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Nicole shook her head. “No one could replace you, Papa. You’re the finest jockey in England. My wish is to race beside you, not in your stead.”
“You underestimate yourself, Elf.” Affectionately, Nick brushed a strand of ebony hair from her cheek. “Your horsemanship constantly amazes me. And that’s a qualified assessment, not paternal pride talking. You have an incredible knack with horses.”
“If so, it’s because I’m your daughter.”
“Not for long, according to the plan you’ve just spouted.”
A tolerant sigh. “My pretense will only be for the world’s prying eyes, Papa.”
“I see. Tell me, then. This scheme of yours, hasn’t it failed to take one very important detail into account?”
“The fact that I’m female.”
“Um-hum.”
“Well, I won’t be. Not outside our home. When I go to seek employment, I’ll be a man.”
“A man,” Nick repeated woodenly, ignoring the choked sputtering that emerged from Sully’s throat.
“Yes.” Nicole grinned impishly. “And a bloody good one at that.”
Without looking away, Nick raised his palm, effectively severing Sully’s oncoming verbal protest. “Elf,” he continued, “that’s absurd. Impossible.”
“Why?”
“To begin with, there’s nothing manly about you. Why, you’re scarcely five feet tall and slender as a reed.”
“And you’re but a few inches taller and not many pounds heavier. As was my grandfather, and his father before that. The entire Aldridge line—all exceptional jockeys—were short and slight. An asset, I believe you said, in your line of work. I don’t recall anyone questioning your masculinity.”
“You’re not only tiny, Elf, you’re delicate and …” Flushing, Nick sought the right words, eventually abandoning his attempts and gesturing vaguely in the direction of Nicole’s softly curving body. “You’re twenty years old, Nickie. A grown woman. Although God knows I seem to forget that fact often enough.”
“If I’m able to make you forget, the rest of the world will be easy to delude—especially once my disguise is complete. I’ll pad my uniform, bind myself down. Believe me, Papa, no one will suspect I’m anything but an eager and adept young man.”
“Hey, Sully! Where the hell are you?” came a shout from the far end of the stable. “Now we’ve lost you and Nick?”
With a start, Sully recovered both his voice and his awareness that precious minutes were ticking by. “Coming!” he called back, his worried stare fixed on Nick. “Go out through the rear,” he hissed. “I’ll tell the others Nicole took sick.” Purposefully, he shoved the bills into Nick’s hand, disregarding his friend’s protest. “Don’t be a bull-headed fool. You’d do the same for me. Now go. We’ll talk later.”
“Sully, I …”
“Go, dammit.” Sully planted himself directly behind them, thereby obstructing any onlooker’s view of their departure.
“Thank you, Sully,” Nicole whispered. In a heartbeat, they were gone.
Spraystone Cottage
The Isle of Wight
“DUSTIN, YOU’RE AS RESTLESS as the waves of last night’s storm,” Ariana Kingsley declared, her turquoise eyes glimmer
ing with humor, “and you have been ever since you arrived at Spraystone. It’s been three days. And, while I never thought I’d say this, you’re more insufferable than Trenton when you brood.”
“That bad?” Dustin Kingsley returned with mock dismay. He rolled his brandy goblet between his palms, gifting Ariana with the melting smile that, according to countless affirmations, left a line of swooning women in its wake.
“Worse.” Despite the levity of her tone, the duchess of Broddington studied her brother-in-law anxiously, wishing she could discern the cause of his unrest. Since the day they’d met, she and Dustin had been solid friends—and not only because of their mutual love for Trenton. Theirs was a caring, honest rapport, one that made Ariana feel as much Dustin’s sister as if they were bound by blood.
Which made his uncustomary reticence all the more perplexing.
Blowing a wisp of auburn hair off her face, Ariana was on the verge of probing further when, from the corner of her eye, she spied a more immediate dilemma—one that propelled her from her armchair and sent her dashing across the sitting room in record time.
