The rarest moment…
The scene slowed, the clammer ceased, and she witnessed the control in Lord Ernest’s thighs, the press and flex in accord with the motion, Lord Jack’s flank rippling and gleaming in exertion, a burgundy ribbon fluttering from his ebony mane.
The scene sped once more.
Clammer returned, the drum of hooves pounding in her ears, the stallions’ tails streaming like spilled ink.
She fell forward against the door, craning to see the finish as a roar vented from the grandstand – hats flying from its open balconies akin to spinning plates.
“Who won?” she cried. “Mr Skelton, who won?”
“I didn’t see! Looked damn close. Only those at the finish rope will know.”
She so yearned to fling herself from the barouche and push through the throng to the finish, but all those around them had the same idea, surging forward, their mounts and saddles clashing – she’d be trampled to pigfeed as colts snickered and mares snorted in the crush.
It was agony and thrill and–
A horse cantered back towards them on the racecourse, a white-sleeved arm waved aloft.
Applause and cheers erupted from the crowds lining the ropes, every carriage occupant upon their feet, hats and shawls waved. Coachmen stood upon their perches and placed fingers in lips to emit ear-piercing whistles, the warm sun beating upon them all.
Yanking the reins, the jubilant rider laughed as his stallion reared into the air, hooves dancing and crashing to the ground to let all know who was king of the stallions this day.
The rider leaped from the snorting, steaming animal, a practised stunt of virility and skill.
His skin was streaked with sweat, his hair matted, his perfect waistcoat caked in earth, his cravat as crooked as a Rookery moneylender.
“We won, Hebe. We won!”
She didn’t care. For he was safe and unhurt.
Without thought, she threw the barouche door wide, hurtled to the rope and ducked beneath, to be caught in strong arms that swung her around and around and around, his exuberance and joy infectious.
And she welcomed that joy as it filled her, allowed it to surge through her veins.
Allowed Lord Ernest to warm her long-frozen heart with his rapture and laughter and life.
23
PLAY YOUR CARDS RIGHT
Beatrice paced back and forth.
Some matters needed to be laid to rest, so she dillied and dallied, hummed and hawed, then gazed to the evening sunset which glowed a vivid crimson through the wisps of cloud, streaking the sky in raw scratches.
Redmond emerged into the deserted stable courtyard from bedding down the hero of today, Lord Jack, his fingers rolling something small over and over, jaw tight and eyes to the cobbles.
So she cleared her throat.
Twice.
Halting in his tracks, his black stare narrowed before he stuffed whatever it was to his waistcoat pocket. “Mrs Cassell.” And he dipped his head before abruptly twisting to return from whence he came, apparently preferring the company of horses to her.
“I-I wondered whether I might have a word, Redmond?”
He leisurely swivelled with an expression that could not be easily defined. Melancholic? Resigned? Or both.
Seeming to haul a breath from his boots, he then exhaled in a gush.
