by Nan Ryan
And so it went.
The whispering had begun the minute the pair had entered the dining room of the United States Hotel that morning. By late afternoon the Saratoga gossips—both men and women—were having a field day.
At Maxine Delaney’s dinner party that evening, the pair—noticeably absent—had become the talk of the town.
The word had quickly spread.
By nine that night everyone knew that the couple had gone inside Hank’s hotel cottage and had remained there all day. And all evening. Speculation on when they would emerge became an entertaining game for the gentlemen. Bets were taken on the exact hour when the lovers would finally surface.
An informant was paid to discreetly stand guard across the street from Cassidy’s cottage and to report back as soon as the two were seen leaving.
That informant had a long wait. Too long. He fell asleep around midnight.
“I’ve entered Red Eye Gravy and Eastern Dancer and four other mounts in tomorrow’s opening day racing program. Tell me you’ll go to the races with me.”
“I’ll go to the races with you.”
Hank smiled, then sighed with contentment.
Naked, he lay stretched out on his back with an arm folded beneath his head. The duchess, also nude, lay on her stomach across the bed, her cheek resting on his belly, her long unbound hair fanned out across his bare chest.
The summer sun had long since set, but a wide swatch of moonlight spilled in through the sheer curtains covering the open balcony doors and fell across the bed where they lay.
Clutched tenaciously in the curve of Claire’s bent arm was her leather-bound copy of The Prisoner of Zenda. “Hank, it was so sweet of you to buy this book for me.”
“I’m a sweet guy.”
“Yes, you are,” she said, then accused, “but you’re also rather presumptuous.”
“Could be. The truth is I bought the book hoping I’d get the opportunity to give it to you. And I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. Shall I read to you?”
“Some other time.”
Claire laughed and playfully bit his bare belly. “Well, you couldn’t have given me anything I would treasure more. How can I ever thank you?”
Hank grinned. “Maybe I can help you think of something.”
“You know, don’t you,” Claire asked as they lay lazily stretched out in the moonlight, “that you and I are missing—have missed—Maxine Delaney’s dinner party.”
“She’ll live,” Hank said. “Unless you want to get dressed and go.”
“I want to stay right here.”
Hank swept a hand over the golden tresses tickling his chest. “Me, too.” After a long comfortable pause he said, “Tell me about yourself, Duchess. I know a lot about your body, but very little about you.”
Claire still didn’t stir. “What’s to know, Hank? I’m a widow. My late husband, the Duke of Beaumont, left me comfortably wealthy which makes it unnecessary for me to ever marry again. Thank heaven. I have no family to speak of, but scores of good friends. I used to come to the Springs with the duke, but it’s been several years since last I was here.” She sighed and added, “I like it here. I like the clean mountain air and the grand hotels and the glittering parties and the Thoroughbred races.” Claire finally raised her head and laid her precious book aside. “I like you, Hank Cassidy.”
“How much do you like me, Duchess?”
Claire laughed gaily and whipped her hair back off her face. “Enough to spend every hour with you for as long as I’m here at the Springs.”
“You’ll be staying until the end of August, won’t you?”
“No. I’m leaving the middle of August.”
Hank made a face. “Why? The season’s not over until the first of September.”
“I know, but I must get back to London.”
“Then you won’t be here for the Travers Stakes,” he said, scowling. “I’ve got Black Satin, the finest Thoroughbred I’ve ever owned, entered in that race. I’d like you to be with me when he wins.”
“Sorry, darling.”
“You have to change your plans, Charmaine. You have to—”
“No,” she cut him off. “I said I’m going and I am. Don’t try to pin me down, Hank. I don’t like being pressed.”
Hank made a face. “Sorry, darling.”
“You’re a fabulous playmate and we’ll continue to have fun together until the middle of August. Then I’m leaving. Not because I have to, but because I choose to.” She spread her hair back across his chest, leaned up, kissed his chin, and said, “Now it’s your turn, Hank. Tell me everything there is to know about you.”
