* * *
Jonathan Dolan was not much given to prayer, but walking along through the thick spring grass on a pretty day, he prayed the gamble he was about to take might pay off.
For Georgina. For him it might be a flat loss, except it would expiate some of the guilt left by Marie’s death.
“Dolan, we haven’t much time.” Deene spoke softly as his relations-by-marriage hovered near, making it plain they weren’t about to let his lordship deal with Greymoor without a show of support.
“I intended to lose, Deene, it’s as simple as that. Georgina would go into your keeping, I’d be labeled an arrogant Irish fool, and you would allow me ample visitation with my daughter. Amy would keep an eye on the girl, you’d dote upon Georgina and spoil her rotten, and she’d have her pick of the lordlings when the time came.”
Deene scowled at him. “Does this have anything to do with a promise you might have made to my sister?”
Dolan blew out a breath, feeling a reluctant pang of admiration. “Oh, of course. I was to keep an eye on you, to help you deal with your idiot father, and so on.”
“Then why the hell…?” Deene stopped and lowered his voice when one of the Moreland lordlings glanced over. “Why the hell did you give me such a hard time when I wanted to see Georgie?”
“Because you are a lord of the realm,” Dolan said. “Everything comes easily to you, on every hand. You value only what’s denied you, and so I denied you your niece, and you came to value her greatly.”
“You are an idiot, Dolan. A bona fide, blazing, certifiable…” Deene fell silent again.
“I am an idiot, but until I started limiting your access to Georgina, you were intent on haring off in all directions. Cairo one moment, Baltimore the next, which is exactly what your sister did not want to see happen.”
Deene glanced over again, his expression considering. “I was supposed to keep an eye on you as well, but I soon gave up on that. If looking after Georgie was the only way I could keep a promise to my sister, then look after Georgie was what I would do.”
It must be galling to the younger man, to know his sister had set them both up like this. A few more years of marriage, and his perspective would shift, if Dolan’s estimation of the marchioness was on the mark.
“I suppose all’s well, then,” Dolan pointed out. “You won the race. You get the prize.”
“I did not win the race,” Deene said, his voice low but forceful. “My jockey will be disqualified, and if you didn’t try to drug my horse, then I’d like to know who did?”
Dolan took Miss Amy Ingraham’s arm and caught Moreland’s eldest noting the gesture.
“Amy has something to tell you, something she managed to tell me only after we’d saddled up and wrestled Goblin up to the starting line. Tell him, Miss Ingraham, and make it quick, because Greymoor will not spare us a moment’s more privacy than he has to.”
“I know who drugged your horse, my lord. At first I thought it was you, so closely does the man resemble you. Then I realized he’s older than you, a little less broad through the shoulders, and so forth.”
“The man’s name?”
Dolan gave Deene credit for asking civilly. Amy seemed to shrink against Dolan’s side, and her pace slowed as they approached the Denning stable block.
“I am familiar with Debrett’s, Lord Deene. The man I overheard congratulating his minions for drugging your horse is Lord Andermere. I believe he’s a cousin of some sort to you.”
“Amy, would you excuse us for just a moment?” Dolan tried for a conciliatory tone but wasn’t quite successful.
“Jonathan, you promised.”
“I know, my dear, and I shall keep my promises. All of my promises.”
She looked like she wanted to say more, but went up on her toes and kissed Dolan’s cheek right there before the Moreland horde, with Deene looking on, Kesmore glowering at all and sundry from the stables, and the Earl of Greymoor standing around smacking his boots with his riding crop.
That one small kiss on the cheek gave Dolan the resolve he needed to explain to Marie’s brother what should have been made plain to the man long since.
That Dolan had been in awe of his pretty, oh-so-proper wife, and would have paid five times the fortune he had to make her his own.
That he’d fallen in love with Marie despite every intention to the contrary.
That he’d waited a year after their vows for her permission to consummate the union, and that, when it was obvious more children might be the end of her, he’d still been nonetheless helpless to deny his wife anything, including the babies she’d begged for.
