Recklessly Yours (9 page)

She turned her attention back to the racetrack. Footsteps crunched as a man and woman picked their way down the track to where a finishing post had been erected on the swale beside the outermost edge of the course. Holly nearly raised a hand to wave at the woman. Tall and trim, she moved with a familiar stride that held both a dancer's grace and a nimble, almost impatient quickness. That, and the curls flashing golden in the sun from beneath a feathered hunt cap, had tricked Holly into believing for an instant that it was Lady Sabrina proceeding down the track. Further scrutiny revealed a gray tarnish to those curls, and a waistline that, though still slender, showed the thickening that comes to women of later years.

“That's the duchess,” said a woman in a tall, flowered bonnet who had drifted beside Holly. Holly nodded. The Duke and Duchess of Masterfield had not attended Ivy's wedding, but she would have known the woman anywhere because of her striking resemblance to her daughter. “The gentleman with her is Her Grace's brother, Lord Shelby,” her neighbor added.

The duchess carried a bright red flag that fluttered gaily at her side. Two chairs sat directly beside the post, and after stomping bits of turf from their boots, the pair, talking and laughing, took their seats.

Willow came up on Holly's other side, panting as though she'd been running. “Don't look now,” she murmured, “but there
he
is.”

“Who?” As Holly waited for Willow's answer, she continued studying the track. The curves were wide and generous, the straights smooth and level. As Lord Drayton had indicated, this was a demonstration course, not one to set rider or animal at risk.

“It's
Lord Bryce
.”

Willow's urgent whisper sent Holly's glance sidewise through the crowd. The second-oldest Ashworth sibling stood at the edge of the elm tree's shadow, managing to appear solitary despite being surrounded by people. Even among his family, Bryce Ashworth stood out as different, his hair a darker shade of blond, his features too blunt to be called handsome, and his gaze too piercing to be considered affable.

When Holly had met him at the wedding, something about his somber manner had captured her interest, even her sympathy—although why she couldn't quite say. She pondered Willow's reaction to the man. “Do you have a reason to dislike the fellow? Has he offended you?”

“Of whom are you speaking?” Ivy said as she appeared at Willow's shoulder. “Who offended you, Willow?”

“No one.”

“She's worried about Lord Bryce,” Holly told her in a whisper.

“Where is he?” Ivy craned her neck. “Oh, I see him.” She raised a hand to wave, but Willow swatted her arm down.

“Don't attract his attention.”

“Why ever not?”

A slight shudder shook Willow's shoulders. “He frightens me.”

Ivy huffed with impatience. “Bryce is a lovely gentleman.”

“He is forever scowling, and he is altogether too quiet, as if he knows secrets about people. And his hands . . .”

“Willow, you are being unkind.” Ivy clucked her tongue in admonishment. “The scars on his hands are the result of a boyhood accident. And while I'll admit his is a severe countenance, I'm certain he means no harm to anyone. Least of all to you.”

“Well, he is so . . . so not at all like Colin.”

The comment filled Holly with perplexity. Just the fact that Willow thought of him as
Colin
, not
Lord Drayton
, spoke of how differently he behaved with her than with Holly. Except for those rare moments when he let down his guard, as he had seemed to very briefly, moments ago.

Or had she only imagined him leaning closer and softening his voice, as on that day in Ivy's drawing room?

As if a man like Colin Ashworth would ever kiss a woman like her. If he had any interest in her at all, it was merely to sell her a horse.

A note on a horn stifled conversations and sent the spectators vying for places along the fence. A gate opened and six men entered the course, all in knee-high boots, lambskin breeches, and smartly tailored riding coats.

He was among them, standing nearly a head above the rest. He went to the side of the horse he had pointed out to her—Cordelier—a magnificent bay with dramatic ebony points, not like those that had pulled his phaeton yesterday, but taller, sleeker, and with the distinctive Ashworth star above his eyes. Like the colt Holly had seen in Victoria's mews, except that this horse was clearly more mature and more powerful about the flanks and shoulders.

