by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel
Spectators from all walks of life lined the three-quarters of a mile length of the lake, but the hill, from which almost the entire lake was visible, was reserved for the ducal parties and their friends. Althea, as Duchess of Linton and wife of her house’s oarsman, was given a prime position. Refusing a chair, she preferred to stand with her injured brother among the excited members of the ton. Nick’s injury and replacement was the main topic of discussion. It was generally agreed that Linton had no chance. Lord Bourne, rowing for Sedgemere, was fancied to come in second, and there was some healthy side-betting on whether John Fletcher for Killhope or Linton for The Chimneys would finish in third place. Lord William Besett was the runaway favorite, and the odds on his victory had shortened to less than evens. No one was prepared to bet against him now, and Nigel Speck, hovering on the edge of the elite crowd, looked unbearably smug.
“Bloody sporting of Linton to give it a go,” Lord Ormandsley said. “Too bad I put all my money on Maxfield and now I can’t get odds on Besett to hedge my bets. Anyone want to wager me a hundred guineas against Lord William? All my blunt’s on the old man, and he hasn’t a chance.”
“He is not old,” Althea whispered furiously to Nick.
“No,” her brother said. “He’s a damn good oarsman. I wish I had a few pounds.”
“Anyone?” Ormandsley asked again. “I’ll give you odds. Ten to one.”
“I wouldn’t bet against Besett if you gave me twenty,” someone jeered.
“Come on, fellows. Twenty to one. You can’t lose at that price.” And everyone laughed, because that is exactly what they were sure would happen.
“I’ll take it.” A dozen heads swiveled around to look at Althea.
“I say, Duchess,” Ormandsley said. “I didn’t see you there. Beg pardon if I said anything to offend.”
“I’m not offended. I expect to win a great deal of money from you.”
“Who’d have taken you for a loyal little wife?” For a moment, the men’s attention veered to Speck, then back again. Althea knew that they knew (or thought) her relationship with Linton was chilly, but they were, for the most part, gentlemen and would never refer to the fact in her presence.
“Damn bad ton,” someone muttered.
Althea ignored Speck and held on to Nick’s arm in case he was tempted to do something foolish. He’d told her what Speck had said, exactly what she’d suspected. Later on, she would tell Linton herself, before Speck had a chance.
“What will you bet?” Ormandsley asked. “Five pounds?”
“Five hundred.” Her stomach churned. Never in her life had she wagered such a sum, and if Ben lost, there’d be no new gowns for a year. If she won, she’d have ten thousand pounds. Nick could pay off Speck, and she’d make him invest the balance in the funds to give him a respectable income. Linton had talked to Nick about taking a position as steward at one of his estates. Linton would also, she was certain, come up with the money for Speck if she asked him to. But she wanted to do this by herself, although the plan did depend on Linton’s efforts with the oars.
Ormandsley grinned, certain that he’d win back some of his money. Little did he know how good Linton was. “Done,” he said. “You’re a sporting lady after my own heart.”
She felt a little sick, about the race, not the viscount’s potential loss. He was a rich idiot who could well afford it. But she knew Ben was nervous. She had watched him sleep for a long time last night before curling up beside him in the small hours. This morning, she had bustled around him like a good wife, making sure his beefsteak was cooked just how he liked it and pouring his coffee herself. He was quiet during the journey to Teversault, apart from a brief discussion of strategy with Nick. Before he left to join his competitors at the boathouse, he drew her out of sight behind the carriage.
Their eyes met for a long moment. “Wish me luck.”
“If you wish,” she said, putting her arms around his neck, “but you don’t need it.”
“I am probably about to make a fool of myself.”
“Not in my eyes. Never in my eyes.”
She rested her head on his chest for a while. The strength in his arms and broad shoulders gave her confidence. “I know you are going to win,” she said, and tears of pride welled against his coat.
“I must go. I’ll see you after the race.” He walked off briskly, but looked back after a few yards.
“Good luck, Ben,” she said, and waved. I love you. She wished she had said the words aloud.