Hank shrugged. “I’m thirty-two years old, in good health, have never been married, made a fortune in the Nevada silver mines. Like you, I have no family, but my home is in Virginia City, Nevada. I was born and raised there and plan to die there when I’m a very old man. I have a place in New York City where I seldom go and a horse farm outside Louisville, Kentucky. I came to Saratoga for the first time six or seven years ago and have been here every summer since. I like horses and bourbon and good food and pretty women. I like you, Duchess.” He pressed her closer. “Spend the night with me?”
“Love to, darling.”
“And go to the races with me tomorrow?”
“Love to, darling.”
“And make love to me right now this very minute.”
“Love to, darling.”
Twenty
“They’re off!”
The much anticipated Saratoga racing season had officially begun. It was exactly 11:30 a.m.
At five minutes to post time, a red-jacketed gentlemen had stepped onto the racetrack directly in front of the finish line, lifted a gleaming gold-plated bugle to his lips and sounded the familiar call to the starting gate.
Thirteen sleek Thoroughbreds had moved, one by one, into the gate. As soon as the last Thoroughbred had been boxed, a pistol was shot into the air and the starting flag dropped. The full field broke from the gate and onto the oval track.
The crowd of five thousand spectators came to their feet and began to cheer wildly in the beautiful slate-roofed grandstand. A second floor stairway led up to the clubhouse where a balcony ended in the Queen Anne circle with a bright lawn running down to the track. It was here that the well-heeled turf set gathered to watch the races.
In a private box on the finish line in the Queen Anne circle, Hank Cassidy was up out of his chair. With him in the box was a radiant Claire. She, too, was on her feet and cheering madly for Red Eye Gravy, the big bay stallion sporting bright green-and-white silks, Hank’s official racing colors. Red Eye Gravy was rounding the first turn, sixth behind the leaders.
Whistling and applauding, Hank leaned down and said in Claire’s ear, “Don’t worry. He’s in a good position, right where he should be.”
“You sure? Looks like the others are pulling away from him.”
“They’ll burn out and then we’ll take ’em after the turn. You’ll see!”
Eyes focused across the oval track to the sprinting Thoroughbreds, Claire followed the flash of green and white and nodded, hoping Hank was right.
“Look, sweetheart,” Hank said as the field raced into the far turn and Red Eye Gravy began to make his move. The big bay passed a couple of contenders, moving swiftly up on the outside.
Now there were only two horses ahead of him.
Claire’s hands went to her cheeks when the daring jockey riding Red Eye Gravy edged the big mount up between the two front runners as they raced down the front stretch in a fight for final position.
For the next few thrilling seconds the three Thoroughbreds raced neck and neck, so close together there was not enough room between them to slide a sheet of tissue paper. The screams from the crowd were deafening. Hank was whistling and beating on the rail of the box with his rolled-up copy of the day’s racing program.
Just when it looked like the race would end in a three-way dead heat, Red Eye Gravy
slipped between the other two as if his big body was greased. He surged ahead and thundered across the finish line, first by a nose.
Laughing, happy, Hank grabbed Claire up in his arms, swung her around and declared, “We won, baby, we won!”
“I know, I can’t believe it!” Claire said, eagerly embracing him. When he set her back on her feet, she said, “Hank, that was so exciting, I’m actually breathless.”
“Makes two of us,” he said. He took her hand and placed it over his hammering heart.
Claire felt the rapid rhythmic beating and warned, “We better sit down and calm ourselves.”
Hank nodded.
They sat down at the small square table where an array of tempting delicacies had hardly been touched. Hank took a bottle of chilled champagne from a silver bucket of ice. They toasted the winning stallion and Hank said proudly, “No surprise the big boy won. His sire was the great speedster Red River Valley who won the Kentucky Derby a couple of times back in the early eighties. And his dam was a fine sorrel filly who has foaled a half-dozen fast colts.”
Interested, eager to hear him talk about his horses and this sport which he clearly loved, Claire said, “What about this next race? Do you have a contestant?”
