Recklessly Yours (6 page)

He picked up the pace, intent on studying the horses' strides to determine if Sabrina's reckless driving had done them any damage. So absorbed was he in watching the rise and fall of the animals' shoulders and hindquarters, he didn't see the woman crossing his path until it was nearly too late.

T
he openness of the landscape drew the full heat of the afternoon sun, but Holly nonetheless shoved her bonnet back from her brow and lifted her face. The Ascot heath was a wide, flat expanse that seemed endless and endlessly bright, accustomed as she had become to the close streets, looming buildings, and deep shadows of London, or the forested acreage surrounding Thorn Grove. The heath dwarfed the village she had left behind, so that from here it appeared no more than a huddle of bricks and stone in the middle of a vast emptiness.

No, not quite empty. Before her, sudden and stark, stood the rear walls of the neoclassical stands that edged Ascot Racecourse. To her left rose the royal stand with its sweeping drive and grand portico. To her right sat the betting box, where great sums of money exchanged hands during each Royal Meeting.

Between those structures now stood a brand-new grandstand that replaced, she had been told by the hotel desk clerk with no small amount of pride, a smaller and outmoded structure. Almost overnight, Ascot had gone from nearly forgotten to England's premier racecourse, all because the new queen had attended last year's meeting. The presence of workmen in and around the building attested to the unfinished state of the new facility, and the rush to have it completed before the opening of the races two weeks hence.

A sudden rumble snapped Holly out of her musings just in time for her to spot a sporty, open phaeton swinging out from between the stands. The vehicle barreled down the lane straight toward her.

Scrambling to move out of the way, she darted across the road but realized the driver swerved in the same direction in his effort to avoid her. With the phaeton almost upon her, she could chance about-facing and hurrying back across the road . . . or dive into the roadside foliage.

Holly dove.

She landed facedown in a bed of peonies and primroses and something that prickled. Tiny pebbles pelted her back, and she heard hooves crunching on gravel and wheels skidding to a stop somewhere behind her.

An instant later, as she attempted to untwist her skirts from her legs, a pair of boots landed with a great thump beside her. A pair of strong hands closed around her upper arms and began lifting her from the ground.

“Madam? Good heavens, madam, are you hurt? Did the carriage strike you? Can you speak?”

All this rushed out in a deeply rumbling baritone, and a familiar one at that, before she was even upright. Her bonnet had tipped askew, covering one eye, and with the other she peeked out from under the brim. Could the man who had nearly run her down be who she thought he was?

Could she be so lucky?

She reached up and shoved her errant bonnet back off her brow so hard it slipped off and bounced from its ribbons against her back.

“Madam, I am dreadfully sorry. I never expected anyone to be walking to the course today and was not paying proper attention—”

As his mouth dropped open she drew a steadying breath. “Lord Drayton, good afternoon.”

He gaped at her for more seconds than any self-respecting earl should ever gape at anyone or anything. “Miss
Sutherland
?”

She nodded, unnecessarily of course, for disheveled though she may be, there could be no question as to her identity. Colin Ashworth knew her well enough.

“But . . .” His apparent astonishment could have been no greater than if she had fallen out of the sky. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . . er . . . that is . . .” With the back of her fingers she brushed tattered flower petals from her lap.

“Good grief, forgive me.” He slid an arm around her back and, rising, gently pulled her up alongside him. For a few tantalizing seconds she savored the strength of his arm around her. Then it slipped away. His hand, however, hovered just beneath her elbow, as though he feared she might suddenly topple. He bent his face close to hers, his sharp blue eyes roving over her until her skin heated. “Are you quite all right? Shall I bring you to a physician?”

“No, no, I'm fine. Truly.” She paused a moment to assess the accuracy of that statement. She felt no blood trickling from anywhere, nor anything more serious than a dull ache in her hands and knees from when she'd struck the ground. She smiled an assurance. “No lasting damage. Oh, but I cannot say as much for the flowers.”

