Recklessly Yours (10 page)

The pair walked off, leaving Colin alone with Holly for a second time. Her eyes flickered—with unease? Shyness? A warning prickled his nape. His preoccupation with this woman had nearly resulted in a racecourse calamity.

He cleared his throat. “Can't we tempt you with some of our treats, Miss Sutherland?”

“I'll go along in a moment. Thank you. It's just that . . . for having won the race, you don't look at all happy, Lord Drayton. And I wondered . . .”

“Yes?”

“That is, I believe this to be one of the subtleties of racing I have yet to understand. How is it your horses failed to maintain a proper distance between them?”

The same way he couldn't seem to keep a proper distance from her. Aloud he said, “They take their cues from their riders. As soon as I realized the danger, I signaled for Cordelier to ease away.”

“Your command was invisible. I saw no signal, yet you averted disaster.”

“Cordelier and I know each other well.” He turned, holding out the crook of his arm.

She laid her hand on his triceps and together they walked toward the company milling beneath the elm. “Your rapport is remarkable. I assume you must have begun training him at a very early age, to establish such a strong bond.”

“He's been with me since just after his birth.”

She stopped suddenly and swung about to face him with a beaming smile. “You've quite convinced me, then. My sisters and I must have a colt. Oh, not one fresh from its mother's side, but young and malleable enough to be hand-raised as a champion.”

“You'll find that potential in any of the Ashworth colts, Miss Sutherland.”

“Oh, but I want something extraordinary. An animal that . . . surpasses all the rest. Do you have such a colt, Lord Drayton?”

At those words, he gave an inner flinch. What could Miss Sutherland know about extraordinary colts? Without stopping to consider the consequences, he reached out and grasped her chin, tilting her face to his.

H
olly held her breath and injected as much innocence into her gaze as she could muster.

But, of course, she hadn't asked that last question innocently—not at all. She had decided to press her luck and risk all because of Lord Drayton's near accident during the race. The incident had left him more shaken than he might care to admit, more than his outward confidence revealed. A brief but taut altercation with his brother had immediately followed the near accident. Holly didn't think any of the other guests had noticed.
She
might not have noticed if not for Ivy.

Ivy had recognized the tension between Lord Drayton and his youngest brother, and had pointed out the earl's continued discomfiture. But it had been Holly who decided now would be a good time to question him, to dispense with caution and shake Lord Drayton yet more while his guard was down. She watched him closely as her question seemed to strike home; she caught the widening of his pupils just before he blinked, shuttering his expression.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked in a quiet tone.

She had her answer ready. “I mean to win, Lord Drayton. Owning a Thoroughbred might be an entertaining hobby to my sisters, but I intend for our horse to become a legend of the turf. I want to upset the racing world and tip the established scales. I want a champion.”

He held her chin a moment longer, his gaze locked on hers until she dizzily felt herself spiraling into the endless blue of his eyes, so like the color of the sky. Then with a nod he released her, and she filled her lungs in relief.

“I understand you, Miss Sutherland.”

“And?”

With a hand at her elbow, he coaxed her to continue their trek across the lawn. “Our stables are open to you and your sisters. But ultimately, only you can decide which animal meets your standards.”

“Oh, but surely—”

“You will know it when you find him . . . or her, for a mare can make as great a champion as a stallion. You must trust your instincts.” His voice softened and dipped to a low, resonating note. “Can you do that, Miss Sutherland?”

Hadn't Victoria used nearly those exact same words? But presently, Holly's instincts could not be trusted a whit, because Lord Drayton's proximity, the rumble of his voice, and the masculine scent of his starched cravat draped like muffling velvet over her common sense and lulled her into a muddle of confusion.

She would have stumbled over a root in the ground if he hadn't kept his steadying hand at her elbow.

 

“I'll be back.”

Before Ivy could respond, Willow slipped away, intent on following her quarry.