A decision he’d regretted every single day of his widowerhood.
* * *
“Be patient, my lord, please. They’ve needed to talk for years, and a few more minutes won’t make a difference.”
Eve wasn’t about to beg—Greymoor was in charge of a simple horse race, for pity’s sake. He wasn’t Lord High Admiral of anything; nor was his own family history so free of scandal that Eve feared the man would stir up trouble for the pure mischief of it. He looked like he might be formulating some polite rejoinder when Eve heard a familiar voice.
“Eve Windham… Denning.”
Her Grace approached at a pace a bit less decorous than the duchess usually displayed in public, while Greymoor bowed slightly and called out to one of his subordinates.
“Mama.”
The duchess appeared composed, until Eve caught Louisa’s eye. Louisa looked fretful, which suggested she might be scanning the surrounds for His Grace, which suggested in turn that Mama was not as calm as she appeared.
“You… You…” Her Grace stared at Eve, and while Eve braced herself for a lecture that would trump any scene the menfolk might be brewing, her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “I am so proud of you.”
It was the last thing Eve expected her mother to say, much less in a public location. “Proud of me?”
“Oh, you rode like a Windham. I wish Bartholomew had been alive to see his baby sister out there, soaring over one fence after another. I wish St. Just had been here to brag on you properly. I wish… oh, I wish…”
She reached for Eve and enfolded her daughter in a fierce, tight hug. “You showed them, Eve. You showed us all. Deene will be wroth with you for such a stunt, but he’ll get over it. A man in love forgives a great deal. Just ask your father.”
Her Grace whispered this between hugs, tighter hugs, and teary smiles.
“Mama, Deene is the one who said I ought to ride. I would never have had the…”
The courage. The faith in herself. The determination… All the things she’d called upon time after time in the past seven years, her own strengths, and she’d been blind to them.
“I could not have ridden that race without my husband’s blessing and support, Mama.”
“But you did ride it,” Her Grace said, pulling Eve in for another hug. “I about fainted when you had that bad moment. Your father had to watch the last fences for me, but then the finish… You were a flat streak, you and that horse. I’ve no doubt he’d jump the Channel for you did you ask it. Oh, Eve… You must promise me never to do such a thing again, though. I could not bear it. Your father nearly had another heart seizure.”
“I did no such thing, and I will ask you, Duchess, to keep your voice down if you’re going to slander my excellent health in such a manner.”
His Grace was capable of bellowing, of shouting down the rafters, of letting every servant on three floors know at once of his frequent displeasures, but the duke was not using ducal volume as he approached his wife and youngest daughter.
He was using his husband-voice, his volume respectful, even if his tone was a trifle testy.
“Papa.”
Eve pulled back from her mother’s embrace to meet her father’s blue-eyed gaze. Mama might be willing to make allowances, but His Grace was another matter entirely.
“Evie.” He glanced from daughter to mother. “You’ve upset
your mother, my girl. Gave her a nasty moment there at that oxer.”
She was to be scolded? That was perhaps inevitable, given that His Grace—
Her father pulled her into his arms. “But what’s one bad moment, if it means you’re finally back on the horse, though, eh? I particularly liked how you took the water—that showed style and heart. And that last fence… quite a race you rode, Daughter. I could not be more proud of you.”
He extended an arm to the duchess, who joined the embrace with a whispered, “Oh, Percival…”
So it came about that, for the first time in seven years, Eve’s proud parents saw her cry—and it was a good thing for them all, and for Eve’s brothers and sisters too. A very good thing, indeed.
* * *
“I think she’s all right,” Greymoor said, his glance anxious as he took in Eve and her parents farther down the barn aisle. “One doesn’t want to ask a duke and a duchess to shove off so one can decide which scandal should be propounded regarding the simple match race one was supposed to supervise, so perhaps you’d best intervene.”
