Recklessly Yours (8 page)

Holly couldn't help secretly cheering for the young woman. “How you must enjoy your life here,” she said.

Lady Sabrina gave a shrug.

Circling the house, the driver followed a gravel lane that skirted formal gardens and continued for about half a mile. The Ashworth holdings were considerable and impressive. Willow apparently thought so, too, for she continually craned her neck as Lady Sabrina pointed out sites of particular interest.

The lane ended in a circular forecourt enclosed by three expansive buildings of whitewashed stone with slate roofs. Corinthian columns, carved embellishments, and beveled, diamond-paned windows put each structure on a par with the manor house itself. A host of carriages lined the pavement, attended by teams of drivers and footmen, some busily attending the vehicles, others lounging and chatting.

“And these are our stables,” Lady Sabrina said unnecessarily. She pointed far to the right. “Over there is the carriage house. Before us are the stables proper, with our personal horses to one side, and racehorses to the other. To the left is the veterinary annex.”

The carriage stopped and she hopped out without waiting to be assisted. “I hope you aren't opposed to walking. The racecourse is through there, past the paddocks and just down a little ways.”

The main stables comprised two wings that straddled a wide archway. They passed through the arch, the air redolent of hay and horses. On either side, double doors stood open, revealing wide aisles that disappeared into shadowed interiors. Holly glimpsed stable hands walking up and down, their arms filled with equipment. She longed to detour down one of those aisles and see what equine treasures they contained—a longing born from both her own desires and her duty to Victoria.

They emerged back into brilliant sunlight amid a patchwork of neatly fenced paddocks where grooms were walking a dozen or so horses. Far beyond, on the pastureland surrounding Masterfield Park, mares and tiny foals grazed and played in the morning sun. Closer, at the base of the enclosures, an assembly of some one hundred people milled about, a moving mosaic of top hats, parasols, and bright, beribboned bonnets. Some sat in chairs placed along a split-rail fence; others strolled through the grass or helped themselves to refreshments beneath the shade of a wide elm tree.

“Oh, what a breathtaking scene,” Ivy exclaimed.

“And good gracious, it appears as if the whole of racing society is assembled here.”

Lady Sabrina regarded Willow with a moue of surprise. “Of course. What had you expected?”

Holly and her sisters exchanged significant looks.

“Lord and Lady Wiltshire, may I present the Sutherland sisters: Lady Harrow, Miss Holly Sutherland, and Miss Willow Sutherland. Ah, Lord Beecham, this is . . .” Lady Sabrina made the introductions as they proceeded through the crowd.

In every instance they were met with outward civility, but Holly perceived an underlying curiosity that made her and her sisters objects of scrutiny. Who were these newcomers to the racing scene? many of those inquiring looks asked. Did these green chits know what they were about? Would they be properly guided by their menfolk? And would they pose any true challenge to the status quo and thus upset the well-established equilibrium of the turf?

“They are viewing us as potential threats to their purses,” Holly murmured after Lady Sabrina excused herself and disappeared into the throng.

Ivy snapped open her parasol. “Fortunes are made and lost in these arenas, and we bring an unknown quotient to the mix.”

“Pay sharp attention to everyone you converse with and jot down notes as soon as you can,” Holly reminded them. “You did both remember to bring notepaper and pencils?”

They nodded, and Willow gave her reticule a pat. “Espionage is so very exciting, isn't it?”

Ivy shushed her. “We want to blend in, Willow, not cause a stir.”

“Too late for that,” Holly pointed out. She passed a gaze over the crowd, raising a hand to wave at familiar faces. “We must use our present notoriety to our advantage.”

“Notoriety? Whom do you mean? Do I have a guest on whom I must keep a close watch?”

Holly whirled about. Colin Ashworth stood just behind her, his expression both quizzical and amused. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? She quickly recounted all she and her sisters had said. “I—I was speaking in general terms . . . about—about racing,” she stammered, hoping her pounding heart wasn't just then sending a revealing blush to her cheeks.