During the race, while the guests and even Holly and Ivy had turned all their attention to the track, Willow had kept a wary eye on Bryce Ashworth. Swathed by the deep blue shadows of the elm tree, he hadn't shown so much as a flicker of emotion, not even when his brothers rode neck and neck and almost went down. He had made no move closer to the railing; no sounds of warning came out of his mouth. He had simply stood watching, his jaw clenched, his expression as grave as always.

Now, as everyone gathered for refreshments, he seemed to shake himself out of a trance. He scowled at the intrusion into his shady haven and moved off, despite his mother's suggestion that he join the others in enjoying the small feast. He passed Lord Geoffrey without a word, but the youngest Ashworth halted and watched his brother stalk off with a puzzled frown.

Willow couldn't help wondering what had so occupied Lord Bryce's mind that he had failed to be moved by a threat to his brothers' lives. If anything, his sullen behavior could be seen as—good heavens—disappointment. The realization that with Colin out of the way, Lord Bryce was next in line to inherit set Willow's feet in motion.

He strode back past the paddocks, toward the stables. A few guests also strolled the area, and Willow managed to stay hidden within them and the steady stream of servants carrying covered platters to and from the racetrack. Not that her concealment mattered, for Lord Bryce never once looked back.

At the main stables, he veered suddenly to the right, toward the building Lady Sabrina had dubbed the veterinary annex. Might he be checking on an animal he didn't dare display openly among the rest? Could Victoria's colt be tucked away in a secret stall, where even Colin wouldn't stumble upon it? Raising her hems off the ground, Willow peered over her shoulder to make certain no one was following, and sped her steps.

When she reached the veterinary hospital, Lord Bryce was nowhere in sight. A closed red door confronted her like a warning against her brazen actions.
For Victoria.
Thus assured, she set her hand on the latch.

“Where are you going?”

Willow gasped and spun around. Her heart reached up into her throat.

His mouth a forbidding slash, Bryce Ashworth stared at her from beneath the disapproving jut of his brows. “Guests aren't typically admitted to this area.”

“I . . . er . . . the crowd became so confining and I . . . well . . .”

“Thought the confines of the veterinarian wing would be a relief?”

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. Was he accusing—or joking? She searched his serious features for some hint. One eyebrow hovered slightly above the other. Irony, or censure?

“I'd thought I might . . .” Goodness, what?

“Are you interested in horses, Miss Sutherland? I mean, as other than a source of exercise.”

“Horses are lovely animals.” Though in truth she far preferred cats and dogs and other smaller, furrier creatures to horses. She enjoyed pets she could cuddle and carry about. But he didn't need to know that. “Did not your brother mention to you that my sisters and I are considering purchasing a racehorse?”

Had he just stepped closer? Or, with the door at her back, did she simply feel hemmed in by his greater height and solid physique? He studied her as if imagining what she might look like without her clothing. The notion sent flames to her cheeks, a quiver of uncertainty to her knees. “In that case,” he finally said, “do accompany me inside, and learn about the potential hazards racing poses to a horse.”

His voice held an admonishing note that burrowed under her skin even as his baritone caressed her insides. Did he disapprove of racing? She flinched as he leaned to reach an arm around her. Her gaze dropped to his hand, and she glimpsed the raised scars across the backs of the knuckles and over the fingers. Afraid to be caught staring, she flicked her gaze upward just in time to see determination claim his expression. Did he mean to grab her and pull her inside? Willow sucked in the breath she'd need to cry out for help.

But he only gripped the latch and opened the door. “After you, Miss Sutherland.”

Her better sense clamored a warning. Then again, she wouldn't be alone with him, for there must be an extensive staff inside, caring for the sick and injured horses. She might learn something to aid in their mission. Her bottom lip clamped between her teeth, she stepped across the threshold.

 

“Where has Willow disappeared to?” Ivy peeked from beneath her parasol's scalloped edges. Her skin was flushed, her brow glistening.