A Holly-sized depression marred the perfect symmetry of the flowerbed that lined the drive from the road to the portico of the royal stand. Lord Drayton gazed down at the crushed chaos of pink, yellow, and violet, released a long-suffering breath and shook his head.

“Flowers can be replanted,” he said, yet the shadow that momentarily darkened his countenance suggested he regretted the demise of the flora more than he cared to admit. True, as a top breeder of Thoroughbreds, Colin Ashworth was a member of the Jockey Club, which meant that everything to do with the Ascot Royal Meeting would be of vital interest to him.

Even, she supposed, the gardening.

Then it struck her: his claim of not expecting anyone to be walking to the course today smacked of an admonishment, as if he blamed her for being there. He would never say as much, of course, but that flicker in his eyes betrayed a hidden emotion. . . .

She shrugged away the thought as he held her hand and helped her step back onto the gravel lane.

“How coincidental that of all the people I might nearly have run down today, it should be you, Miss Sutherland,” he said. “What will your sisters think of me?”

“Actually, I believe the word is
providential
, my lord, for I'd hoped to run into you while in Ascot. Not literally, of course, but all the same.” She untied her bonnet strings, swung the beribboned silk and straw chapeau back on her head, and tied the bow off to the side, close to her ear. All this she did without taking her eyes off him, except for a brief down sweep of her lashes. She made the dimple in her right cheek dance. “And you may ask my sisters for yourself what they think of our near collision,” she said. “Willow and Ivy are here in Ascot with me. Laurel couldn't come, of course. As you must know, my eldest sister is nearing her confinement. She and Aidan are delighted.” She didn't add that Ivy, too, was expecting.

He politely inquired after Laurel's health. After an awkward pause, he added, “You've come to attend the Royal Meeting, then.”

“Most assuredly, but . . . what are you doing here?” She lifted her chin and widened her eyes. “Last I heard, you and Mr. Quincy were shut up in your laboratory at Cambridge, mixing potions and peering at mold.”

He flashed a ghost of a smile. “I am here for the Meeting as well. A good number of the Ashworth Thoroughbreds are entered.”

“Oh, yes, I'd nearly forgotten your family's involvement in horseracing.” Oh dear, had she gone too far with such a bald-faced lie? Probably, but he would never contradict her, not openly. “In fact, you are a member of the Jockey Club, are you not? Were you inspecting the track?”

“I was.” That earlier shadow returned to veil his expression. “Unfortunately there have been a couple of small setbacks in the preparations.” A muscle in his cheek bounced. “I can only hope the Meeting will not be delayed.”

“Oh, no, and here I have added to those setbacks by ruining the lovely landscaping along the approach.” She sighed with regret.

“Hardly your fault, Miss Sutherland.” And yet his eyes narrowed as if he were taking her measure. She decided it wouldn't do to linger here any longer, with him scrutinizing her beneath the glaring sun.

But neither would it do to lose a heaven-sent opportunity. She glanced over his shoulder at the stands. “As long as I am this close, may I venture a peek?”

That seemed to rouse him from his wariness. “Where are my manners? Of course you may.” He offered his hand and helped her up onto the carriage seat.

As he turned the team in a wide arc, Holly laughed as if she hadn't a care in the world. “How splendid, a private tour.”

“You do realize,” he said over the grind of the carriage wheels, “that the races don't begin for another two weeks?” Did she hear another slight note of accusation? Before she could reply, his eyebrows gathered tightly. “Why providential?”

She blinked, well aware that for a redhead, her eyelashes were thick and dark and, when lowered, cast coy shadows over her cheeks. “Your nearly trouncing me to death? My sisters and I aren't here only for the races. We wish to acquire a racehorse of our own. I thought perhaps you could assist us.”

He drew back a little against the seat, his frown deepening. “
You
wish to purchase a racehorse?”

“Certainly. Is there a reason why not?”

“Women don't typically own racehorses, Miss Sutherland. The Jockey Club—”

“Yes, I know.” She held her bonnet against the breeze. “The Jockey Club has rules against women entering horses in the races. Then Simon will enter our horse. Surely that is allowed?”

