by Tanya Wilde
“For shame, Rochester. Besides, I have a feeling this year is the year.”
“You say that every year.”
“And every year the horses are better than before.”
“That’s because they are becoming more and more desperate for a win, hoping that if they land one, you will stop training them so hard,” Rochester replied. “It’s only a matter of time before your father learns you are running his horses under his name.”
“Oh, do not be so sour,” Ophelia said with a wave of her hand. “He knows. He merely indulges me.”
“Why, I cannot fathom,” Rochester grumbled. “It cannot be because you wish to line your pockets with a few hundred quid. How much did you put on your horse this year?”
“A few hundred.”
Rochester whistled. “At this rate, you might as well declare you are betting on your own horse. That way all your conniving admirers can simply bet against you and line their pockets that way.”
“That’s a smashing notion,” Ophelia said. “They can take a leaflet from your book.”
“Now who is sour?”
“I’m not sour, merely surprised, is all.”
“Are you offended, then?” Rochester asked.
“Of course not. You can bet on whichever horse you like. But mark my words, Rochester. One of these days my horse will win, and I shall be the one laughing. And the reason my father indulges me is that he trusts you.”
“Little does he know how I run my bets,” Rochester said. “Don’t tell me he harbors the same dreams as your mother?”
“Of course not. He is much more practical than that.”
Lord Frederick, the second son of Baron Fitzpatrick and notorious spendthrift, caught Ophelia’s gaze, and she inched closer to Rochester. That was one of the perks of having Rochester as a friend. Gold diggers rarely approached her with him at her side. Ophelia posited it to Rochester’s sheer, intimidating size. The few that weren’t threatened by his height usually believed she and Rochester had formed an understanding with one another, an assumption that also kept them at bay.
Rochester glanced beyond her.
“The vultures are circling,” he said and hooked his arm into hers. “Stay close.”
“I always do,” Ophelia murmured, sweeping a glance over the racetrack. “Speaking of which, do not think I have forgiven you for leaving me alone with Lord Kirkwood.”
“How else are you going to meet your perfect partner if I don’t drag the respectable gentlemen through the throngs of stout-hearted charlatans for your perusal?”
Ophelia expelled a breath. “Rochester, I want a man with backbone. A man who’d march through the throngs himself.”
“Would you recognize him if he did?” Rochester asked. “Or suspect him of ulterior motives?”
“That I cannot say,” Ophelia uttered on a sigh. “But I must believe I would, or I am doomed to become the wife of a man that cares for blunt more than he cares for me.”
“You could always marry a big hulking country gentleman,” Rochester suggested. “I hear they have backbones made of iron.”
“Please, Rochester, do not jest,” Ophelia said, fanning away the dust around them with her bonnet. “You know I was born for city life.”
“What about Avondale?” Rochester asked. “You seemed quite taken with him at the Radley Ball.”
“I’ve forgotten all about him,” Ophelia lied.
Rochester chuckled, clearly not fooled.
In truth, her hours were spent daydreaming about his parting wink, the way he licked the cream from his thumb after he brushed it from the corner of her lips, and the bedevilment dancing in his eyes.
The rogue.
“Where is Nash?” Ophelia asked, diverting the subject. “He never misses a race.”
“He got foxed last night at White’s. I doubt we will catch even a glimpse of him today.”
“What did the two of you fight over this time?”
“Who said we argued?”
“Nash only drinks when you two argue.”
Rochester grimaced. “Lord, must every action of that man be so telling?”
“I’ve known you forever, Rochester, and I’m more astute than most.”
Rochester sighed, and Ophelia knew he was about to confess the source of his and Nash’s argument. “He cannot account for his whereabouts the day before last.”
“Cannot account or refuses to account?”
“That, dear Ophelia, I cannot say.”
Ophelia cast a worried glance at Rochester. She did not like that her friends were fighting. They were the pillars that held her up when the world felt topsy-turvy. Usually after a tiring day of blocking scores of optimistic callers at the same time.