Nimbly Lord Drayton set his foot in the stirrup, his thigh muscles rippling beneath his form-fitting breeches, and with no visible effort he swung up into the saddle. Holly had been used to Colin Ashworth the scholar and scientist, an observant man attuned to the minutest of details. As she watched him now from a distance, he became, not the scientist, or the acquaintance who perplexed her, but a figure that commanded attention, that exuded power and confidence. For the first time she found herself glimpsing the essence of the man and all his finer qualities—his breeding, his nobility, his authority. It was none of it blatant, but implied in the relaxed set of his shoulders, each deft flick of his hand, each calm word he spoke to his horse.

Gripping the rail, she leaned out, absorbed in the potency of his nobleman's profile—the intelligent brow, the determined nose, the square and obdurate chin.

“Holly, if you aren't careful you're going to tumble over the fence.”

Ivy's warning brought her back to her senses. She blinked, and was taken aback to recognize another of the riders, just now approaching the mount that stood beside the earl's.

“Is that Geoffrey Ashworth?”

Willow shaded her eyes with her hand. “I believe it is. Why, I wouldn't have thought it. He was so retiring when we met him last autumn. I'd think him too timid for racing.”

“He'll surprise you, then,” Ivy said with a secretive smile.

Lady Sabrina strode through the gate and stood on the swale a few feet beyond the horses. How splendid she looked, as confident and commanding as her eldest brother, with her bright curls tamed at her nape and her feathered cap tipped to a rakish angle. The breeze gently flapped the neat little tails of her riding jacket and filled her skirts, affording fleeting glimpses of red-trimmed boots.

She raised a blue flag over her head. Taut energy rippled through the air. The crowd stilled. The horses stood frozen but for the eager quivering of their flanks. Holly held her breath, excitement building inside her. On either side of her, Ivy and Willow stood at rigid attention. A whistle blew, and Lady Sabrina snapped the flag down to her side.

The horses thundered past, the noise and the momentum stealing Holly's breath. She forgot all else as the race absorbed the whole of her attention. The line of Thoroughbreds spanned the track until they reached the far corner. Then they stretched out into a single-file line, all vying for the innermost position.

They came around, passing Holly and her sisters again in a blur. She leaned forward and tried to make out Lord Drayton among the knot of riders, then saw his hair flash gold in a shaft of sunlight. Around her, people waved hands in the air and cheered their favorites on; caught up in the enthusiasm, she found herself calling out Lord Drayton's name, and that of his stallion.

They rounded the far curve again, and as they neared the straight Lord Drayton edged his horse to the outside and began putting several horse lengths between him and the other riders. But then another came on close behind him, then alongside. The horses' flanks brushed, and even from here she saw Lord Drayton's triumphant grin fade beneath a sudden apprehension.

Gasps flew among the spectators.

“They're too close!”

“They'll tangle!”

“They'll fall!”

“Why, isn't that young Geoffrey?”

Holly's knuckles whitened against the rail, her nails digging into the wood. Willow pressed against her side. Ivy's lips moved stiffly in urgent, silent prayer.

 

As they pounded into the eastern curve, Colin tightened his knees, pulled back slightly on the reins, and pressed one heel snug against Cordelier's flank. The stallion slowed almost imperceptibly, but enough. At the same time, Cordelier eased to the right, giving Geoff and his mount enough room to make it around the bend without both horses' legs tangling. Colin held his breath and kept firm, trusting Cordelier to keep his pace even.

Rock steady. The stallion didn't let him down.

From the corner of his eyes he saw Geoffrey blow out a breath of relief, the fear in his eyes fading. It had been close. But it hadn't been all Geoff's fault, not entirely.

As they'd come down the front straight for the second time, Colin had spotted Holly Sutherland, a blur of red curls framing her face, her impossibly green eyes pinned on him as if to guide his every move, as if she alone could deliver him unharmed to the finishing post. He'd even heard her shouting his name.