Deene did not care for Greymoor’s irritable tone, but he cared even less for the prospect of Eve’s parents browbeating her for overcoming years of self-doubt in spectacular fashion.
“Evie?” He kept his tone casual and sauntered up to his wife. “Accepting some additional congratulations?”
He draped an arm over her shoulders and shot a challenging look at His Grace.
To Deene’s surprise, the duke was beaming at his youngest daughter. “Indeed she was, Deene. And there will be a proper celebration going on in our private pavilion once you get Greymoor set to rights.”
The duke offered his wife his arm, but Deene noticed they did not withdraw very far.
“Greymoor is about to explode, Wife. Shall we go take our medicine?”
Eve looped her arm through his. “William is faring well?”
“He’s still cooling out, but yes. He’s going sound, he knows he won, and he’s quite pleased with himself.”
“Papa and Mama were proud of me, Husband.”
She nearly whispered this, her tone one of awe. Deene stopped and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Of course they were. I am proud of you. William is proud of you. You need to know that, Eve, regardless of what Greymoor does with the race results.”
“I do know it. Louisa told me I’m to be disqualified.”
He stepped back just far enough to meet her gaze. “That doesn’t matter. You know it doesn’t matter?”
She nodded, her smile a thing of such joy and beauty, Deene’s heart began to hammer hard against his ribs.
“Deene.” Greymoor motioned them over to where Dolan stood beside the earl. “I am prepared to render a result in this race, and then—meaning no disrespect to her ladyship here—I am going to go home, get roaring drunk, and swear off stewarding private matches for at least ten years.”
Eve spoke up. “It’s all right, your lordship. I understand you cannot let my ride stand.”
Greymoor looked relieved, but Dolan didn’t let his lordship reply.
“I don’t see as that’s the necessary result.”
Deene appreciated the gesture, but rules were rules. “Dolan, there isn’t a jockey club on any continent that would allow a female jockey’s ride to stand. I know this. I knew it. I did not intend to keep Eve’s gender a secret.”
Dolan’s gaze was measuring. “I am a man of my word, Greymoor. It’s often the only grudging, honest compliment I garner from those of greater rank, but they must concede that much. At no time in our discussions did we stipulate that Jockey Club rules would apply. We did not run a standard distance, we did not use a standard steeplechase course, and we did not use a standard flat track. We ran a race designed to show off our two colts for the athletes they are, and we accomplished that aim. I say the first horse past the post should stand as the winner.”
“Mr. Dolan—” Greymoor’s brows knitted, and he slapped his crop against his boots once. “I understand this race to have entailed wagers between you and Lord Deene. If I decide the race in favor of Deene, what of the wagers?”
Dolan’s eyes went flat, his face expressionless. “I am prepared to abide by my word.”
“Lucas?” Eve cocked her head. “What does he mean?”
“I mean,” Dolan answered, “that I will surrender into Deene’s legal keeping my daughter Georgina, along with a sum certain in the tens of thousands of pounds, and that stallion known as Goblin, and further described as a gray standing seventeen one hands unshod, bearing no other—”
Deene cut him off. “I am not taking your daughter from you. That was never my aim, and I won’t be held responsible for doing so because your damned pride insists on it.”
“You wagered your daughter?” Eve asked.
“I wagered her future, which is better served if she’s raised by her uncle and by yourself, Lady Deene.”
This discussion was not going the way Deene had intended.
“I can declare Lady Eve the loser,” Greymoor volunteered, which earned him a scathing glance from Eve.
“Hush, my lord. This is a family matter. Mr. Dolan needs a moment to see the wisdom of my husband’s reasoning.”
“Lady Deene,” Dolan began, “I lost. I had considered losing apurpose, truth be known, and have had some time to accommodate myself to this outcome. I’m sure Deene will allow me ample visitation. We agreed on that for the loser as well.”
His gaze, when he raised his eyes to Deene, was… pleading. How long had Deene waited to see Jonathan Dolan brought to this, only to be unable to stand the sight of the man’s importuning.
