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It started innocuously. A whisper of logic. Her horses would tire too, would they not?
She, too, would have to stop.
She, too, would be tempted by warm food. And a soft bed—
That was his mistake, allowing himself to think of her in a soft bed. To remember the other bits of herthat were soft. Her breath as she slept. The skin of her cheek when he’d touched her the night before. The flutter of her pulse when he’d found it, rapid and tempting. Her lips.
And all the other bits that he had not yet explored. An onslaught of fantasy crashed over him, long limbs and flushed breasts and the skin at her back as she arched toward him. The sigh he teased from her. That flame red hair that he still hadn’t seen, but that he’d touched... soft as silk and pure temptation.
Softness faded, replaced by thoughts of the firm grip of her hands in his hair, the bite of her teeth at his shoulder. The demands she might deliver.
He groaned, cursing his frustration as he rounded a curve in the road, willing himself to think of anything but her—the pounding of hooves, the rattle of the brougham’s wheels, the creak of the springs in the cold.
Finding the straightaway once more, his gaze narrowed into the distance, and he wondered if he’d summoned her with his thoughts. Because there, one hundred yards ahead, was a carriage, moving at a clip, to be sure. But slow enough that he could catch it.
Catch her.
And it was her. He knew it without question.
As though she’d summoned him to her.
Triumph came, hot and rewarding, and he gave his team full rein, spurring them forward with a single goal—to close the distance. The woman wanted a race? He’d give it to her. And when he won...he’d claim his prize.
One hundred yards became fifty, then twenty-five. He pulled away, putting distance between them on the road as he prepared to come alongside her. He made to shout—to announce his presence so she was not unsettled by his arrival, but before he could, she turned and looked over her shoulder, unsurprised.
She’d known he was there.
Her brows rose and she shouted, “Come to give me the race I was promised, have you?”
Pleasure thrummed through him at the words, at the taunt in them. The challenge. “I could have given it earlier if you hadn’t snuck off!”
She flashed him a grin, lighter than any he’d seen from her before. Fresh and honest and beautiful enough to set his heart pounding. “I couldn’t bear wake you, Duke... you looked so comfortable!”
He turned back to the road at the words, checking the path of the horses as he hid his own smile and shouted, “Tonight, I intend to win the available bed!”
She tossed him a look. “A real race, then! To the next inn!”
His gaze slid over her, the gleam in her eyes visible even behind her spectacles, the pink in her cheeks, her wide smile like a gift. Her gloved hands gripping taut reins, she wore a coat, but the wind from the ride had blown the skirt of it wide over her driving dress, a rich green the color of spring, fabric molded to her torso and legs.
It occurred to him that he’d race her wherever she wished to go. Ignoring the thought, he called out to his team, urging them to go faster. Eager to win... not just for the prize, or the ability to boast of it, but to show her he could.
To win the race... and her admiration.
She was not going to give it to him easily. Good; he wanted the game. When was the last time he’d had one? Had he ever had one?
She came forward on the box, leaned into the reins, her coat billowing out behind her, skirts molding to her strong thighs. He was nearly even with her now, unable to stop himself from checking on her in a constant back and forth—the road, her carriage, the road again.
Ahead, a tree leaned into their path, a leafy branch particularly low on Adelaide’s side. They both saw it, and he shouted at her to watch herself.
He didn’t need to. She sat back on the block, leaning over to duck, easily clearing it, and came up smiling, smooth as a Roman charioteer. She adjusted her eyeglasses and flashed him a smile, her arrogant pride clear and absolutely perfect.
He could watch this woman race carriages forever.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when a gust of wind blew across the road, cold and brisk and harsh enough to lift the hat from her head. She reached for it with an “Oh!” but it was already gone, whipped off into the brush at the side of the road, chased by her laugh, rich and beautiful.
For a heartbeat, instinct took over, and he made to slow his horses—to stop and fetch it. To return it to her like a prize at a tourney. He meant to stop. Meant to be a gentleman.
Except the hat wasn’t all the wind claimed.