It didn't help that he wore a riding coat of rich brown velvet that made his hair flash brighter gold and his eyes darken to cobalt, or that those eyes crinkled as he flashed a devastating smile. “Were you, indeed?”

 

“Of course. We are here to learn all we can.”

Something in those wide eyes of hers raised a suspicion that Colin had interrupted a conversation not meant to be overheard. While her sisters smiled at him, Holly Sutherland blinked up at him as she seemed to gather her composure and prepare to . . .

To what? Unless he was greatly mistaken, she had flirted with him yesterday at the track, employing those thick lashes and that single dimple in her right cheek as persuasively as a highwayman employs his blunderbuss. Except instead of valuables, the item in danger of being stolen was Colin's heart.

The darker-haired Ivy stepped forward and grasped his wrists. With the privilege of a best friend's wife, she kissed his cheeks and then stepped back without releasing him. “Colin, you scoundrel! Do stop teasing my sister, won't you?”

From over her shoulder he watched Holly blow out a little breath; the stain faded from her cheeks. Surely her flirting had been nothing more than an effort to procure an invitation here today. She had spoken rightly a moment ago; if she and her sisters wished to learn about racing and Thoroughbreds, they would certainly achieve that goal at Masterfield Park. But that notion left a pertinent question bandying about his brain.

He took Ivy's hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Why didn't you write to me and let me know you were coming to Ascot? Surely you knew I'd have replied immediately with an invitation to stay here at the Park.”

“Oh, we didn't wish to inconvenience you and—” She paused, her bottom lip easing between her teeth. “And our decision to come was rather sudden. I had been feeling under the weather previously and—”

“You're better now, I hope?” He leaned in closer. “Simon told me the happy news. You look wonderful. You positively glow.”

“That husband of mine.” Ivy smiled fondly. “It's hard to believe a man who once kept so many secrets now cannot cling to a single one.”

“Not when the secret is as happy as this,” he said. “But never fear. He did swear me to silence for the time being.”

He turned to Willow then, waiting silently beside Holly, and reached for her hand. “I hope you, too, are well, Miss Willow. Are you still dabbling in watercolors?”

“I am, indeed, though not to the extent I was.”

“Good. Then perhaps you shall not ask me to sit again. I am afraid I made the most capricious of subjects last time. My portrait could not have turned out well.”

“On the contrary, your likeness was one of my best.”

With a hand to his chest he professed disbelief, and together they laughed.

Why was it so easy with her? Though as unmarried as her older sister, he could hold her small, warm hand in his own and feel nothing but an acceptable brotherly affection.

Oh, he knew the answer: he had no desire to be Holly Sutherland's brother.

Ivy moved beside Willow and nudged her shoulder. “Aren't those the Fenhursts over by the refreshment table? Come, we must greet them.”

They moved off, and Colin wondered if it had been his imagination that Ivy had tugged her younger sister away, purposely leaving him standing alone with Holly. He caught her staring at him with a perplexed expression, as if she couldn't quite make up her mind about something. An instant too late she lowered her lashes and flicked her glance away.

“Sabrina told us there are to be races today,” she said overbrightly, turning her face toward the racecourse, where the grooms were tending the waiting horses.

He studied her for a moment, until her gaze skittered back to his. “Maybe you'll tell me why, since Ivy would not.”

She arranged her features into an ingenuous smile. “Tell you what?”

“Why she didn't write to let me know you were coming.”

“Oh . . . that.” She gave a little shrug. “As she said, we decided at the last minute.”

“Ah.” He offered her his arm, and she slipped her fingers lightly into the crook of his elbow. Strolling with her toward the track, he said casually, “And yet you were able to procure lodgings in the village.”

“Yes, at the Robson.”

“Mm. Quite a feat, that.”

Her fingertips tightened against his coat sleeve. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Miss Sutherland, that reservations for the Royal Meeting are made months in advance. I am astonished that the Robson could accommodate you on such short notice.”

“Perhaps . . . they'd had a cancellation.”