The four competitors arrived on the opposite bank, carrying their oars, and followed by servants bearing the long, narrow sculls. They were dressed in tightly fitting shirts, linen breeches, and light half boots made of jean. Each man wore a different-colored neckerchief so the spectators could distinguish the rowers at a distance. The garments revealed a selection of fine masculine physiques that Althea was too much on-edge to appreciate. Linton was the biggest man, but there was little difference between him and Besett, except for ten years. Bourne and Fletcher were both slighter, but to Althea’s worried eyes, they looked healthy and fit and with less bulk to move. Nick had explained that superior strength more than carried its own weight, but she couldn’t quite believe it.
After a little ceremony conducted by Stoke Teversault, the host, the rowers settled in their boats, lined up evenly spaced across the breadth of the lake, and awaited the judge’s order to begin.
Besett started fast and immediately drew ahead, Bourne and Fletcher right behind him, Linton far back. By the time Besett reached the end of the lake, Linton was only halfway. Althea clutched Nick’s arm. “He’s far behind,” she whispered. “There must be something wrong.”
“It’s all right,” Nick said. “He’s conserving his strength and letting the younger men tire themselves out. Also, where the lake narrows at the end, there’s only room for one boat to turn at a time. Bourne and Fletcher wasted their energy, because now they have to wait for Besett. It’s all going according to plan.”
*
It was going as Linton had expected when he glanced over his shoulder to see what was happening with the boats ahead of him. While Bourne and Fletcher floundered at the turn, he maintained his steady rhythm. He felt good. As Besett crossed his path going the other way, he had a chance to assess his competition. Besett was a strong and skilled oarsman, no question. But his strokes were a little careless and dug too deep. The effort put into displacing the extra water would cost him over three miles.
Linton made the turn neatly and quickly, all his practice with Nick paying off. Because he was well back, he had no interference from other boats and picked the fastest route around the two big bends in the lake. Familiar with the ways of the lake from birth, Besett did the same and lengthened his lead. Linton resisted the urge to increase the pace of his strokes. He knew he had only one prolonged spurt of speed in him, and he must wait for the right time to use it.
On the second full passage along the lake, he passed Fletcher and then Bourne. His boat nosed ahead of the latter just below the hill, and he heard the applause. Althea was up there, and he fancied he heard her cheer, but he couldn’t think about that now. He concentrated on maintaining the coordination of breath and movement. By the time he reached the second-to-last turn, he was gaining on Besett. His chest was ready to burst, his thighs protested, and his shoulders and arms burned with the deep, throbbing pain that every oarsman experiences during a long race. Rationally, he knew that his opponent must be in the same state, but insidious doubt could not be denied. He let up his pace a fraction, while Besett made the turn and followed him, ready for the last push. He had to be ahead by the last turn or he had no chance. He couldn’t make up the ground on the final dash to the finish line. Leaning forward, arms extended, he readied himself to take the full length of the lake as fast as he was capable.
Fatigue dropped away, and the ever-present pain faded to the recesses of his mind. His oars skimmed the water without an iota of wasted effort, and he achieved the heady sens
ation that he and his boat were one and they were flying. Just past the big curve at the hill, he saw the stern of Besett’s scull in the corner of his eye.
*
Althea couldn’t look when Linton finally caught Besett and the two boats streaked past, side by side. “Who’s ahead?” She clutched Nick’s arm.
“Hard to say at this angle, but I’ll tell you one thing, Besett made a mistake. He’s let Linton have the inside position on the next curve.” He craned his neck. “By Jove, this is close. If Linton gets to the turning point first, he’ll win.”
Others thought the same. There were competing groans and cheers and jostling for the best view, and a few more bets on who would make it to the far end of the lake first.
“Linton has it,” someone shouted, and Althea’s heart soared.
“No, Besett’s ahead.” She closed her eyes tight and prayed.
Then a cacophony of cries and chatter, and she couldn’t bear to know why. She no longer cared about Nick, or Speck, or the five hundred pounds. She wanted her husband to win because she loved him and she wanted his triumph.
