Winner Takes All

by Anna Harrington

  Jonas whistled to the dogs. They wheeled around and jumped onto the back of the cart, all tails wagging and mouths slobbering in anticipation of a ride.

  The viscount wisely stepped to the ground and away from the dog-packed cart.

  “Papa.” Frankie forced a smile. When she shifted her gaze to the other man, her smile faded. “And Lord Charles.”

  A stab of jealousy shot through Shaw. Lord Charles…the intended son-in-law.

  Frankie pointedly arched a brow at her uncle, knowing he understood her meaning completely when she said, “What a surprise you’ve sprung on me, Uncle Jonas.”

  “They both wanted to come here to greet you.” Jonas meaningfully nodded at Mrs. Whitaker, who had finally collapsed onto the bench. “Of course, I agreed, since there were no refreshments or food at home because Mrs. Whitaker was here with you. For the entire day.”

  Shaw’s mouth twisted. So that’s why the plump housekeeper had nearly killed herself running here—to protect Frankie’s reputation. Just in time, too. If Mrs. Whitaker had been a few seconds slower, if Jonas hadn’t dawdled so long on the ride here, and if the viscount had caught Frankie with Shaw in the kitchen, there would be no more Derby for her. Her father would have sent her packing all the way back to Willow Wood.

  And straight to the parish vicar to marry that dandy who was still fussing with his clothes. That son of a duke.

  “I’m terribly sorry.” Frankie feigned contriteness and held out both hands as her father came forward to greet her. “I had no idea I’d caused such inconvenience.”

  “None at all.” Her father squeezed her hands and placed a kiss to her cheek. “Besides, this gives me the chance to check in on Midnight’s Promise.”

  “He’s doing very well, my lord,” Shaw assured him as he came forward to greet the viscount.

  “Mr. Shaw.” The man nodded in greeting. “Jonas told me that Francesca secured your services to train her colt for the race. My gratitude to you.”

  The devil made him answer, “It’s been my pleasure.”

  Frankie emitted a startled noise, her hand flying to her throat. Thank God she had the sense to look away and force a cough before her cheeks could flush scarlet at that private entendre.

  “Cavendish!” Papa called out to Lord Charles to join them, while Jonas remained perched on the cart with his dogs, safely—and perhaps cowardly—well out of the unfolding fray. “Come pay your respects to my daughter and meet her colt’s trainer.”

  She stiffened, yet gave a casual and dismissing wave of her hand. “That isn’t necessary.”

  “Of course, it is! I invited Cavendish to join us for the race,” Papa explained. “Neither of us wanted to miss your racing debut.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” she repeated, more firmly this time and with an embarrassed sideways glance at Shaw.

  Her father ignored her. “Cavendish! I want you to meet the best stable manager I’ve ever hired.” Her father turned toward Shaw and slapped him on the back, not noticing the grimace on Shaw’s face at that dubious compliment. “This is Jackson Shaw, a fine trainer who’s taken on Midnight for the Derby. Shaw, this is Lord Charles Cavendish, the Duke of Norwich’s son and the man I’m hoping will spend more time with my daughter once the race is over.”

  Charles grinned arrogantly.

  Shaw clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to plow his fist into the man’s smug face.

  “Only if Midnight loses,” Frankie interjected. “Remember our agreement, Papa.”

  “Well then,” Charles piped up, “I hope Mr. Shaw isn’t nearly as good a trainer as you claim, Darlington.”

  “Oh, but he is,” Frankie defended, unable to stop the challenging flare of her eyes. “I think your suit is premature, Lord Charles.”

  “A woman winning the Derby?” He condescendingly shook his head and chuckled as if he were humoring a child. “The same odds of one becoming prime minister, I should think.”

  At that, Shaw was certain Frankie wanted to punch him herself.

  “Those odds are better than you think.” Her father gave Frankie an affectionate wink. “Francesca, why don’t you introduce Cavendish to Midnight? Let him have a good look at the colt for himself.”

