Derek

by Aston, Alexa

  As he left White’s, he ran into Trumbull on the sidewalk. He acknowledged the marquess with a brusque nod and went to move past him, but Trumbull held out a hand.

  “I may not be able to issue you a challenge to a duel, but I have something else in mind.”

  He wondered what, but remained silent.

  “Amelia’s not to know of this, of course,” the marquess said. “I still think we need to clear the air between us with a little friendly contest.”

  “I can’t see anything ever being friendly between us,” Derek snapped. “You’ve taken someone I care for deeply and ruined her life. She’ll never have a moment of happiness as long as she’s wed to you.”

  “Such passionate words, Reston. Well, let’s see if you rise to this challenge. Have you a phaeton?”

  “No.”

  “Then you better purchase yourself one.” The marquess’ eyes gleamed. “Because I am challenging you to a race a week from today. Dawn at Hyde Park. Just the two of us.”

  Derek knew Amelia would be horrified at the proposed contest, especially since Derek had never driven a phaeton and Trumbull must be an expert, else he never would have issued the invitation to race him.

  It didn’t stop him, though, as he responded, “I accept.”

  “Good. Go buy yourself one. I’ll see you next Tuesday at dawn in Rotten Row.” Trumbull sauntered away and stepped inside White’s.

  Immediately, Derek turned in the direction of his brother-in-law’s townhouse. Gaining entrance, he was led to Merrifield’s study.

  “Hello, Reston. Diana’s out.”

  “I came to see you, Merrifield. I have nowhere else to turn.”

  The earl studied him a moment and then rose. “Come. I think this calls for a whiskey.”

  Merrifield poured two glasses and handed Derek one, which he downed in one swallow.

  “What do you know of phaeton racing?”

  “That’s it’s exciting. Fast. Dangerous. Why?”

  “Because I will be racing Lord Trumbull in a week’s time. Will you help prepare me?”

  “Bloody hell,” Merrifield responded.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trumbull was being very un-Trumbull-like—ever since Derek’s departure a week ago.

  Her husband spoke to Amelia more frequently and even dined with her every evening, which had been rare before. He asked what events she planned to attend each evening and escorted her to every single one. He complimented her twice on what she wore and even presented her with a pearl necklace and matching earrings, causing her suspicions to grow tenfold.

  Her husband was up to something. She only wished she knew what.

  And if it involved Derek de Wolfe.

  The past week had gone swiftly, thanks to Thea being mobile. They’d shopped twice and Amelia had treated her friend to a new bonnet and pair of gloves, courtesy of the Marquess of Trumbull. Her husband would never know, much less care, that his wife had spent his money on her friend. She told herself it was a perk of being married, sending all her bills to Trumbull’s manager.

  Thea hadn’t mentioned Derek during their first two outings, which Amelia found odd. The third time in the carriage as they traveled to visit the British Museum, her friend admitted that she’d learned of Derek’s feelings toward Amelia. Amelia found herself tearing up, telling Thea she felt the same but knowing nothing could come of it. They agreed not to mention Derek except in passing, but news of him came out when Amelia asked why Thea was staying with Oliver and Diana. Each of their outings had originated from the Merrifield townhome. Thea explained that Derek had left London on business and had suggested she stay with Diana while he was gone. Oliver had also left town to complete some business transaction, which allowed the two sisters to enjoy time together. Amelia only wished she could join them and never return to Trumbull’s residence, a place which would never feel like home.

  She left her bedchamber, wearing her new pearls and a gown of soft moss green, and met Trumbull in the foyer. Her husband looked distinguished in his dark evening clothes. She wished things could be different between them but knew, like the proverbial tiger, Trumbull would never change his stripes—and her unhappiness would grow as the gulf between them continually widened.

  “Are you ready for cards tonight?” he asked. “Do you play whist?”

  “I do,” she answered and then added, “Tonight’s entertainment seems tame for you,” trying to discern why he was going with her at all.

