Page 96

Derek snorted. “Apologies. What could I have been thinking? What could possibly take down the Iron Duke?”

Pain sliced through Rafe’s heart, and visions assaulted him. Glowing brown eyes. Cheeky smiles. High cheekbones. Untamable hair.

“What indeed?”

36

Rafe

Rafe’s matching greys pawed their hooves, their snorting breaths feeding the anticipation thrumming through his veins. His hands tightened on the reins, their restrained power filtering through the leather into him.

Soon, lads.

The whispers of a curricle race were correct. Derek had already retired, but Rafe had been desperate for this. To feel something—anything—that would distract him from the fracture in his chest. And maybe he’d even get lucky enough to win himself a fat purse that could go toward the foundling home.

Rafe stared out across the park, the cloudless night bathed in moonlight, providing just enough light for the race, combined with the oil lanterns hanging from each vehicle.

A man walked into the race path. Rafe’s muscles tensed, and his fingers worked the reins. His horses’ ears turned back. Just as ready as he to run. Run away from it all.

This was exactly what he needed. A reminder of how good his life was. Women, races, clubs, his best mate. He didn’t need anything more than that.

The man lifted his arm, pistol pointed to the heavens. Rafe’s breath froze, whip at the ready. Time slowed.

Crack!

Smoke billowed out from the tip of the pistol. Rafe was already careening forward, his whip having come down the instant the gun fired.

He gave his mounts their head and let them fly.

Faster.

Harder.

He hollered into the night, the wounded sound ripped from the deep recesses of his blackened chest. He urged them on, pouring every last drop of anguish, of devastation into the reins.

He roared at his demons, at his father’s ghost.

For breaking him past the point of repair.

Raged at Theo.

For giving him hope and obliterating it.

He cracked his whip down on his mounts’ hindquarters again, and they surged forward even faster. Hooves thundered, a relentless drum that reverberated through his skull and shook all the way to his bones.

His curricle bucked beneath him, jerking over every rock, over every rut. Every one sent a jolt down his spine. And he welcomed every streak of pain, every clack of his teeth. Welcomed the sting of the wind burning his face.

Another pair of horses appeared in his periphery, an opponent closing in on him. Rafe’s jaw clenched. The bastard was trying to run Rafe off the path. Typical. Anything went. Rafe hauled the reins, bringing his mounts closer.

He glanced at the arse encroaching on him. One didn’t try to intimidate the Duke of Ironcrest without consequences.

The first bend rushed toward them.

Rafe tightened his grip on the reins, then pulled hard on the reins. His horses veered, curricle swinging and knocking into the man’s next to him.

Splintering wood sliced through the deafening stampede of hooves.

His curricle jolted.