“You bet we do.”
The second race was even more thrilling than the first. Eastern Dancer, a three-year-old chestnut colt Hank owned, led the pack from box to wire, making the entire outing look easy. Around the one-mile track, Eastern Dancer sailed on his own, leading all the way. Unpressured, he turned for home and repulsed all challengers through the front stretch, bounding across the finish line to win handily.
What fun they were having!
Hank and Claire laughed and drank champagne and cheered for Hank’s mounts to come in on top. After watching five races, in which two of his horses had come in first and another second, an excited Claire asked, “Who do we like in the next race?”
Before Hank could answer, Caroline Whit stepped up to their box and greeted them. Hank politely rose to his feet and acknowledged her.
“Afternoon, Caroline. I believe you’ve met the Duchess of Beaumont.”
Smiling at Hank, Caroline said, “Please, sit back down.” She turned her attention to Claire. “Yes, of course, I know the duchess. How are you, Charmaine?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Claire said with a warm smile.
“Mmm, I’ll just bet you are,” Caroline replied. “I’m really surprised to see you here though.”
“Why is that, Caroline? You’re here. Many of the ladies are here.”
“Yes, but you never came to the races when the duke was alive. As I recall you had a great aversion to horses. The poor old duke had to take a bath and change his clothes each time he had been anywhere near the stables.” She looked at Hank, then back at Claire. “Why the extraordinary change? A woman who can’t stand the smell of horses at a racetrack?”
“Ah, Caroline. How observant you are. I have changed,” Claire said. She wrapped a possessive hand around Hank’s biceps, touched her cheek to his shoulder, and added, “All credit due to Mr. Cassidy. Hank’s teaching me about this fascinating sport of kings and I’m thoroughly enjoying it. Why, he’s even promised to take me down to the stables one evening soon so I can get up close to the big beasts. Doesn’t that sound exciting? I can hardly wait.”
Caroline looked at Hank. Her tone was sharp when she told him, “The owners won’t like it. Those stables are strictly a man’s domain. Women have no business there.”
“I’m an owner, Caroline,” Hank reminded her. “And I’ve no objection to the duchess having a closer look at my Thoroughbreds.”
Caroline shrugged and changed the subject. “Maxine Delaney was extremely upset that you two missed her dinner party last evening.”
Hank started to speak, but Claire pressed his arm with her hand. She said, “It was unforgivably rude, I agree. However this morning we did send Maxine a large bouquet of roses with our humble apologies.”
With her green-eyed gaze resting solely on Hank, Caroline said, “Surely you’ll be attending tonight’s ball at the Grand Union Hotel. Diamond Jim Brady and his glamorous girlfriend, Lillian Russell, are the hosts.”
“We’ll be there, Caroline,” Claire said, and turning to Hank asked, “Won’t we, darling?”
“If you say so, baby.”
Caroline Whit exhaled with rising annoyance. “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you both this evening. Save a dance for me, Hank.” It was a statement, not a question. She turned and flounced away.
“I think she likes you,” Claire said as Caroline returned to her box.
“Jealous?” he asked with a slow smile and wink.
“Should I be?”
Hank shook his dark head, put a hand under the table and found Claire’s. Their fingers touched—a simple brushing together. But it was enough to make chills run up Claire’s spine. Her thick lashes lowered flirtatiously over her shining violet eyes and she felt her face flush with heat as she recalled with vivid clarity what that slow masterful hand had done to her earlier in the morning. How his gentle touch on her flesh had so easily sent her into orgasmic ecstasy.
“This next race should be very exciting,” Hank said, apparently fully aware of how the touch of his hand had made her breath grow short.
“Oh? Why is that?” she asked with a smile.
“It’s the Saratoga Flash Stakes. One of the entries is a speedster called Onaretto and his jockey is none other than Alonzo Clayton.” As Hank spoke, one of his fingers moved and touched hers lightly. It stroked the length of her index finger in a subtle, but suggestive way. “Alonzo Clayton was the youngest Derby winner at age fifteen on a mount called Azra back in ’92.”