“Lucas, we cannot. Georgina loves her father, and while I will happily do all in my power to see the girl launched, please don’t do this. You’ll see eventually…” She started to tear up, and so Deene kissed her to stop the flow of words, then speared the earl with a glare.
“Greymoor, I forfeit the race. I forfeit the race, the wager, everything. Declare Dolan the winner before my wife starts crying. I’ll get my visits with my niece, and Eve will sponsor her come out, which is all I ever truly wanted from this whole match.”
“Fine,” Greymoor sputtered. “The race is for—”
“Not a forfeit, for God’s sake,” Dolan expostulated. “Declare him the damned winner, and I’ll keep my daughter, but the money and the colt will be… wedding presents. Goddamned wedding presents, with the horse going into her ladyship’s keeping.”
Deene most assuredly did not want such a large sum of money from another family member, much less another horse for his wife to fall in love with, but before he could take up the argument, Eve had stuck out a small hand.
“You have a deal, Mr. Dolan.” She shook, she kissed the man’s cheek, and she looked like she’d hug the sorry bastard while Greymoor cracked a smile and the sound of applause filled Deene’s ears.
Eve’s family stood around them, Their Graces, her brothers, her sisters, their spouses, all beaming like idiots. The race, it appeared, had been decided.
Westhaven leaned in. “You will not, I hope, choose this moment to indulge in any ninnyhammer behavior, Deene. Shake the man’s hand, and get my sister the hell home before she faints again.”
Again?
Deene shook Dolan’s hand, endured the moment when Greymoor declared victory for King William, then got Eve the hell home. While she did not faint “again,” she did fall asleep in Deene’s arms, such that he had to carry her over the threshold and up to their chambers thereafter.
* * *
Eve awoke deep in the night to find her husband blanketing her. In one instant, she went from a sweet, sleepy awareness of his body draped over hers, to a focused yearning for intimacy with him.
“I wasn’t sure you’d awaken.” His voice held a note of humor in the darkness, also concern.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him, got one hand anchored on his muscular buttocks and the other in his hair. “I’m awake.”
; The day had been long, with her family celebrating at great and noisy length, until Valentine had started singing, Westhaven had joined in, then Sophie with her lovely voice, and Her Grace had all but wept to see her brood engaged in such a display of good spirits.
They’d fallen into telling stories next, with every other tale seeming to center around “Remember the time Evie went steeplechasing on Meteor,” or “Recall that it was Evie who wanted to see if the beasts really did speak on Christmas Eve…”
And Deene had waited patiently through it all, occasionally toasting his marchioness, but mostly keeping her by his side while the Windham family recovered from having one of its members in seven years of self-imposed exile.
When Deene had bundled Eve into the coach, she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, then later had fallen asleep at her bath, literally, and needed her husband’s assistance to get from the tub to the bed.
He hadn’t bothered to put her in a nightgown, a decision she had to approve of as he kissed his way across her collarbones.
“These bones could have been broken at that bloody oxer.”
“They weren’t. My husband had faith in me.”
He shifted up, to rest his chin on her crown. “I have never been so goddamned scared in my life, Evie. I have faith in you, and you rode one hell of a race, but please—I beg you—develop no aspirations involving a career as a jockey. There aren’t enough prayers in me or in all of Christendom for that.”
“I won’t.”
He sighed a big, husbandly sigh, proof positive he’d truly been concerned about this. And if she’d started spouting plans to work Goblin into better condition, no doubt he would have learned to pray harder and faster.
“Lucas?”
“Beloved?”
“Can we talk later?”
“We will talk later.”
He settled in then to love her. She already knew this about him after only a few months of marriage, knew when he was teasing and testing, knew when he was serious. He was very serious.
He was usually careful to insinuate himself into her body in easy, almost-pleasant stages, but this time, he seated himself at her opening, took her mouth in a voracious kiss, and drove home in one hot, sweet thrust that inspired her body into fisting around him in abrupt, clutching spasms of pleasure.
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