  “I’d be happy to.” Her stiff smile expressed anything but happiness, yet she politely gestured toward the paddock beside the barn where Midnight had been stabled since Shaw had taken over his training. “This way.”

  As she turned to follow, she darted an apologetic glance at Shaw.

  But he knew better than to allow any visible reaction to appear on his face. Not with her father standing beside him. Even a half blind donkey would have been able to spot the attraction between them.

  “It’s good to see you again, Shaw.” The viscount didn’t hold out his hand. But then, Shaw didn’t expect him to. As far as peers went, he was a good man, but that goodness didn’t extend to shaking hands with the man who used to muck out his stables. “Jonas told me you’ve made a good life for yourself since you left Willow Wood.” He took an appreciative look around at the farm. “Glad to see it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” At least the viscount couldn’t see how far in debt Shaw had gone trying to pay for it all.

  “Thank you for helping Francesca with her colt.” He tugged at his gloves and frowned in frustration at his daughter. “When she told me she was entering Midnight in the Derby, I feared she might be planning something outrageous, like deciding to train the horse herself.” He laughed. “Or be its jockey!”

  Shaw smiled tightly at that, unable to laugh past the pinch of his gut at her father’s unwitting irony. “I would never let her do anything so dangerous, sir.”

  “And I appreciate that. But don’t think for one moment that she wouldn’t want to do exactly that if given the chance,” Darlington warned in a low voice, the amusement of moments before vanishing. “Once this race is over, I’m hoping she’ll finally settle down and find a husband to care for her.” He nodded in the direction of the paddock. “My preference is Lord Charles.”

  Shaw watched Frankie as she stood at the railing and spoke politely to Cavendish—rather, as he spoke to her, the dandy doing most of the talking and undoubtedly explaining to her in detail how to handle horses. Condescendingly. Must be, given how she kept her hands folded in front of her, most likely to keep from punching him.

  Darlington smiled at the idea of welcoming Cavendish as his son-in-law. “Good family, solid reputation, enough prospects and fortune to provide an excellent life for her and their children.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shaw answered because it was expected. Darlington only wanted the best for his daughter. He couldn’t fault the man for that. Even if he very much wanted to.

  “He’ll make a perfect husband for her.”

  Shaw fought to keep from grinning when Midnight trotted up to the rail, lowered back his ears, and attempted to snatch a bite from Lord Charles’s arm. Apparently Frankie brought out feelings of protective jealousy in all sorts of men.

  “But I’m no fool,” Darlington continued, although Shaw couldn’t tell if in aggravation or pride. “Even a husband, a house of her own, and a dozen children won’t stop her from building an entire stable of horses. Good thing Lord Charles’s family has the money for that.” The viscount didn’t realize that he was leveling an insult rather than a compliment when he added, “Perhaps they’ll hire you to train their horses, eh?”

  “Perhaps.” And perhaps hell would freeze over.

  “I want my daughter to be happy, no matter whom she marries.”

  “Or doesn’t,” Shaw inserted, overstepping his place by leaps and bounds. “When I became Midnight’s trainer, she told me about your agreement, that she can remain unmarried if she wants to.”

  The viscount chuckled. “If she wins.” Then he slid a hard look at Shaw, its meaning as sharp as glass. “But she won’t win, will she, Shaw?”

  Thinking they had an understanding, the viscount slapped him on the back and strode forward to joi
n Frankie and Lord Charles.

  Shaw watched him place a kiss to the top of Frankie’s head, then turn to engage Charles in conversation about the black colt. The man understood nothing.

  Chapter Five

  “Here.” A tankard of ale appeared in front of Frankie in the dim light from the bonfire that blazed away in the track’s infield. “For you.”

  Biting back an irritated sigh, she accepted the drink from Lord Charles. Then she forced a smile in hopes that it hid her annoyance at how he’d interrupted her conversation with two of the jockeys riding in tomorrow’s race, and just as she was learning their race strategies, too.

  But from the way he hovered close to her shoulder and leaned over to whisper into her ear, “Watery ale but good flavor, so it won’t go to your head,” he knew exactly what he was doing—possessively staking out his territory.

