Anita Mills (8 page)

“And I
love
him!”

“Come on, we’d best get back before you take a chill.” He caught her hand again, pulling her away from the horse. “I should hate to have you miss seeing him win the purse.”

They walked back to the house quietly, trudging through the mud and wet grass, until they reached the back door. Richard stopped, lifting the lantern to illuminate her face. “Are you really going to marry Thornton, Harry?” he asked suddenly.

“Not if I can avoid doing so.”

“Good girl—you should not suit.” He dropped her hand. “Go on in—I have to make sure the stable door is locked.”

“Wh-why did you ask about Edwin?” She had to know.

“Because I count you as a friend as well as a relation,” he answered simply, dashing her hopes.

He’d turned back to the stable, but she was loath to let him go just yet. “Wait—”

He stopped, swinging around to face her again. “What?”

“Tomorrow, will you tell me of the cats—how they fare, I mean?”

“I can tell you now, but I ought to punish you for foisting them off on me.” She couldn’t quite see his face, but she thought he was grinning. His next words confirmed it. “You wretch—you miserable wretch, Harry. Your Athena is increasing again, or so my cook tells me. And she has no taste whatsoever, for she has bred with the commonest creature from the next house over. As for your Heloise, she is positive that she owns me, whilst Abelard, who is the only attractive one of the lot, cares only for his food.”

“But you like them—admit it.”

He cocked his head to one side and appeared to consider. “Like them? I should not go far as that, my dear. Suffice it to say that we have learned to rub along tolerably well together.”

“I knew you would like them when you became better-acquainted.” Before he could answer, she ran inside, rubbing her cold arms for warmth.

Later, snuggled in the comfort of her feather bed, she pulled her coverlet close and relived every moment. It was foolish to dream of him, she knew, but no one—positively no one—could take her dreams away from her. Not even Emma March.

It was with considerable trepidation that Harriet allowed Richard to hand her up into his carriage. Despite the relative ease with which she’d managed to convince Hannah that Mrs. Thornton did indeed wish her presence for the day, she still more than half-expected to be stopped ere they got out of the driveway. But Hannah had not said much, other than to inquire as to why Edwin himself did not come for her.

And it had been so easy to lie that she felt guilty. Edwin, she’d assured her stepmama, had business elsewhere for the day. And indeed he had, for he’d told her he meant to travel to Cambridge to see to new furnishings for the front saloon. It was so typical of Edwin—he’d not bothered to consult her as to her tastes in the matter at all. All that had been needed then to convince Hannah was for Richard to offer to take her as far as the Thorntons’, sparing her stepmama the necessity of accompanying her. Indeed, but he would even bring her back when he returned from the races, he promised.

No, all that remained was to pay a short call on Mrs. Thornton so that if the matter ever came up, she could have proof of having been there. For who was likely to ask precisely how long the visit had lasted? With that comforting thought, Harriet settled back against the deep red velvet squabs and tried to forget her qualms.

“Still worried?” Richard asked, smiling at what he considered her groundless fears.

“No,” she lied.

The April air was crisp and invigorating, too chilly by half actually, but the heated brick at her feet warmed her feet through her thin kid boots. She slid her hands into the small velvet muff Faith March had given her the past Christmas.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“You will forget the chill when we get there. The excitement will more than keep you warm.”

“Where is Two Harry just now?”

“The trainer brings him from Squire March’s.”

Another reminder that he’d been to see Emma. She sighed and looked out the window, telling herself not to be a fool. One’s dreams were on thing, reality quite another. When he’d gone over to the Marches’ three days before, she’d longed to ask of Emma, but she’d refrained, telling herself that she didn’t really want to know, that she’d hear when the betrothal was announced anyway.

“Why so blue-deviled, Harry? I should have thought you would consider this a splendid adventure,” he chided gently.

“I am simply worried about Two Harry, I suppose.”

“There’s naught to worry you there, I assure you. I was over to see him before daybreak this morning, and he was in fine fettle.”

“You went to the Marches’ this morning?”

The thought that he could not bear to be away from Emma even one day lowered her spirits even further. But he did not appear to be in the throes of a great passion, or if he were, he certainly made no mention of his love. Finally, after several more minutes of silence, she could bear it no longer.

“And how did you find Emma?” she asked with a casualness she did not feel.

“Who? Oh, I collect you mean the elder Miss March? She is well, I think.”

It was hardly a loverlike comment, but one never could tell about gentlemen. Her papa had always said courting was like a card game and that it was better to keep one’s hand folded and out of sight—or so he’d told her brother George when George had appeared ready to throw his hat over the windmill for the Rothwell chit.

As though Harriet sought punishment for her thoughts, she persisted. “She is very lovely.”