“I can ask him for you?” Ophelia offered.
“Christ, no. If he knew I confide in you about our fights, we’d have the apocalypse on our hands.”
Ophelia chuckled. “Knowing Nash, he is attempting a surprise for you. . . . Perhaps it has to do with a gift for your upcoming birthday.”
Rochester’s gaze turned thoughtful. Seconds later, his face bloomed into a splendid grin.
“Ophelia, you are a genius,” he said before turning and lifting Ophelia into his arms. He whirled her around, laughing. “How could I miss that?”
“Stop, Rochester! You are attracting curious eyes!” she cried, her hands circling his neck out of instinct. Ophelia couldn’t help but laugh, but she knew, too, that they were in a very public setting. Rumors would surely circulate after this. And still Ophelia couldn’t bring herself to care.
***
Harry strode down the dirt path that led to the tracks of Ascot, his dark mood yet to recover after Warrick’s declaration. Not even the racetrack, which normally enthused him, seemed to lift his spirits.
Every year he, Saville, Warrick, and Deerhurst entered their horses and pit bets against each other. Great fun. Usually. But this year, Harry could not care less whether his horse won or lost. His mind remained focused on a singular fact that he still couldn’t bloody believe: his list was secured in White’s betting book.
Oh, did he want that damn list back.
But beggars wanted the whole damn world.
By the time they had reached White’s after the Radley Ball, the damage done had been inescapable. The truth was often painful to bear. But this truth hurt more than most: what Cromwell did could never be undone. Even if they got the list back now, the names of the six women were draped all over the betting books.
A deuced mess.
Harry pulled his lip up in a snarl.
That’s when he felt it: the ripple that rushed down his spine at the sound of soft, musical laughter. He would recognize that sound anywhere.
His gaze drifted over the faces of the spectators, his feet already striding in the direction of the carefree laughter. Harry hadn’t expected to see Lady Ophelia today, but if he was honest with himself, he had hoped he would run into her again soon.
But whatever Harry had expected to find when he met Lady Ophelia again, it was not the sight of her swung up in Rochester’s arms mid whirl, her plum cotton skirts waving in the slight breeze.
Harry’s face noticeably warmed around the jaw.
A most confusing reaction.
He watched as Rochester set Lady Ophelia back on her feet but kept their arms linked. She waved at a passing jockey, her bonnet clutched between her fingers. Harry glanced at the rider who wore the Earl of Rhodes’s colors and relaxed slightly. At least she was cheering for her father’s horse and not Rochester’s.
The unbidden thought made him frown.
He marched over to them before he thought better of it. They were standing mightily close to each other and were visibly comfortable in each other’s presence. Again Harry wondered whether the rumors were true. They acted more like lovers than friends.
“Lady Ophelia. Rochester,” he announced in greeting as he neared them. The pair turned toward him. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here.�
��
A slight flush stained Lady Ophelia’s cheeks as they locked eyes, and some of Harry’s annoyance disappeared. His gaze dropped momentarily to her lips as he recalled another question that had plagued him the past two days. Did she taste as delicious as the cream he’d swiped from her soft mouth?
“Afternoon, Avondale,” Rochester greeted, eyeing him with open speculation. “Not too surprising, I hope.”
Harry’s lips quirked up. “Of course not, but I did not take the lady for a horse enthusiast.”
“Oh?” Lady Ophelia said. “What did you take me for, my lord?”
“A lady of leisure.”
“Leisure?” She burst out in laughter. “Rochester would like that, wouldn’t you, Rochester?” She whirled in a full circle. “Where did he go?”
Harry’s gaze swept their surroundings. “I’m not sure.”
“How does he do that? Unlinks his arm and vanishes from my side without me noticing.”
“He did not even make a sound,” Harry agreed. “Quite impressive.”
