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His pace is a lot slower now. As he maneuvers through the seemingly endless pit, his priority appears to have shifted from winning the race to keeping me dry. He accelerates only after he’s climbed back onto the track.
The final section, albeit hurdle-free, feels rough. The muscles in my legs and midsection are sore from the nonstop clenching, and my neck aches. I’m increasingly dizzy and fatigued. Yet I can’t help but gasp in awe of the physical strength that allows this man to sprint again along the home stretch, uphill with me on his back.
When we cross the finish line, our time is 2:03.
Louis sets me down and helps me remove my wet Santa hat. Two uniformed employees run up with towels, wipes, and hairdryers. As they clean my face, a third employee hands me my glasses. When they’re done, I put them back on. Next, they blow-dry my messy, uneven bob. Plunging my hands into my hair, I finger comb it forward while they blow heat on it.
Five minutes later, they put a dry Santa hat on my head and rush away, leaving me as good as new. In the meantime, couples eleven and twelve have fallen victim to the water pit.
Louis returns to my side, all cleaned up and dressed in a new Santa costume. “What did I miss?”
“Three more couples to go,” I say. “If they can’t beat our time, we win.”
He nods. “I’m sorry about the accident in the pit.”
“You didn’t drop me or fall down,” I remind him. “Given how competitive you are, I appreciate you slowing down after my hat got wet.”
“The race was harder than I’d thought,” he says honestly. “On the final stretch, it felt like I was carrying an elephant around my neck.”
I put my hands on my hips. “An elephant?”
“A small one.” He gives me a crooked smile. “With nice legs and a great ass.”
We stare at each other.
The emcee’s voice breaks the moment. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the race is over!”
“What?” I scan the area where the last three couples were waiting for their turn mere seconds ago.
I guess it was more than seconds.
Louis peers in the same direction, visibly confused. “We missed the last three runs.”
Did anyone beat our time?
The emcee ends the suspense, “None of the couples managed to complete the obstacle course in under two minutes. That means the couple with the best time wins, which means our winners are…” He pauses to tease the public.
Come on, man, spit it out!
The emcee throws a fist in the air. “Louis-Philibert and Camille de Valois!”
Louis and I exchange a doubtful look.Really? We won?
The crowd begins to chant, “Valois! Valois! Valois!”
Yep, we won.
Louis turns me so that we’re facing the audience, grabs my hand and raises it high, roaring like some star athlete who’s just won a world championship.
When the applause dies down, the emcee turns to us. “And now, the fun part! First, your prize is the weight of the marchioness in craft beer and her weight in coins.”
“You can keep all the coins, if I can have the beer,” Louis whispers to me.
I look around. “Where’s that marchioness? I hope she’s fat!”
“You’re the marchioness,” he says, smothering a laugh. “Until the day after tomorrow, when you’ll be anointed a duchess.”
I gape as it dawns on me that when one signs a marriage contract with a marquess, one automatically becomes a marchioness.
