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“Deserve me?” She bristled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, voice low so as not to be heard by the little ears in the seat behind, “that I’d give my blessing to it. He’s a good man, from a good family.” He gave her one serious look before adding, with a wink, “And you’d be richer than Midas, marrying a future duke.”
Isleen groaned and raised her muff to hide behind it. “Teague. Don’t you dare say a word of this to anyone else. Shameful, scheming man. They’ll say we planned it together.”
He laughed, and after a moment she forgave him and leaned against his shoulder. Her brother had her best interests at heart. And it eased her mind, at least a touch, that he thought her and Simon an appropriate match for one another.
Not that it mattered all that much what Teague’s opinion was. Simon hadn’t made any declarations or plans. Wouldn’t England’s nobility frown on a future duke marrying beneath him on the social ladder? That same ladder they had spoken of, not too many days past.
And yet…her heart continued to hope, to wonder at the possibilities, to examine the matter from all sides.
She knew all the signs of new love as well as those of a broken heart. The symptoms of love were there, calling her attention to the way Simon’s smile made her heart flutter, and how his attention made her want to preen and hide herself away simultaneously. But there was every chance she’d end the Christmas season with a broken heart, too.
They arrived at the wide stretch of meadow at last, and the children piled out of the sleighs and ran for the trees, whooping and laughing, scooping up snow and throwing it in the air. Isleen descended from their vehicle with more grace than her younger sister and Lord James. She waved at her brother. “Good luck with your race.”
Soon, only men fully grown and their grooms on the rear seats remained in the sleighs. They would drive to the far side of the meadow, then turn and race back to a designated finish line. Sir Andrew waved at Isleen as he passed, and she happily waved back. Then Simon went by in his sleigh, his favored horse not seeming to mind pulling instead of being ridden. The beast was huge and as handsome as his owner.
Simon raised his gloved hand, and Isleen had the urge to blow him a kiss. The very idea made her demure into offering a curtsy instead. He grinned at her and kept going.
Her breath turned to clouds of vapor as she stood still, watching the back of Simon’s head and fur cap as he drove away. Had she been too obvious in her growing affection for the man? If Fiona had noticed, when she only ever saw them together in the schoolroom, had others? Had there been gossip about her?
IfConteAtella and Sir Andrew were teasing Simon, before her own brother no less, about the wager, it wasn’t considered a secret.
Had they bent their heads together over books too often in the evening hours? And what of Mr. Childwick? He had guessed with astonishing speed what her feelings were.
A groom stood in the center of the field and raised a pistol—the starting signal for the race. Isleen, with Lady Josephine, Lady Atella, and other women who had braved the cold, started herding the children toward the tree line to keep them fully out of the path of the horses and sleighs.
Once beneath the bare branches, they formed a line to cheer the men on. Even the duke had decided to participate in the event. Isleen turned her coat collar up and stood between her sister and Lord James.
“I wish they’d let me race,” Lord James muttered. “I’m nearly old enough to handle the stripes, you know.”
Fiona snorted. “Maybe in a pony and cart race.”
“Fi.” Isleen glowered at her sister. “Be kind.”
She shrugged. “Tis only the truth.”
Lord James leaned forward and stuck his tongue out at Fiona. “You can’t race at all. You’re a girl.”
“As though I’d want to,” she retorted.
“Children, please.” Isleen cast her eyes heavenward and prayed for patience. “Here, look. They’re ready to start.”
Her last word was overwhelmed by the sound of a gunshot ringing through the meadow.
The race started.
Children jumped up and down, shouting and clapping their mittened hands. The ladies were more demure in their enthusiasm, but were calling out encouragement that doubtless went unheard over the sounds of horse hooves kicking up snow, the runners shushing across the powder and ice, and the jingle of the sleigh bells.
And Isleen shouted, too. As much for Simon as her brother, though she hoped no one else noticed.
Two grooms stood on either side of the finishing line, drawn hastily in the snow with a stick, watching to see who crossed first. Isleen realized the duke and Sir Andrew were even, with Simon and another gentleman close behind. At the last moment, Sir Andrew passed the duke, and Simon crossed at the same moment as his father. The race was quite close, and as the horses slowed and stamped their feet, grooms rushing forward to calm them and pat them down with blankets, the drivers all laughed and called to one another.
“Teague didn’t win,” Fiona said, leaning forward to smile at Lord James. “But neither did your father or your brother.”
Lord James glowered at her, then turned and stormed away.
“Fi, you need to learn more tact.” Isleen shook her head at her sister, her eyes on Simon as he shook Sir Andrew’s hand and then his father’s.