“Speaking of Simon, does he know you are here?”

“Of course Simon knows.” She released a chuckle to hide how much the question annoyed her. Was she a child that she needed a man's permission before leaving home? “Why, Lord Drayton, you sound as if my sisters and I were acting on the sly.”

She paused to gauge his reaction to that, but he gave no hint to his thoughts. He faced straight ahead, his profile squarely set as he maneuvered the horses through the narrow gap between the stands. “I only meant that the purchase of a Thoroughbred entails a good deal of practical experience and knowledge. There is much to consider.”

“Indeed, Lord Drayton. But I happen to know a fair amount about horses in general, and surely you'll be good enough to lend us the benefit of your expertise when it comes to Thoroughbreds in particular.”

“I should be honored, Miss Sutherland.”

He didn't sound honored. He sounded . . . wary again.

“For instance,” she went on brightly, “which would you recommend: a seasoned racer or a colt?”

She put light emphasis on that last word just to see if he would react, but if she had expected him to flinch or gasp or incriminate himself in any way, he disappointed her with his calm reply. “There are benefits to both. Generally, the sooner you wish to enter your horse in the races, the more experienced you'll want him to be when you make your purchase.”

The phaeton lurched where gravel gave way to lawn. The wheels hissed through the grass, and the shadows between the buildings fell away as they emerged into the almost blinding dazzle of the Ascot Racecourse. The brightness wasn't due simply to a lack of trees that might otherwise impede the sun, but to the fresh white paint coating the towering stands, the flash of daylight on expansive windows, and the track itself, bleached pale and reflecting the cloudless afternoon. Holly blinked rapidly, not in flirtation this time but to help her eyes adjust to the assault.

The track was longer and wider than she had expected, and the distance between the front and back straights much more extensive. She was used to paddocks and woodland trails where a horse might canter, but achieve a gallop for only short distances before the terrain forced a slower pace.

Here on this flat, smooth track that stretched beneath the expansive sky, she easily envisioned horses at a flat-out gallop, their ears laid back, nostrils flared, legs extending to their full reach while the ground streaked beneath them.

The mere thought set her heart pounding, and in her excitement she stood up on the footboard while the phaeton was still moving, her mind's eye conjuring roaring spectators, thunderous hooves, tumultuous clouds of dust. . . .

“Miss Sutherland!”

Like an iron cuff, Lord Drayton's hand wrapped around her forearm. With the other hand he drew back on the reins, and the phaeton rolled to a stop that could not have been any smoother considering the grass had just given way to the track. Holly nonetheless swayed precariously, only to be caught in Lord Drayton's arms as he rose from the seat beside her.

The fragrance of his shaving soap inundated her senses; she leaned against his solid front and breathed him deep into her lungs. It wasn't until the clamor of voices, hammering, and sawing penetrated the haze of her pleasure that she pulled away.

“I'm quite steady now. Thank you.”

Oh, such a lie. No more than a few seconds could have passed, but in those seconds Holly discovered how easily and quickly her mission could veer out of her control.

Lord Drayton's arms still hovered halfway around her, continuing to impart his heat though he no longer touched her. “Miss Sutherland, you shouldn't go standing in moving carriages.”

“No. How foolish. I was just so taken aback . . .”

His annoyance gave way to a grin, his mouth widening to expose even teeth and score his cheeks with intriguing lines, like dimples but longer, deeper. It was the first truly uninhibited smile she had ever seen on him—except for one other occasion, months ago.

“Ascot has that effect on people,” he said in a low, confiding tone that tripped the beat of her pulse. “Especially since the renovations. Ah, but wait till opening day.”

A quiver passed through her. “I long for it.”

Something high above them, on the roof of the new grandstand, clanked and then banged, and Lord Drayton's arms fell to his sides. But he continued to lean slightly over her, his grin in place, his eyes alight with an interest he'd never shown her before. “I knew you enjoyed riding, Miss Sutherland. Do you remember that morning we rode with Simon and Ivy?”