Nick shouted something and grabbed her by the waist. “He did it, Allie. Linton nosed Besett out at the turn, and now Besett has to wait, and Linton’ll have at least a boat’s-length advantage in the last half mile.”
But Besett hadn’t won the Dukeries Cup three times in a row by giving up at the last. When the sculls rounded the last curve, he had made up some of the lost ground and was gaining fast.
*
Linton had nothing left to draw on. His only hope at this point was to keep his strokes even, hold his pace, and pray that Besett’s stamina was equally depleted. The best and worst thing about having the lead was being able to see the other boat. He watched helplessly as, stroke by stroke, his opponent’s scull drew even. Besett was rowing a little wildly now, but the man was strong as an ox. Why wasn’t he tired? Linton knew the answer to that. The man was only twenty-five years old.
There was nothing he could do about his years, but he would not be defeated by fear and envy. Doubt could lose a race as surely as exhaustion. He looked deep into his heart and demanded the impossible from his tiring body.
By this time he was beyond knowing how frequently his strokes came. They needed to be faster, that’s all, and conquer the few hundred yards of water that lay between him and victory. Pain could no longer be ignored. It blazed red hot and set off an explosion of lights behind his eyes. Forward and back he moved, faster and stronger, not surrendering to the agony, but embracing it.
The next thing he knew, a riot of human noise penetrated his consciousness and told him the race was over. He dropped his oars and slumped forward in blissful relief that he could stop. A glance showed Besett in the same position a few yards over. The other man looked up and nodded. What did he mean? He held up his hand to indicate an inch between his thumb and forefinger. It had been that close. Then Lord William bowed to him, and Linton knew he must have won.
Chapter Twelve
‡
The Duke and Duchess of Linton were waltzing. They’d performed the dance just once, before they were married, when the waltz was quite new in London and still regarded as shocking. Althea remembered it well, because it had been the first time Linton touched her beyond a chaste clasp of hands or a decorous offer of his arm. Being so close, his gloved hand on her waist, had aroused an indefinable and confusing elation. She had kept her eyes on his waistcoat and wondered what it would be like to be married to him.
Now she knew, and it was wonderful. She also recognized the waltz as a prelude to a more intimate intercourse and wondered if everyone whirling around the Sedgemere ballroom felt the same way.
“Why do you smile?” Linton asked.
“Because I am happy.”
“There was something more. I saw it in your eyes.”
“If you must know, I was wondering how many of the dancing couples are thinking about going to bed together.”
He looked around them. “Hardcastle is regarding Miss MacHugh with a certain look in his eye. I have my doubts about Lady Lavinia, yet she will gladly tell you she is deaf but otherwise in possession of all her faculties. I doubt many will be as fortunate as I, or do I presume?”
“You have the world’s best mistress.”
“I have the world’s best wife too.”
“I wasn’t always, I know. I behaved badly in the past.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. Your faults were nothing compared to mine. I had no idea how to treat a bride, especially one as young and lovely as I was lucky enough to win. I was too cognizant of my own importance and so ridiculously proud that it never occurred to me that you had a right to know that I continued to support Stella Veney only because she was ill. She came to me soon after our marriage and told me she had a consumption and her new protector had abandoned her. In light of our past connection, I felt a responsibility, as I would to any dependent.”
“I wish you had told me.”
“Other men of my rank keep mistresses, and if I chose not to, it was no one’s business but mine. What a fool.”
“I’m glad you did not, Ben. It hurt me, especially since I knew I did not satisfy you. After our honeymoon, you seemed not to care about me at all. I think part of my wild behavior was an attempt to draw your attention.”
“And all I did was withdraw.” He drew her a little closer. “Let me assure you of one thing. When we married, I didn’t know your true value, but you always satisfied me, though not as well as you do now.”
“We have both learned to do better, in so many ways.”