Damn it, he knew better than to allow a distraction from the crowd to break his concentration. He held his gaze directly in front of him now as he gave Cordelier his head and let the stallion glide past the finishing post. His mother and uncle dropped their flags, proclaiming him the winner. Only then did he glance over his shoulder to see Geoffrey coming several paces behind him to take second. The rest of the pack swiftly followed.

Slowing to a walk, Colin rode Cordelier around the track once more, then dismounted and handed him off to a groom. His guests spilled through the gates, their shouted congratulations humming in his ears. He waited for Geoffrey to climb down from his mare and strode to his brother's side.

“You all right?”

Geoff darted a look at him from under a shock of disheveled hair. “Fine.”

“And the mare?”

“Fine, too.”

“Good race, though. You did well. I'm proud of the work you've done with that horse. She's bound to have a distinguished career on the turf.”

Geoff said nothing; he started to walk away.

“Wait a moment. What's wrong?”

His sixteen-year-old brother stopped, turned, and with a grim expression, held out his arms. “I lost. And I nearly killed us both.”

“You came in second, and we're both still very much alive.”

The boy scowled. “You don't need to dip it in honey. God, I hate it when you do that.” He pivoted and strode off, and soon disappeared among the laughing, delighted spectators.

Colin sighed.

“He doesn't like it when you make excuses for him,” a voice said at his shoulder. He turned to see Sabrina smiling shrewdly up at him, the feather in her velvet cap shivering in the breeze.

“I wasn't making excuses for him. I was merely—”

“You see,” she interrupted, “he doesn't realize that if your horses
had
collided, the fault would have been yours as much as his. Perhaps more so.”

Before Colin could react, she placed a hand on his upper arm and leaned closer to whisper, “I watched you as you came out of the east curve. Something in the crowd caught your attention, or you would have anticipated Geoff's move as the most logical response to your sprint for the lead.” She leaned away, a teasing smile bringing beauty to an angular face that often appeared too sharp. “I wonder what that something was. Or whom?”

The smile in place, she sauntered off, gathering a circle of guests around her as she led the way to the refreshment tables. Stuart Bentley was among them, and offered Sabrina his arm.

Colin felt as though a fist were pressing on his breastbone. His sister was right, on both counts. Geoff couldn't stomach excuses, or compliments for that matter, because in his short life he'd been afforded so few of either. Their father didn't believe in indulging his children or encouraging them with praise . . . or forgiving their faults.

“Geoffrey, surely you aren't going to take
that
from your sister, a mere girl? Never mind that she can outride you, outrun you, and outsmart you.”

“Geoffrey, don't you wish to prove to your brothers that you are no less capable for being so much younger? Unless, of course, you
are
less capable.”

Thaddeus had Geoffrey convinced he'd never measure up to what a duke's son should be—whatever the blazes that was. How to undo the damage? How to persuade a young man of his worth, when his own father professed to find nothing of value in him?

The track had all but cleared. Colin's mother and Sabrina, with Bentley close at their heels, were urging their guests to fill their plates and enjoy countless cups of punch. He noticed Bentley try to offer Sabrina a cup he had filled for her, but either she didn't notice or she ignored the gesture as she gathered acquaintances around her. Bentley poured the contents into the grass, handed the cup to a passing servant, and dragged his heels as he strolled away. Colin couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him, but if Bentley had only asked, Colin would have told him that Sabrina was far from ready to settle her affections on a new suitor, especially on one more than a dozen years her senior.

When Colin exited through the gate, he was surprised to find all three Sutherlands waiting for him on the lawn. Ivy gave him a quick hug and proclaimed her relief that both he and Geoffrey had emerged unscathed. Miss Willow congratulated him on his win, but she seemed preoccupied, her gaze darting to the elm tree. She nudged Ivy.

“Come. You should eat something and have some punch. It won't do for you to become overheated.”