  “I’ll make do,” he said, a mysterious glint in his eyes.

  They arrived and went their separate ways, greeting friends before play began. As she turned to find something to drink, her father-in-law stepped toward her.

  “Good evening, Lady Trumbull.”

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” she replied, tamping down the nerves she experienced in his presence, worried that he would see through the charade she and Trumbull played.

  “I see you’ve brought my wastrel son to heel. I knew you could,” he praised.

  “How so, Your Grace?”

  Durham glanced across the room at his son. “He’s come with you to every event for a good week or more. He’s not as boisterous, drawing attention to himself. Why, I’d almost call him well-behaved.” The duke smiled. “I thank you, my dear. I doubted he had it in him to settle down.”

  “I’m not certain Trumbull’s entirely domesticated at this point,” she said, knowing their relationship was a lie and everything was done for show.

  “Still, your progress is remarkable. Soon, I hope you’ll inform me there’ll be the pitter-pat of little feet in your nursery.”

  Amelia felt the hot blush stain her cheeks. “If it happens, we’ll be most pleased.”

  Durham frowned. “Of course it will happen. I expect children from you, my lady.” He gazed at her pointedly. “Unless there’s a reason I shouldn’t?”

  She knew he pushed her to reveal secrets she had no business sharing.

  “It took my mother four years before she gave birth to me,” she said lightly. “I only hope Trumbull and I will be blessed sooner rather than later.”

  Her husband joined them. “Are you badgering my wife?” He put an arm possessively about her waist. “Come, Amelia. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Durham.” He nodded to his father and led her away.

  Once they were out of the duke’s earshot, he asked, “What did the old bugger want from you?”

  “Grandchildren,” she said succinctly.

  Trumbull sucked in a quick breath. “He’s already harping on that? We haven’t even been wed a month.”

  “I told him it took my mother four years to produce me—which was a lie, by the way. If he thinks I might have trouble breeding, perhaps he’ll keep those comments to himself in the future.”

  “I hope he dies soon,” Trumbull muttered. “I don’t want him changing his will. I loathe my cousin and Durham knows that. He’s looking for any reason to bequeath the unentailed property to Adam. He’s always had a soft spot for Adam, often favoring him over me as we were growing up. I won’t have it.”

  “He did say I’d tamed you sooner than he’d thought. I suppose he’s noticed how solicitous you’ve been toward me.”

  “Good. Let him think that.” Trumbull glanced around the room and changed the topic of their conversation. “Have you considered Morris as a lover? His wife has given him an heir and a spare. He told me they’ll go their separate ways now.”

  She looked at the viscount, pretending to consider him. “I’ll think about it,” she told her husband, knowing she’d never see it through. Her heart would always be with Derek de Wolfe. She would never let another man touch her, especially a married one who had no business straying from his wife.

  The evening ended much sooner than she’d expected and, by eleven, they pulled up to their townhome. Surprisingly, Trumbull accompanied her inside and up the stairs.

  As they reached her chamber, she asked, “Are you going out later?”

  His pattern
had been to drop her off and head out for other adventures, where he often came home in the hours before dawn. The fact he now came upstairs caused her suspicions to grow.

  “I think I’ll make an early night of it,” he proclaimed and then kissed her cheek. “Goodnight, Amelia.” A smile played about his lips as he continued down the corridor to the master chamber.

  She entered her bedchamber, her gut telling her Trumbull was up to something. He seemed more smug and confident than usual.

  But . . . what?

  Mary awaited her, and the maid helped Amelia undress and prepare for bed. As she drew up the covers, she knew it would be hard to fall asleep with her mind racing. Once she did, she awakened several times throughout the night. The last time she tried and couldn’t go back to sleep. Frustrated, she tossed the covers aside and headed to her dressing room. As she opened the door, she heard noise on the other side.

  Trumbull was in his dressing room, getting ready to go somewhere.

  Amelia determined to find out where.