“Is that a fact?” Claire said, attempting to pay attention to what he was saying as Hank’s lean hand wrapped around hers, his fingertips rubbing her palm.
“It is and that’s not all.” His hand closed over hers and she felt her fingers gently crushed in the warmth of his palm. “You want more?” he asked, the innocent question having a definite double meaning.
“You know I do,” Claire said. She turned her hand over and wrapped her tingling fingers around the back of his.
“Last year at this very track,” Hank said, coolly placing her hand over his trousered thigh, “a young jockey called James ‘Soup’ Perkins won five out of six races in one day. One day, mind you. And he was only fourteen years old…and then he went on to win the Derby atop a mount called Halma.”
“Absolutely amazing,” she marveled, then glanced anxiously into Hank’s mischievous blue eyes as he pressed her open palm against his leg and let his hand rest lightly on hers. Beneath her fingertips was the hammered steel of his long-boned thigh. At her touch the firm muscles bunched and jumped, yet his expression never changed. Mindful of where they were, Claire behaved properly. She didn’t slide her hand up close to his groin, but she allowed her fingers to stroke and caress his firm thigh through the fabric of his trousers.
Hank continued to sit there and very calmly educate Claire on the thrilling spectator sport of Thoroughbred racing. She listened and nodded and made the proper comments. And all the while a much more thrilling sport was going on between the two of them beneath the linen-draped table.
The duchess’s gentle touch on his thigh was all that was needed to make Hank wish they didn’t have to stay for the remainder of the racing program.
He glanced cautiously around, leaned close, and said, “Have you any idea what you’re doing to me?”
“Excuse me, Hank. Madam,” came a low masculine voice. The startled pair looked up to see a dapper, silver-haired gentleman standing before the box.
“Fox! My man!” Hank said as Claire quickly moved her hand to her lap. Hank jumped to his feet and shook his trainer’s hand. “Sit down, sit down, there’s someone special I want you to meet.” Fox Connor remained standing as Hank introduced him to Claire.
“Fox, this lovely lady is the Duchess of Beaumont.” T
o her he said, “Charmaine, my good friend, Fox Connor.”
“A true privilege, Your Grace,” said Fox, bowing slightly.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Connor. Won’t you join us, please?” Claire said graciously.
“Thanks, but I need to get right back down to the stables.” He looked at Hank. “I came up here to tell you we had to pull Silver Dollar at the last minute. Nothing serious. You know how temperamental he is. I can tell that he doesn’t want to run today. No use forcing him.”
“I agree. Maybe in a couple of days,” said Hank.
“Sure. He’ll be ready then.”
“Black Satin? Going to take the big race for us? Win the Travers?”
“The stallion’s in fine form,” assured Fox. “He’s a shoo-in to take the Travers. There’s no doubt in my mind.” Fox looked again at Claire, “An honor to meet you, Duchess. I hope I’ll be seeing you again.”
“You will,” said Claire without hesitation.
After Fox had walked away, Hank gave Claire a look and asked, “What are you thinking about?”
She smiled. “The same thing you’re thinking about.”
Their abrupt departure caused a buzz of astonishment among the turf set.
All agreed that it was a first.
Hank Cassidy had never left the track before the final race had been run.
Twenty-One
Claire returned to the estate late that afternoon to dress for the evening’s ball at the Grand Union. When the carriage stopped in the circular drive directly before the mansion, she kissed Hank goodbye and told him to come back for her at eight-thirty.
She stood unmoving and watched until his carriage was out of sight, then turned and raced up the front steps and crossed the veranda, calling Olivia’s name. Olivia, her cane tapping before her, came hurrying through the wide hallway to meet Claire. Laughing, the two women embraced, glad to see each other.
Finally releasing the older woman, Claire said, “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”
“Not in the least,” Olivia assured her. “I knew where you were. Who you were with.” With a sly grin, she ventured, “I assume you have been enjoying yourself with the handsome Mr. Cassidy.”