“Utterly suspicious,” Lady Ophelia countered, her lips pulling down into a frown. “That man is forever abandoning me.”
“I will keep you company until he returns.”
She pursed her lips but said nothing.
“You do not wish for me to keep you company?” Harry asked, watching her carefully. “Would you rather be left alone?”
Two lines appeared between her brows. “I did not say that. I am merely cautious of men I cannot make sense of and therefore cannot trust.”
“You cannot make sense of me?” Her admission surprised Harry. He hadn’t expected her to be so delightfully forthright. “Only natural since we met at the Radley Ball two nights ago.”
Her catlike eyes narrowed on him. “Your point, my lord?”
“Do you usually make sense of men that soon?”
“In my experience, there are three sorts of gentlemen, and for the past two years, only two have sought out my company.”
“Ah,” he drawled. “And you cannot decide in which category I fall?”
“Precisely.”
Harry lifted his shoulder. “Well then, what can I do to help you determine the answer? You can ask me anything.”
A delicate brow drifted up. “And you will answer truthfully?”
“The only way I know how.”
“Very well, then. Are you a fortune hunter?”
“Right to the point and easy to answer,” Harry drawled. “Yes, I am.” He laughed when her mouth dropped open. “In my defense, all men are fortune hunters.”
“Not men with fortunes.”
“Some men hunt wealth, yes, some hunt treasure, and others hunt purpose.”
“Let me guess,” she said, placing her finger on her chin. “You hunt purpose?”
He shrugged. “I am a bit of all three, I suppose. At the moment I’m hunting a fortune’s worth of art, with dogged purpose, I may add, but make no mistake, Lady Ophelia, you are a treasure.”
A faint smile traced her lips. “I have heard talk that you might be in search of a wife, yet you are in mourning. Does that also account for your purpose?”
“You do not mince words, Lady Ophelia.”
She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I do not.”
“Unfortunately, in my case, there are certain matters that do not care for mourning periods and grief. They demand immediate attention. Securing a wife, however, is not at the top of my list.”
She nodded. “The living must go on living.”
The truth of her words struck a chord in Harry, and he looked away. “Indeed.”
“I’m sorry,” Lady Ophelia whispered. “That was indelicate of me to point out.”
Harry shook his head. “Quite the contrary, my lady—a refreshing truth. So fortune hunters are one of the two sorts of men that pursue you. What is the other?”
“Rakes.”
“I thought as much,” Harry remarked with an upward stretch of his lips. “So because I’m conversing with you, I must either be a fortune hunter or a rake? What of the third sort?”
She shrugged. “A respectable gentleman in search of a wife, which you discounted moments ago.”
Harry laughed.
A mind as smart as a whip, this one.
“What of a fourth sort of man?” Harry challenged, thinking of Rochester and wondering what category he fell into.
“A fourth sort?” she asked skeptically.
“A friend.”
She scoffed. “You want to be my friend?”
“Why not? Does Rochester not fall under that group?”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. No further clue to her thoughts traced the lines of her features. Was she so used to people questioning her relationship with Rochester that she had long since dispersed of reacting with any telling emotion?
“I’ve known Rochester all my life,” she finally said.
Harry nodded. “Yet an entirely different sort of man—a friend. Besides, my lady, why should I fall into any category at all?”
She blinked at him, and Harry grinned.
“I am clearly not pursuing you.”
Her cheeks flushed.
Harry cocked his head, waiting for her response. Instead, she looked to the track, and her face brightened at once. “Poseidon is up. He will win this year. I can feel it.”
The woman did not give much away about her and Rochester’s friendship, and Harry could not come out and ask directly, even though curiosity burned in his gut. At the very least, he wanted the chance to make her laugh in a carefree manner, too, to be responsible for adding one small crease at the corner of her eyes. But he could not offer her an explanation as to why. Hell, he could not explain it to himself.