“Dare I hope that we shall continue to do so—”
One of those momentary silences that sometimes falls over a large gathering cut off Linton’s words. They were forced to notice that the waltz had come to an end.
“Let’s go outside,” Althea said, tucking her arm into his in a way that bordered on the indecorous.
But they were mobbed by a group of gentlemen who wished to congratulate the winner of the Dukeries Cup and bombard him with questions about how he won the race. She let her husband enjoy his moment, happy to be at his side and without any need to draw his attention. She knew she would have it later.
Even the sporting set had to stop talking when the Duke of Hardcastle proposed marriage to Miss MacHugh in the middle of the ballroom.
“Good show,” Ormandsley proclaimed. “I had twenty guineas on that match. Help me pay my loss to you, Duchess. Not that it wasn’t worth it. I never saw a better-run race, even at Newmarket.”
“I’m glad to be compared to a horse,” Linton remarked.
“Damn it if I don’t start betting on the oars more often. I hear they’ve started regular racing at Oxford. By the way, have you seen Speck? I need to collect from him.”
No one had. Speck had vanished without making good on his losing wagers on Lord William Besett. Though a pleasure to hear him universally excoriated, Althea drew Linton aside. She didn’t think telling him about Vauxhall would make any difference to them, but she wanted everything open between them.
He regarded her with such undisguised affection that her throat dried up. “Where are we going?” he asked.
There wasn’t a convenient alcove or curtain or flowering vine to be seen. “The French doors.”
All too often at balls, any cool spot was crowded. She’d timed their exit well, for a new dance was in progress, and they had the terrace to themselves under an almost full moon. In the shadow of a potted orange tree, Linton embraced her. She put her arms about his waist and looked up at him. The rigid duke had vanished to be replaced by Ben and his marvelous smile.
“I am afraid this spot is too public,” he said.
“I am shocked, Ben, shocked. You have a wicked mind. All I had in mind was a kiss.”
“I suppose I can oblige you.” He did so, long, deep, wonderful.
“I will never get tired of your kisses,” she said when they came up for breath.
He took her right hand in both of his and laid it over her heart. “Will you accept them forever?”
“Yes.”
“Hardcastle went down on one knee in front of all the guests and proposed to his lady. Would you like me to make a public declaration?”
Althea realized that he would do so, if she demanded it, but she knew that he would much rather not. “I won’t subject your dignity to such a display. I am more than content to have my husband, the very proper Duke of Linton, in public, and my lover, Ben, when we are alone. I love them both.”
“Damn it, Althea. I meant to say it first.”
He looked so happy she hated to spoil the moment. “There is something I need to tell you, but I wanted you to know that I love you.” But she’d left her confession too long, and a group of the betting men, armed with glasses of brandy, joined them on the terrace.
He laughed boyishly and grabbed her hand. “Come with me. There’s something I have been wanting to say in public these two weeks.”
“Duchess,” Linton said, bowing to Sedgemere’s bride, who stood with her husband, and Hardcastle and his new fiancée. “I wish to thank you for a delightful ball. I know that most of your guests will be leaving soon, but the Duchess of Linton and I would like to invite whomever remains to a dinner at The Chimneys tomorrow. Next year we shall arrange something less impromptu.”
The duchess accepted warmly and looked pleased.
“Will you compete in the Dukeries Cup again, Linton?” Sedgemere asked.
“I have retired, again, from competition. My brother Nicholas Maxfield will row for The Chimneys next year. He has accepted a position as steward at my Yorkshire estate, but I shall make sure he has time to prepare. I put you on notice now that he is the man to beat. Who knows? Maybe a son of mine will follow in his father’s footsteps and win the Dukeries Cup.” Linton had made as public an announcement of their reconciliation as he could without putting a notice in the newspapers or sending out cards.
Just when Althea felt she could never be unhappy again, her heart sank. Nigel Speck entered the ballroom. He elbowed aside several of the men who were trying to collect on their wagers and insinuated himself into the group surrounding Linton and Althea. All his sleek smugness had vanished to reveal the ugly truth of his soul.
