “Deene, it appears congratulations are in order, though my official decision will wait until I’ve conferred with my subordinates.” They trotted on another moment, until Goblin’s owner joined them on his golden horse. “Dolan, good morning.”
“Greymoor.”
Bannister came bustling up, tossing a cooler over William’s sweaty quarters while another groom put a hand on the reins.
“Off you go, lad. Well done.” Bannister peered up meaningfully at Eve, who had made no move to take off her cap or goggles, thank God.
“Right. Off I go.”
Beneath the mud and grime flecking her cheeks, she was pale as a ghost. Deene felt his heart turn over in his chest as Eve swayed a bit on William’s back. William, still bristling with energy from his victory, began to dance, and Eve almost toppled from the saddle.
Deene was off his horse and dragging Eve against his chest just as Greymoor reached for her as well.
“Husband.” Eve’s voice was distant, a fading whisper that had Greymoor’s dark eyebrows pitching upward and Kesmore swearing under his breath. Greymoor reached over and gently removed Eve’s goggles.
“Lord Deene,” Greymoor said quietly. “A word with you and Mr. Dolan.”
“You may have your word,” Deene said, “in a moment. Kesmore, where is your lady?”
“I’m here,” Louisa said as her husband assisted her to dismount.
Eve’s eyes fluttered open. “Lucas, did we win?”
Such hope shone from her eyes, such trust. “You won, Eve.” Never had Deene been more grateful for his command of English. “You crossed the finish line first, you put in the best race, you rode like hell, and you won.”
She reached up and laid her hand against his cheek. “We won.”
“Deene.” Louisa was glaring at him, Greymoor’s expression wasn’t exactly friendly, and Dolan was looking amused.
“Off with you now,” Deene said, passing Eve into Kesmore’s arms. “I could not be more proud of you, Wife, or more impressed. Well done.”
Greymoor at least waited until Kesmore had moved out of earshot. “Well done, but you must know any horse and rider combination where the jockey is not of the male gender…”
Dolan spoke up, his brogue thicker than Deene had ever heard it.
“If your great, pontificating lordship would cease nattering for a moment, my brother-in-law and I will be havin’ a wee discussion yonder, like the gentlemen we are.”
“An odd pronouncement, Dolan,” Deene replied, “considering you tried to drug my horse and succeeded in drugging my jockey.”
“Enough,” Greymoor hissed. “I will meet you both at the stable block, once I have conferred with the other stewards, and you will behave yourselves until then.” He stalked off, swung up on his black, and cantered away, leaving Deene resisting the urge to plant a fist in Dolan’s handsome face.
“You might have gotten my wife killed today, drugging King William. I hope the knowledge chokes you to death, Dolan.”
“I did not drug your damned horse, Deene, and if you want to live to see another sunrise, you will stop implying to the contrary.”
Rage at the man’s indifference threatened the edges of Deene’s vision. “Eve heard your minions plotting last night, Dolan. We switched Beast for William, else you might have succeeded
in fixing the race. Do you know what your fate would be if word got out you’d tried to fix this race?”
“Listen to me, Deene.” Dolan swaggered in close and planted his fists on his hips. “I did not fix the bloody race. Until I rose from my bed this very morning, I had every intention of losing the damned race—why would I drug your colt if I wanted to lose to him?”
“You wanted to lose?”
“For God’s sake, I wanted my daughter raised in the household of a bloody benighted damned lord of the realm. I wanted every advantage for her. I wanted her auntie, the marchioness, firing her off in a few years. I wanted…” Dolan’s hands dropped from his hips. He scrubbed a palm over his chin then dragged his fingers through his hair. “I wanted what was best for my daughter.”
“Then why…?”
Deene took a step back, measuring the man before him. The man who’d fought Deene’s every effort to be an uncle to Georgie.
“My lord?” A woman’s voice. Deene turned his head and vaguely recognized a willowy blond with serious gray eyes.
“Amy, this is none of your affair.” Dolan’s tone had a gruff note in it, a warning note, and something else—something beseeching.
“Hush, sir. Inasmuch as I love Georgina too, this is my affair.”
Of all people, the Earl of Westhaven shouldered through the circle of curious onlookers forming around Dolan and Deene. “Might I suggest we take this discussion back to the privacy of the stable block?”
Others appeared at Westhaven’s elbow: Lord Valentine Windham, the Baron Sindal, the Earl of Hazelton, and bringing up the rear, no less personage than the Duke of Moreland himself.
Dolan sighed, smiling faintly. “Your wife has an honor guard, Deene. It seems we’re to repair to the stables. Amy, you will walk with us.”
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