  The two jockeys recognized it, too, given how they promptly said their goodbyes and slipped away.

  Frankie raised the tankard to her lips before she said something she would regret. Giving Charles the cold shoulder, she swept her gaze over the party.

  Separate from the Epsom fair, which had been thriving for the past sennight in the fields east of the village, tonight’s celebration was exclusively for the men connected to the race. All of them wanted to celebrate the hard work they’d put into the event, together with their wives and sweethearts, or even women they’d just met at the tavern and invited along for the evening. Grooms and exercise boys drank tankard after tankard—probably filled with drink far stronger than ale—and danced around the bonfire, all having a grand time celebrating the end of their work after today’s final training sessions. All of them would be at the rail tomorrow for the race, if worse for wear from tonight’s festivities.

  Most of the jockeys had already left; the two she’d been chatting with were the last to depart. They needed to be at top form in the morning and required a good night’s sleep and a complete lack of drink. But judging by the raucous behavior that still filled the infield, the others would go long into the night, if not all the way to post time.

  The trainers were far more subdued. Gathered together in small groups at a bit of a distance from the main revelry, they were discussing anything but the race. They knew better than to tempt fate. Yet she was certain that the Derby never strayed far from their thoughts.

  Her gaze fell onto Uncle Jonas who stood close to the fire and debated the proper way to breed and run a prize-winning kennel with Mr. Potts, owner of the local mercantile and the last man who would find the discussion interesting, although he was too polite and too respectful of Jonas to walk away. She smiled. Although Uncle Jonas was her chaperone for the evening, if he kept refilling his tankard with ale at the rate he was going, he would soon need a nurse himself.

  “You’re the only respectable woman here, you realize that.”

  Her smile faded at Charles’s intolerant comment. “There are many women here who are respectable and hardworking.” Not deigning to look at him, she let her attention roam in the other direction. “Just because they’re not society ladies doesn’t mean they’re—”

  She stilled. Jack.

  He stood on the other side of the gathering with a handful of trainers, joking with them and laughing at something one of the men had said. In the dim and flickering light of the bonfire, his handsome face took her breath away.

  Dear God, how much she loved him! Always had. Always would. The outcome of tomorrow’s race could never change that.

  She frowned. But what of their future?

  As if reading her mind, he looked up and caught her watching him. The only indication that he saw her was a deepening curve at the corners of his smile, yet lightning crackled between them across the infield. So fierce was the sizzle of desire that shot down her spine that she shuddered.

  She wished with every ounce of her being that they could be alone, that they weren’t surrounded by the crowd and noise. Tonight was their last chance to talk before the race, and there was so much left to be said, so much she needed to know. If she lost the race—if she won it—what would it mean for them? For him?

  Please, God, let him want it to mean something!

  “A filthy groom with horseshit beneath his fingernails.”

  Her attention darted back to Charles. “Pardon?”

  With his jaw clenched hard, he nodded toward Shaw, who had turned his attention back to the men around him. “What is it, this infatuation you have with him?”

  Startled, her heart corkscrewed itself into her throat. For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice, and when she did, she couldn’t help her defensive tone. “There’s no infatuation.” No. It was love. “He’s Midnight’s trainer, and I’m lucky to have him working with the colt.”

  He laughed beneath his breath. “Don’t think me a fool, Francesca.” His icy tone swirled a chill through her. “I’ve seen the way you look at him—and the way he looks at you.”

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of Shaw. But she knew better than to try to peer around him. Instead, she glared up at him with all the haughtiness she could muster.

  “I believe, Lord Charles,” she warned, “that it would be wise to refrain from making any more insinuations.”

  “And you’d be wise not to be a tease, especially with a man like that.”

  Her mouth fell open as stunned surprise rippled through her, followed immediately by seething anger. “A man like what, exactly? A good man with his own well-respected career and horse farm? One with intelligence, skill, competence—”

  “One who would love to get beneath the skirts of a viscount’s daughter just to brag about it.” Venom poured from his lips, which stretched into a thin and humorless smile. “Oh, I’m sure you love the attention. Most likely, he fawns all over you, doing his best to charm you onto your back.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you—”

  “Just as I’m certain it’s all innocent on your part. That you’d never go beyond flirtation.”