  Quickly, she threw off her night rail and hurried to her chamber to dress in a chemise and simple gown. Her stays would be impossible to lace without Mary’s help and she knew time was of the essence. She slipped on stockings and a sturdy pair of boots and then tiptoed back to her dressing room. The noise on the other side had subsided. Creeping to her door, she opened it and stuck her head out, catching a glimpse of Trumbull strutting down the hallway. She slipped from the room and followed him downstairs and out the door, seeing he headed to the stables. Amelia stayed in the shadows of the house, noting dawn would arrive soon.

  Trumbull’s phaeton awaited him. A groom attached the harnesses to the horse and then stepped aside. Trumbull climbed into the high-perch and flicked the reins lightly. The horse took off at a moderate gait, turning from the yard and heading toward the park.

  She’d known from the beginning that he raced. She’d heard rumors of competitions he’d conducted, both in London and at his country estate. He’d even told her he enjoyed fast horses—along with fast women. She shuddered, wondering for the hundredth time why she’d attached herself to a man so vile. Still, curiosity urged her on and she hurried across the yard to the groom, who was still there.

  “Lady Trumbull!” he cried, looking flustered.

  “Your name?” she asked haughtily.

  “Finch.”

  “Have a horse saddled for me, Finch,” she commanded.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She glared as she hoped a marchioness would when an underling questioned her. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I wish to see my husband race. I think it would be a nice surprise if I showed up to cheer him on to victory.”

  When his mouth gaped open, she said, “Hurry, please. I don’t want to be late. I believe the race commences at dawn.”

  “It does,” the groom admitted.

  “Then go. I need a horse at once.”

  He fled the area and returned several minutes later, leading not one—but two—horses.

  “I can’t let you ride the streets of London alone at this hour,” he said, his tone apologetic.

  “All right. You may accompany me,” she agreed, knowing this servant knew of the race and where it would be held. By allowing him to come with her, it would save time.

  Finch helped her to mount and swung up in the other saddle. She nudged her horse and began trotting away, allowing him to catch up to her and lead the way.

  They rode in the direction of Hyde Park and entered, making their way toward Rotten Row. It was deserted of riders at this early hour but Amelia saw others gathered. Two phaetons sat side by side. Her husband perched atop one.

  Derek was in the other.

  So this was what Trumbull slinked off to do. He’d challenged Derek—not to a duel—but a race. She had no idea what experience Derek had with vehicles but doubted phaeton racing was popular in Northumberland. Trumbull would easily gain a victory. Was it his pride that was at stake that led him to issue a challenge to Derek?

  She noticed two men inspecting the vehicles and saw one was Birdville, her husband’s lover. The other was her brother. Oliver must have helped Derek prepare for this race. That must have been the so-called business that took them both out of town at the same time.

  More than anything, Amelia wanted to interrupt them and stop this nonsense. Before she could act, Oliver and Birdville had stepped away and the pair of phaetons took off.

  Derek tried to steady his breathing as Merrifield and Birdville examined the phaetons. His brother-in-law had brought him to the park the last five mornings to practice driving the new phaeton. He couldn’t thank the man enough. Merrifield, who seemed to do everything with ease, had taken Derek in hand, helping him purchase a phaeton and horse specifically accustomed to drawing one. They’d retreated to an estate just north of Hampstead Heath, that of a Colonel Wallace, an old friend of Merrifield’s. The former army officer had helped in Derek’s training, both men teaching him about the light, sporty highflyers, which featured seats built high off the ground and a low-slung body, with enormous back wheels that dwarfed the two in front. The well-sprung vehicle had a tendency to tip over when a corner was turned too fast, which meant Derek had to become skilled quickly in order to drive at high speeds.

  Merrifield had him practice for two days on Wallace’s land, which featured a long track, since the colonel trained horses. Once he’d become accustomed to it, they’d ventured into London well before dawn each morning to allow Derek to race there. Not knowing the course set out, he’d driven all through the park, starting at Rotten Row, the arranged meeting point. It helped that he’d always had an affinity with horses and was comfortable driving vehicles such as curricles and ones used in hunting. He’d taken to Zeus, the steed who would power his phaeton, and believed the horse liked him as well.