“You think so? I suppose she is,” he agreed slowly, reflecting momentarily on Miss Emma March. “But she suffers from a surfeit of conceit.”

Surely she had not refused him. Emboldened by his admission that Emma was less than perfection, Harriet leaned across the seat to watch him. “I am told that Incomparables are usually filled with self-consequences,” she ventured.

“Most are. However, if you are implying that Miss March is an Incomparable, you are wide of the mark. I can number a dozen girls with better looks and fortunes, Harry. In fact, whatever Miss March has to offer, ’tis more than canceled by her encroaching mama.”

“It did not go well for you in that quarter, then,” she murmured, settling back.

“Huh? What in the
deuce
are you speaking of?” And then it dawned on him. “You thought I was trying to fix my interest with Miss March?” he demanded awfully. “Harry, what possibly gave you such a foolish notion?”

“Well, did you not stand up with her three times at Almack’s? I have heard that bespeaks a particularity that is certain to raise expectations, or have I been told incorrectly?”

“Well, if you had the tale from that harridan who passes for the chit’s mama, you have heard only half of the story, believe me. Between the two of them, they set it about that I was ready to pop the question after I took the girl up in my curricle once.”

“You didn’t stand up with her three times, then?”

“No.”

“But Em … Miss March said …”

“She said what? That I was going to come up to scratch? Harry, I’ve just come into my inheritance. I’ve got years before my salad days are over and I am ready for marriage. Despite any number of plots hatched by mother hens, I am not about to part with my fortune for any of their empty-headed daughters just yet. No, you have not to worry that Richard Standen will throw his hat over the windmill and get leg-shackled anytime soon, I can tell you. For one thing, I’ve got interests … that is … well, I haven’t quite found anyone I’d wish to live with for the rest of my life,” he finished quickly. “Just what precisely did Miss March have to say, anyway?”

“Well, I don’t know if she said you were offering, exactly, but she certainly gave the impression that you were expected to do so momentarily.” Relieved to discover that it was not so, she giggled. “Indeed, the way she said you were coming, ’twas everyone’s expectation that you and Em … Miss March, that is, were about to make a match of it.”

“Egad. Well, her papa cannot think that, for I merely wrote asking him to stable Two Harry whilst I was here, ί did not wish the horse to become agitated by that big black of Uncle John’s just before the race.”

“Oh.”

“Ungelded stallions seldom get along at all, you know.”

“Yes, Papa says they do not like competition for the mares.”

He was peering at her closely now. “You know, if I hadn’t known you since you were scarce out of leading strings, I’d think you jealous just now.”

“Of course I am jealous!”

“Of Miss March?”

“Yes.” And then, fearing she’d revealed too much, she hastened to add, “She had a Season, after all.”

“You are jealous because Miss March had a Season? Harry, you would not have liked the Marriage Mart at all. It would have been but a waste of your time and money.”

She stared, wounded to the very core of her being. He’d said she would not have taken—that she was not the sort of female to attract anyone but Edwin Thornton. And yet, glutton for punishment that she was, she could not resist asking one final question.

“You do not think I would have found… that there would not have been anyone to offer for me, do you?” she asked quietly.

“I think that you would have been miserable. The Marriage Mart is a cruel place where beauty and wealth are placed far above worth. With the clothes that Hannah would have bought you, you would have been pronounced dowdy and forgotten.”

“Yes, well… I daresay you are right.”

It was then that he noted the stricken expression on her face and realized what he had done—and compounded the error rather than rectified it by attempting to explain, “Harry, I did not mean what you think. ’Tis just that the fashionable world would not suit you.”

“As if I ever had a chance to discover that!” she cried. “But do not explain as though I am a child! I may not be a beauty, Richard Standen, but I—”

“Harry … Harry …” He drew one of her hands out of her muff. “You may kick me now, if you think I meant you are plain.”

“I know I am plain.”

“I have never considered you plain.” He cocked his head to one side to study her face, and he realized with a start that he spoke the truth. While brown hair was definitely not the fashion, hers was a soft, shining brown that was rather pleasing. Cropped and curled in the current mode, it would probably be quite attractive. And there was nothing plain about those eyes of hers. Nor about the fine, even features. His eyes dropped lower to her trim, slender figure. “If you were not so shy, and if you had been properly dressed, you would have taken. Indeed, if you were as you were when first I met you, you would have been snapped up by a royal duke probably.”

“Do not be funning with me!”

“It was the animation, I think. You used to be so lively, so ready for an adventure. But ’tis not your fault that Hannah destroyed that which she could not accept in you.”

“You do not have to make me feel better, Richard.”

“Then will you cry friends with me again, Harry? I meant nothing to overset you, you know.”