  Her hand itched to slap him, so much that she had to draw it into a fist to hold it back.

  “But I won’t brook any dalliances or flirtations—even innocent ones—once we’re married. And I certainly won’t stand for being cuckolded by a man who shovels horseshit.”

  “You don’t have to worry about any of that,” she assured him. “Because it will be a cold day in hell before I marry you!”

  Furious, she spun on her heel to march away—

  He grabbed her arm and stopped her. When she tried to pull away, he yanked her back against him. His hand tightened its grip so hard around her elbow that she winced in pain.

  “You will not make a fool of me!” he seethed.

  “Let go of her,” Shaw ordered from close behind her, in a voice so surprisingly calm that it sent shivers spinning through her. A voice that was deadly.

  But the fool that he was, Charles gritted his teeth and stood his ground. “This is none of your business, Shaw. Go back to the stables where you belong.”

  Shaw slid Frankie a sideways glance that assured her he was going nowhere. “Release her. Now.”

  “So you want to play the dashing hero, do you?” Charles lowered his voice as a crowd began to gather, with most of the men lining up behind Shaw. He laughed. “You think someone like you could ever be with a woman like Francesca? You’re not good enough to clean her boots!”

  Shaw said nothing, but Frankie felt the change in him. A hardening. A chilling. All his excuses for why they couldn’t be together were reiterated in Charles’s accusations. This time when Shaw’s eyes flicked to her, the doubt in their depths was unmistakable. He stood three feet—and a world—away.

  Her chest tightened with fear that she was losing him even now, and Frankie took a desperate step toward him. “Don’t listen—”

  Charles twisted her arm as he jerked her back to his side. She cried out in surprise.

  Shaw grabbed Charles by the shoulder with his left hand to wh
eel him around to face him as he pulled back his right arm and swung. His fist caught him in the jaw. Charles staggered back a single step, then fell to the ground.

  Towering over Charles as he writhed on the turf in pain, Shaw ground out through clenched teeth, “If you ever manhandle her like that again, I swear to God that I’ll—”

  “Shaw!” Frankie interrupted before he could threaten the man’s life and be arrested for it. She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back.

  “He attacked me!” Charles shouted as he scrambled to his feet, a trickle of blood marring the corner of his mouth. He shoved Jonas away as her uncle came scurrying up to intervene and keep Shaw from killing him. “You all saw it.” He gestured angrily but was wise enough not to fight back. “I have witnesses! You’ll be sent to prison for this, Shaw, or pilloried. I promise you!”

  One of the grooms behind Shaw spat on the ground at Charles’s feet. “I didn’t see nothing.” He swung his gaze around the crowd, as if challenging anyone to contradict him. After all, Shaw was one of their own. “Neither did the rest of you.”

  Shaw stepped back, not daring to touch Frankie. Not daring even to look at her. Because he knew just as well as she did that one look would give away the affection between them and turn tonight’s fight into something far more scandalous.

  “Take her home,” he ordered Jonas and backed away, his furious gaze never leaving Charles. “Be certain to tell the viscount exactly how this gentleman treated his daughter tonight.” He flexed his hands in and out of tight fists, as if he were still considering charging straight back and beating Charles senseless. “I’m certain Darlington will want to rethink his future plans.”

  Then he turned and strode off into the darkness. The suddenly somber crowd stared awkwardly between Charles and Frankie. The party was over.

  Shaw shoved open the double doors of his barn, stepped into the welcoming shadows, and blew out a hard breath of frustration. Frankie had stirred up all kinds of old jealousies and fresh yearnings tonight, all of which were better left unacknowledged. Christ! He’d nearly pulped a man for daring to touch her and would have gotten himself tossed into prison over it if she hadn’t stopped him. Yet he’d had no business interfering at all.