  As Merrifield and Birdville finished their inspections, Derek went over the course in his mind. Trumbull had produced a map of it when he’d arrived. Naturally, the marquess would be more familiar with the route. Merrifield revealed that Trumbull was a noted driver among the rakish set he traveled in and that he was known for never having lost a race.

  Derek planned to change that today.

  The seconds stepped aside. Merrifield nodded at him confidently and mouthed, “You’ll take this.”

  “Shall we?” Trumbull asked idly. “The sun is just breaking over the horizon.”

  He nodded and gazed down the length of Rotten Row where, in the distance, a woman in all white stood. When signaled, Lady Rothmore was to drop a white handkerchief and the race would begin in earnest.

  The marquess raised his arm and waved to her. In return, Lady Rothmore lifted her right hand. Derek spied the handkerchief in it. He drew in a sharp breath and waited, his hands taut on the reins as tension ran through his body.

  She released the handkerchief and as it floated to the ground, he and Trumbull urged their horses on.

  The race was on.

  Chapter Twelve

  The horses flew down Rotten Row, reaching the spot where Lady Rothmore had stood moments earlier. The baroness had the good sense to scurry to the side of the road before the vehicles arrived and she waved merrily at them as they swept past her.

  Derek had already pulled ahead of Trumbull on the straightaway, his horse’s speed the deciding factor. Unfortunately, Trumbull had the advantage since he was closest to the first turn and was able to take it before Derek could move in front of him. The marquess’ left wheels left the ground slightly and Derek knew it would add to the man’s confidence as he was now in the lead. He followed closely behind, confident in Zeus’ ability to catch up.

  A series of turns occurred and both men jockeyed for position, trading the lead several times. Adrenaline ran through him at every turn, which both men made successfully each time, though their phaetons lifted from the ground and then slammed hard when righting themselves. He clung to the reins and prayed he would maintain his balance and not be thrown fro
m the phaeton or crash it—and suffer defeat.

  Trumbull’s horse had endurance and quickness but Derek believed Zeus had slightly more stamina and the edge when it came to speed. He thought even if he rounded the last turn with Trumbull in the lead that Zeus could inch ahead and award him the victory in the end. As the sun rose higher and the men made another harrowing turn, he knew the race would soon be over.

  Then, up ahead, a boy appeared in the lane, frozen to the spot as the vehicles sped toward him. The child stood directly in Derek’s path. Even above the rumble, he could hear Trumbull’s derisive laugh.

  He couldn’t run over the lad. He’d never be able to live with himself if he caused the death of an innocent. Derek slowed slightly and swerved to his right, passing the soot-covered boy and trying to make up ground in order to catch Trumbull. He urged Zeus on as they approached the final corner, which fed into the straight path of Rotten Row. Even if Trumbull turned first, Derek thought he might win. It would take keeping his phaeton under control through the last corner and then a burst of speed from Zeus in order to overtake the marquess. If it all went according to plan, Derek would just be able to pass his enemy at the finish line, which was where the race had originated.

  Trumbull glanced over his shoulder to see Derek’s whereabouts and then took a huge risk, cutting the corner early. His phaeton flew through the air, all four wheels leaving the ground as it went almost horizontal for a moment. Derek knew there was no way that Trumbull could right the carriage as he steered Zeus into making the turn. He rushed by the marquess and, because of that, only heard what happened next.

  The sound of the phaeton slamming to the ground. The scream of the horse and a loud crunching noise. Derek pulled hard on the reins, stopping his vehicle and dropping the reins as he leaped from his high seat to the ground. He ran toward the wreck. The phaeton’s two right wheels still rotated in motion, spinning wildly. The horse’s guttural cry pierced his soul and as he reached it, he saw the creature’s front legs twisted horribly.