It was impossible to deny the appeal in those blue eyes of his. He could have called her an antidote and she would have still loved him. She forced a smile and nodded. “Friends.”

“ ’Tis better. For a moment I thought our great adventure was going to be marred by the blue devils today.”

“No. No, of course not.”

“I want you to have a splendid time, Harry.”

She glanced out the window then and realized they’d passed the village turnoff. “Aren’t we going to pay a call on Mrs. Thornton?”

“On the way back. I’d get there early today, as Two Harry runs in the second.”

As it was, they arrived to find the stands crowded and the track ringed with vehicles. Luckily Richard’s driver managed to squeeze their carriage into line in such a way that Harriet was afforded a clear view of much of the track. As she watched the bustle and excitement of those come to the races, her own excitement mounted. And when Two Harry was led out in the colors she’d chosen, she completely forgot her earlier hurt. Her eyes shone with childlike pleasure as her horse pranced, sidestepping, showing he was eager to run. Clearly he was fresh and in fine fettle. As far as she was concerned, he was quite the prettiest colt there.

Richard leaned across her to point out some of the racing notables and to explain how it was going to be. “He’ll race but a mile today, pitted against other two-year-olds registered just yesterday, so the purse will not be as large. But ’twill give me a notion how he runs the track, because I mean to register him for the 2,000 Guineas next year.”

“Not this year?”

“He’s not eligible until he’s three—and besides, the field is determined months in advance. As it is, I was fortunate to get him registered for today.”

“Oh. I fear I know little of the sport,” she admitted self-consciously.

“It doesn’t matter—believe me, I have seen enough races for the both of us.” Then he saw someone emerge from behind an open curricle. “Wait here—don’t leave the carriage,” he ordered as he jumped down. “I’ll be back as soon as I speak with Cates and Ellis.”

“Who?”

“Our trainer and jockey. While you are about it, you might wish to draw that scarf over your face.”

Instead, she pressed her nose against the pane until it fogged, watching the men, the horses, and the crowd in the stands. Occasionally she caught glimpses of elegantly dressed females sitting openly, the plumes of their exquisite hats waving in the chill wind. She had never seen the like of any of it.

Her eyes sought Richard where he stood talking to two men dressed in Two Harry’s colors, and her heart gave a lurch. He was so tall and well-favored in his dove-gray coat, his snowy shirt, his smooth-fitting trousers, black high-lows, and top hat. If ever there was a Corinthian, it must surely be Richard Standen.

“Sherborne! You running Hawleigh’s nag today?” a foppishly dressed man in a puce coat wanted to know.

“First time on the big course,” Richard admitted, grinning.

“Want to bet that Wilborn’s Fancy don’t beat him?”

“How much?”

“Say, five hundred? Even odds.”

“Done.” Richard retrieved a slender leather folder from inside his jacket and drew out a sheaf of banknotes. Counting through them, he pulled off the five hundred pounds while Harriet watched in shocked disbelief. Handing them to another gentleman, he murmured just loud enough for her to hear him, “You do not mind holding the money, do you?”

The track stewards shouted for the track to be cleared, and the men melted away. Richard walked back to the carriage and heaved himself up into the seat opposite hers.

“You wagered five hundred pounds!”

“Of course I did! You did not think I should come and not bet, did you?” An infectious grin spread across his face and crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Worried that I shall find myself in dun territory, my dear?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I shan’t.” He leaned across to pat the muff. “ ’Tis but another five hundred we shall have to split.”

“I thought you said that ladies did not sit in the stands to be ogled by the gentlemen,” she observed, turning her attention to a particularly pretty woman who clung to a pink of the
ton.

“They don’t usually.” His eyes followed her gaze, and his grin broadened even further. “I collect you mean that bit of fluff on Chatsworth’s arm. Lud, Harry, how green you are if you have mistaken her for a lady. That, dear Coz, is naught but a fair Cyprian.”

“Oh. Well, how was I to know that?” she retorted peevishly.

“You weren’t, and I was not supposed to be so blunt about it. But that is one of the things I like about you—I’ve never had to stand on ceremony with you.”

The trumpet sounded, signaling the lineup for the race, and the woman with the fancy blue hat was forgotten in the surge of excitement Harriet felt as the jockey rode Two Harry out to take his place at the starting gate. The sun caught the shimmer of rose and green satin, and her heart swelled with pride. He rode her horse, and he wore her colors. And then she knew fear.

What if Two Harry lost? What if Richard lost his money? She drew her hand out of the muff and clutched the pull-strap tightly, both afraid to watch and afraid to look away for fear she’d miss the race. She closed her eyes tightly, wishing fervently that Two Harry could somehow win.