“Where is your father?” Harry asked, deciding to let the matter go, his gaze flicking over the crowd of spectators.
“Home. He has no interest in racing.”
“You are racing your father’s horses?”
She nodded. “Three, as a matter of fact. Hades and Zeus already raced.” She flashed a perfect set of teeth at him. “I also named them.”
Harry stared down at Lady Ophelia, entranced. He hoped he always discovered an interesting morsel about her each time they met. She must be the most intriguing woman in all of England.
“Hades, Zeus, and Poseidon?”
She shrugged. “I enjoy Greek mythology.”
“You seem optimistic that Poseidon will win.”
“I can feel it in my bones.”
Harry turned to the tracks, hands folding behind his back. “He is up against Evening Star, who has never lost a race.”
“Then today will be his first.”
“Then may I propose a wager?”
She turned to glance up at him. “Oh?”
“If Poseidon wins, I will owe you a boon, and vice versa.”
“I feel we should clarify boon.”
“A dance. A stroll through Hyde Park. Fending off your suitors for one night.”
“Sounds uncomplicated enough,” she said with a slow nod. “But still feels highly suspicious. You seem rather certain Evening Star will win.”
“I am. Because he is mine.”
Lady Ophelia laughed, and Harry watched as she stepped up to the fence, lifting to her toes as she craned her neck to watch for the horses. Harry felt a bit mesmerized in that moment. There was something magnetic about Lady Ophelia Thornton. He ought to take a step back and put the lady from his mind entirely. His father’s title had settled like a heavy weight on his shoulders. His uncertain financial future. That blasted scrap of paper in White’s.
Feeling drawn to a woman was the last thing Harry wanted. Especially Lady Ophelia Thornton, who held a spot at the top of that bloody list. She was carefree and innocent, untouched by the world of men. Would she still be if she caught wind about the wagers in the betting book? The list? Him?
“Ophelia.”
Harry turned to find Rochester had returned, this time with a very
pale Nash. Harry’s eyes flicked over the newcomer. Nash’s countenance was drawn shut, the pallor of his skin suggesting some sort of shock or illness. More likely the aftermath of a night of heavy drinking. But when Harry met his eyes, the depth of fury in the viscount’s gaze gave him pause.
Harry looked at Rochester to find that his lips were pulled into an equally grim arch and that concern etched deep into his features.
Apprehension stole over Harry.
“What’s wrong?” Ophelia asked, facing the men.
Rochester held out his hand. “We need to talk.”
That blasted list.
Nothing else could inspire such fury and concern in Lady Ophelia’s friends. Harry watched as she abandoned all her enthusiasm for the race and hurried to the men, nodding her goodbye as she passed him. Harry inclined his head, wanting to follow but aware he would not be welcome. He watched as she left, rooted on the spot until he could no longer see Lady Ophelia, until the plum of her dress was nothing but a smudge in his vision.
Damn Cromwell.
Damn Warrick.
Damn them all for butchering his mother’s well-intentioned list.
Harry focused on the only small positive fact in this mess: there was no reason for anyone to suspect that he and his comrades were behind the creation of the content. He hadn’t changed his mind about marriage. He did not plan to wed for money. But as Harry stared sightlessly in the direction that Lady Ophelia had taken, he found it was an intention that he desperately wanted to believe would stay that way.
Chapter 6
“There is a list with my name on it?” Ophelia exclaimed, barely controlling the volume of her voice.
Rochester and Nash, who had delivered the shocking news mere seconds ago, reclined on a sofa in her drawing room with unrivaled poise. She stood in front of them, her eyes wide, certain the color had leached from her cheeks.
“Yes. And it is attached to the betting book in White’s,” Nash replied, his tone annoyingly calm.
Ophelia stared at her friends, not fooled by their composed demeanor. It was a tactic, nothing more. As if demonstrating an unflustered exterior would magically pacify her! She nearly rolled her eyes at the very thought. Then something else occurred to her.