“Perhaps.” Why did he have the distinct impression—a slight prickle at his nape, really—that there was more to the sudden appearance of the Sutherland sisters than they were willing to say?

They reached the fence bordering the racetrack and stood side by side, watching the grooms on the other side make a last check of the bridles and girths. Her subtle perfume drifted to his nose, making him forget what they'd been discussing. She didn't smell flowery as most women did, but spicy, almost peppery. Did he detect a hint of cinnamon ? He breathed the scent in, turning his head a little toward her, and was very nearly tempted to bury his nose in her hair.

He shook his head to clear it and turned back toward the track. “Miss Sutherland, are you quite certain Simon knows you are all here?”

She jerked her chin in his direction, her eyes sparking green fire. “That again?”

“Please humor me, Miss Sutherland. I've only you and your sisters' best interests at heart.”

Her lips thinned, then relaxed. “I suppose it was Simon who must have worked whatever magic got us our rooms.”

“With his wife in her condition?”

“Lord Drayton—” Her hand closed over the rail in front of her, and even through her glove he could see her fingers straining. “As Ivy herself said, she is quite well. A woman doesn't suddenly become breakable simply because she is . . .” She darted a furtive gaze around her, then whispered, “And if you would only stop mentioning it, no one need be the wiser.”

“Forgive me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then relented with a quirk of a smile. “There is no need. I thank you for your concern for my sister. And after all, you were kind enough to invite us here today. What kind of guest would I be to reprimand my host?” She unclenched a hand from around the railing to gesture to the horses, now being led to the starting line. “Which among them is favored to win?”

“My own.” He raised his arm to point, and as she leaned closer to follow the line of his outstretched finger, he was again pleasantly assaulted by a waft of her fragrance. “The tall one in the middle. His name is Cordelier. In fact, I should be taking my place right about now.”

“Will you be racing him yourself?”

“Most assuredly.”

Her mouth dropped open; her eyes flared with excitement. “Isn't it dangerous?”

“Not very.” Her head tilted in disbelief, and apprehension flitted across her face. Was she worried for him? Or were her concerns directed toward the horses? “This track is too small to allow the sort of speed achieved at courses like the Ascot. It's merely a demonstration track, designed to show off the potential of the Thoroughbreds for sale.”

“Having never seen a race before, Lord Drayton, I'm sure I'll find it thrilling all the same.”

“You'll watch, then? Not all the ladies do.”

“I certainly will. I'm in the market for a horse, aren't I?”

“And should you see anything you like,” he murmured, leaning close enough to see the faint freckles sprinkling her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, “you'll be sure to let me know. Won't you?”

Her eyes widened and he stared down into them, drawn by the tiny specks of gold like a pirate to secret treasure. Oh, wouldn't he like to plunder lovely Miss Sutherland. To take her in his arms and claim first her sumptuous lips and then the rest of her glorious body hidden beneath the folds of her clothing. He imagined that, as proficient a rider as she was, she must have the sculpted thighs and hips of a goddess. . . .

She was speaking to him, wishing him luck, bidding him to have a care. He straightened, managed a word of thanks, and strode off, giving himself another shake that did little to clear away the haze that had settled over his senses.

 

Holly stood gripping the rail, looking about for Willow and Ivy. Colin Ashworth suspected . . . something. Or at least he did before she managed to distract him away from the fact that their story didn't quite add up. She needed to warn her sisters.

She spotted them through the crowd, speaking to Mr. Charles and Lady Elizabeth Dalton. For a moment she considered going to them and drawing them away, but she remembered that last year Mr. Dalton, a renowned London barrister, had achieved sweeping victories at the Ascot, Newmarket, and Epsom races. The man knew everything and everyone connected with the turf. Better she let Ivy and Willow continue their conversation.

Besides inquiring into the attributes of racehorses in general, they planned to prompt horse owners to expound on their latest acquisitions and their prospects of raising a future champion. Would the thief, through pride and believing he'd gotten away with his crime, say something to give himself away? Holly hoped so. She hoped someone—anyone—here would slip up, as long as it wasn't—