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‘There were fifty-one entries, but only eleven are running. That is not unusual,’ he explained, as Marissa tried to separate what seemed at first sight to be an indistinguishable crowd of horses. ‘The favourite is Nectar, owned by Lord Cavendish – see, over there, the bay colt. He looks very well, does he not? And he has already won the Two Thousand Guineas.’
‘It does look a very fine horse,’ Jane observed. ‘What are the odds, my lord?’
‘Ten to six, so hardly worth putting money on at this stage, I would have thought. Let us choose horses with longer odds – it will be more exciting. How about Lord Stawell’s chestnut, Pandour? It is from the same sire as the favourite, but it is at sixteen to one.’
Both Jane and Nicci agreed to place a guinea each on Pandour, but Marissa was feeling perverse and was in no mood to take any advice from Marcus that morning. ‘Which is that?’ she asked, pointing at a large bay as it passed them close by the rail.
Marcus checked the colours against the race card. ‘That is Prince Leopold. It is running in the colours of Mr Lake, the Duke of York’s Master of Horse, but I believe it is owned by His Royal Highness himself. First time out, and the odds are long – twenty to one. With no form to go on, I would not hazard your guinea on him, Marissa.’
‘A guinea? Why, nothing so paltry,’ she declared with a toss of her head. ‘I shall place five guineas on Prince Leopold. Here.’ She felt in her reticule and handed him the money. ‘Will you place the bet for me, please?’
‘You are an inveterate gambler, it seems, Cousin Marissa. I had not suspected it.’
He collected the bets from the others and went to find a bookmaker while the ladies continued to view the parade of horses. Jane now held the race card and pointed out the Duke of Grafton’s horse, Alien, and Mr Blake’s John of Paris. ‘What a magnificent animal,’ she declared. ‘Perhaps I should have put my guinea on him instead.’
‘Good day, ladies.’ They were greeted by Lady Valentine, who joined them at the rail. She was dashingly attired in fawn twill, her new scarlet half-boots peeping from under the hem. On her head she sported an outrageous toque of Ionian cork, cut like mosaic and adorned with scarlet tassels and plumes. Nicci’s jaw dropped until she was jabbed sharply in the ribs by Jane.
‘My dear Lady Longminster. You do look… well,’ she remarked, leaving everyone in no doubt that she considered Marissa’s tasteful outfit to be dull. She merely raised an eyebrow at the sight of Nicci’s magpie magnificence, commenting only that she thought her hat to be, ‘So droll.’
‘Oh, I am forgetting myself. Let me make Mr Templeton known to you. Captain Cross you know already, of course.’
Mr Templeton bowed to the ladies as they were introduced, but his attention was obviously all for Lady Valentine who hung onto his arm possessively. He was a remarkably well-set-up young man, with broad shoulders, muscular thighs and a handsome profile under dark brows. Captain Cross gave the distinct impression of a man whose nose had been put out of joint and he lost no time in making eyes at Nicci whenever he thought her chaperones were not watching.
Lady Valentine’s party took up position on the rails a few yards farther along and Nicci almost imperceptibly drifted along until she was in a position to chat with Captain Cross. Marissa decided there was no harm in it, provided they stayed where they were.
Jane, who would normally have spotted such a manoeuvre, had been diverted by the arrival of her new friend Sir Frederick Collier, with whom she had been visiting museums and galleries ever since Diane de Rostan had introduced them. The distinguished banker bowed gallantly over her hand and Marissa thought she had never seen Jane look so handsome. Skilfully he drew her off to one side and Marissa found herself alone, fondly thinking that dear Jane might have found a little romance of her own in her middle years.
Marissa felt the smile freeze on her lips when she saw her father pushing his way aggressively through the crowd towards her. Her heart sank then rose as she saw Marcus, Diane de Rostan on his arm, cross his path. There was a brief conversation of which she heard nothing, but she saw her father’s expression become a scowl and he turned abruptly and stomped off.
Marcus uttered a few words, obviously explaining the uncouth stranger to the Frenchwoman. To Marissa’s relief Diane released Marcus’s arm, patted his cheek and made her own way towards the pavilion.
‘Here is your betting slip,’ Marcus said as he joined Marissa at the rail. ‘Put it safely in your reticule, although I doubt you will need it – the more I look at that horse of yours, the less I like it.’
Tension was growing as the horses lined up at the start. The starter dropped his flag and they were off. Nectar took the lead and stayed there, running strongly, the rest of the field bunched behind. Marcus groaned at the performance of his choice, then gave a great yell as, a furlong and a half out, Pandour and Prince Leopold took up the challenge.
‘Come on, come on, Prince Leopold!’ Marissa screamed, her unladylike behaviour lost in the sea of noise all around them.
‘Pandour!’ Marcus shouted, but Nectar was holding them. Marissa found she was jumping up and down on the spot, her hand gripped tightly onto Marcus’s sleeve. Suddenly, with the winning post only five lengths away, Prince Leopold sprang forward, straining under his jockey’s whip. The leaders ran neck and neck for a few strides, then they flashed past the post, Prince Leopold in the lead by half a length.
‘He has won, he has won!’ Marissa shrieked, and threw her arms round Marcus, kissing him on the cheek. In response, hidden by the milling crowd of excited racegoers all intent on the track, he bent his head and kissed her full on the lips. Instinctively she kissed him back and suddenly it was as if they were alone in the garden again.
‘God, I want you,’ he growled.
She felt dizzy with the thrill of winning and the tension of the race. All she knew was that she loved Marcus and she wanted him too. Mutely she nodded.
Marcus looked around, spotted Sir Frederick with Jane, and, leaving Marissa by the rail, crossed to speak with them. ‘Sir Frederick, may I beg a favour of you?,’ she heard him say. ‘Lady Longminster is quite overcome by the crowds and I must take her back to the Lodge. Could I ask you to escort Lady Nicole and Miss Venables for the rest of the day? Lady Longminster would be so distressed to think she had destroyed their pleasure.’
The baronet agreed immediately, took charge of the winning betting slip with a word of congratulation and could be heard reassuring Jane. ‘No need to worry, Miss Venables. Your friend is in the best of hands and would not wish to mar your day. Now, a little luncheon, some champagne, perhaps…’
Marissa felt dazed as Marcus swept her out of the Enclosure into the press of other racegoers. They were soon seated in the barouche and with a word of explanation to the groom and coachman the carriage began wending its way slowly out against the press of vehicles still flooding onto the course.
‘Marcus,’ Marissa whispered. ‘We should not be doing this.’
‘Yes, we should,’ he murmured back. ‘I am going to make you mine, and then we will name the day.’
The journey back to the Lodge seemed frighteningly short to Marissa. She loved Marcus, she wanted him – far too much to even think about impropriety. Yet she dreaded the moment he discovered that she could not respond to him as a lover, as his wife should do. But for the moment it was enough to be with him and one corner of her mind told her that it was better he discovered the truth now rather than when they
were married.