Holly pressed her palm to her sister's cheek. “Do you need to rest? The day has grown quite warm. I'm sure no one would mind your seeking shelter in the house.”

“I'm fine. Did Willow tell you where she was going?” Ivy scanned the crowd spreading out around the uppermost paddock. Within the wide fenced circle, a carefully raked course snaked in and out of posts that had been set up to create obstacles. There were also four steeplechase jumps, each about waist high.

“Don't worry. Our baby sister is hardly a child anymore, though the rest of us are apt to think of her so. I wouldn't doubt that she has found a barn cat with a nest of kittens and is at this moment naming them all.”

Ivy laughed and nodded. A rapping on the fence post drew their attention, and that of the guests around them, to a platform that had been set up beside the paddock's gate. Lord Shelby, the duchess's brother, stepped up and raised his arms to quiet the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, the first demonstration will be by Lord Henry Braxton on Necromancer.”

A moment later a rider trotted an ebony-coated mount into the paddock. One by one he maneuvered the obstacles, horse and rider moving as one. Holly's watched his progress with admiration, noting how instantly, with no visible signal, the rider changed the horse's direction from right to left, forward to backward, or proceeded from a walk to a trot to a canter.

“He's mine,” a voice behind her murmured uncomfortably close to her ear, so close a breath grazed her nape beneath her bonnet.

She glanced over her shoulder, her heart lifting at the sight of Lord Drayton. Yet he stood some several yards away observing, and could not have whispered in her ear.

She turned full around to discover one of the gentlemen she had met at the Ascot Racecourse yesterday. With a smirk she felt sure was meant to be a confident grin, Stuart Bentley bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips. “Should you not find what you are looking for in Ascot, Miss Sutherland, you must come to me at Newmarket.”

He continued to hold her hand beyond what was proper. Taken aback, tugging unsuccessfully to free her fingers, Holly took in his too-weak chin, sloping shoulders, and wide hips that even skilled tailoring couldn't quite conceal. A certain smugness in his tone—and in that lingering smirk—suggested he might be discussing something other than horses. The directness of his gaze, unwavering from her own, bordered on insulting.

Necromancer exited the paddock to a round of appreciative applause, giving Holly the excuse she needed to yank her hand from Mr. Bentley's grasp. Horse and rider entered another fenced enclosure across the wide, grassy aisle. Necromancer was unsaddled, walked, and then left to his leisure.

Lord Shelby announced the next horse and rider. He stepped down and strolled to his nephew's side. The earl seemed to pay scant attention to his uncle's comments, which were clearly about the horse now cantering around the course.

Holly angled her gaze away. If Lord Drayton was ignoring his uncle, it was because he was watching her . . . and Mr. Bentley. She glanced back at him around the edge of her bonnet brim and tried to read his expression. Puzzled? Annoyed?

“That is Dark Rider, another of my colts.” With his chin, Mr. Bentley gestured at another ebony-coated horse that stood waiting in the nearby paddock. Reluctantly Holly returned her attention to the man—a Jockey Club member, and therefore someone not above suspicion when it came to Victoria's colt.

She stretched her lips in a smile. “A fine-looking animal, sir.”

“I've many more like him.” He eased closer still, his gaze boring into her. Holly retreated a step, then glared back and held her ground. “I am certain I could find you something suitable to your needs,” he said.

Oh? And what, exactly, did he believe those needs were? “I should very much like your opinion on what makes a racehorse a champion,” she lied evenly. She angled another look at Lord Drayton, then instantly dipped her chin when she discovered his gaze still squarely on her. To Mr. Bentley she said, “What traits should I seek?”

The man looked inordinately pleased with himself as he launched into an explanation that Holly heard little of. She concentrated instead on his tone, expressions, and body language. Detecting arrogance but no trace of deceit in his manner, she decided Stuart Bentley simply wasn't clever enough to have stolen Prince's Pride. He possessed no subtlety, no cunning; given his present conduct, he seemed the sort of fellow to play his hand with an open fist.