London Season Matchmaker Box Set: Regency Romance

by Lucy Adams

  “Are you quite certain?” Dinah asked, taking a step forward and looking at Catherine with concern. “You know very well how I feel about the ton and the Season, so you need not do so on my account.”

  Catherine smiled at her cousin. “I believe that I too felt the very same way as you as regarded the ton, marriage, and the like, Dinah. However, now I must admit that I feel very differently. Things can change, my dear cousin, and it is with that awareness that I shall choose to hide my features from the world. I shall still be able to prove to those watching that a woman can compete just as well as any gentleman, all without showing my face.” She reached out and pressed Dinah’s hand. “Trust me. This is for the best.”

  “Most considerate of you, Lady Wells,” said Lord Brighton, who was, much to Catherine’s surprise, looking at Dinah with interest. “Come now, shall I take you back?” He offered his arm to Dinah, who stared at him as though she did not quite understand what he was offering. Catherine hid her smile as Dinah, eventually, reached out and accepted it, clearly quite uncertain as to what she was doing.

  “I wish you the very best of luck, dear sister,” Merry murmured, putting one hand on Catherine’s shoulder for a moment. “Have no fear about what Mama will say. I will speak to her at length on your behalf.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine replied gratefully. “Just reassure her that I am well and that I am content – and that I shall be home again by this evening.”

  “I will, of course.” Merry smiled, let go of Catherine’s arm, and left, swiftly followed by Lord Richardson.

  Catherine felt the air grow thick about her as she looked up into the duke’s face, seeing how his gaze had become tender, how his eyes were filled with the affection he had for her. His arm was still about her waist, and as she held his gaze, she saw him shift so that he was standing closer to her still.

  “I have every faith in you, my love,” he told her, his head lowering just a little. “Know that I will be cheering you on, glad that you are finally being given the chance to ride and race as you have long dreamed of.”

  Catherine let out her breath slowly, sending some of her flickering nerves away. “I shall be confident, knowing that you are there watching and waiting for me,” she replied, feeling the urge to tip her head up towards his. “You are quite wonderful, Your Grace.”

  He chuckled and, reaching up, began to pull out the pins from her hair, letting the rest of her tresses fall down her back. A shiver ran down Catherine’s spine as he did so, feeling the extraordinary sensations that came with his touch. Her breath shuddered out of her as he ran his fingers through her hair, seeing how his own breathing quickened.

  “I will always be waiting for you, Catherine,” the duke murmured, his other hand now framing her face. “I will wait for your answer for as long as it will take for you to give it to me. I do not want to lose you from my life, for you can never be lost from my heart.”

  She closed her eyes, reached up, and pressed her mouth to his, giving into the urge that had been slowly building within her. For a moment, the duke did not react and then, in a heady burst of emotion, he wrapped his arms about her waist and crushed her against him. Catherine’s heart burst into a furious gallop as she clung to him, unable to do anything more.

  “I take it then,” the duke whispered, his mouth only just away from hers as he broke their kiss, “that you have decided to accept me?”

  “I have,” Catherine whispered, her eyes still closed as her heart roared with love for him. “My heart is yours, Blackwell. It is filled with a love for you that I know will remain there until the end of my days, growing a little brighter and stronger every day.” She felt his lips press against her cheek, both relieved and sorrowful when he let her go. The sensation of being in his arms had been utterly overwhelming.

  “You cannot know how much joy this brings me, my love,” he murmured, now catching her hands in his as she opened her eyes. “My heart is overflowing with joy! I – I want to shout from the roof of the stalls that my bride shall be none other than the wonderful, strong, passionate, fiery creature that is Lady Wells!”

  Catherine laughed aloud as he again wrapped her in his arms, whirling her about the stall and making Beauchamp snort in surprise. When he set her down, she leaned into him again, her head resting against his shoulder. His arms came about her as she settled there, feeling as though they were taking the first steps towards being as one, as husband and wife.

  “I think Beauchamp is in agreement,” the duke said, as Beauchamp nickered loudly, making Catherine laugh. “And that should be all the confirmation you require, my love.”

  She looked up at him again, her expression joyous. “You are all that I need,” she told him honestly. “I can look forward to my future now, knowing that you will not hold me back.”

  “Never,” he promised her, before reaching down to kiss her again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Did I hear it said that you have a woman riding your horse?”

  Matthew, standing in the grandstand, tried not to sigh. “Yes, it is quite true,” he told the gentleman behind him, wondering if they had ever been acquainted before. “And I have no shame in acknowledging it.”

  “But a woman!” the man replied, laughing aloud. “They cannot ride as well as gentlemen! What on earth are you thinking in permitting such a thing?”

  Matthew closed his eyes and let his hands tighten on the rail, his frustrations growing by the minute. “I think that is the point of allowing her to ride,” he grated, praying that the man would stop asking questions and making comments. “It is to prove to those watching that a woman can, in fact, ride just as well as a gentleman, if not better.”

  The loud guffaw that came from the fellow told Matthew that he had failed entirely in his attempt to defend his choice of rider. The man shook his head and slapped Matthew on the shoulder, making him tense all the more.

  “You will be the laughingstock of England!” the gentleman cried, laughing through his words. “And I shall be the very first one to see your reaction when that jockey of yours comes in dead last.”

  Matthew could not contain himself any longer. Turning around, he jabbed one long, hard finger into the man’s chest, seeing how the smile immediately slid from his face, replaced with a look of fright. The top hat he wore – something required for all gentlemen when they attended the races – wobbled dramatically as Matthew began to speak, prodding the gentleman with each word he spoke.

  “That is quite enough,” he said, seeing the man begin to splutter. “I am not even acquainted with you, and yet you think you can speak to me in such a way? Have you no realization of who I am?”

  The gentleman took a step back, as Matthew dropped his hand, his brows knotting as he glared at the fellow.

  “I am the Duke of Blackwell, willing to take a risk on a certain young lady because I believe her to be the best jockey in all of England,” he stated, his voice loud and filled with both pride and determination. “I will not be laughed at, nor chased out of London by gossip and mockery. No, instead, I shall stand here, proud and victorious, as my horse and my jockey make it known to all of England that a woman can ride just as well as any gentleman, should they be given the opportunity.”

  The gentleman tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and began to dab at his forehead, beginning to bluster. His face was bright red, and all about him, gentlemen were listening with obvious interest as Matthew finished his speech.

  “So might I suggest, therefore, that you cease your mockery and, for perhaps even a moment, begin to believe that a lady might be more than capable of something you have already decided she cannot do.” Matthew sent one final hard look towards the fellow and then turned back towards the Ascot Heath, his hands curling into tight fists as he did so. He had no doubt that, even if Lady Wells should win the race, that he would have a good deal of gossip and the like to contend with, but that was something he did not care about in the least bit. However, he would not tolerate mockery or the
like, not when it was entirely unjustified. Lady Wells, he knew, was about to prove to them all that a lady could not only ride well but race, and for that, he was more than little proud.

  “Not having any trouble, I hope?”

  Matthew turned to see Lord Brighton making his way through the assembled gentlemen, elbowing the red-faced gentleman out of his way.

  “I should not have any trouble now, no,” Matthew replied, with a small, rueful smile. “I will not have gentlemen mock me when they have no understanding of what she can do.”

  Lord Brighton let out a long breath, leaning forward on the railings. “I have no understanding of it either, to be truthful, but I trust your judgement.” He smiled, his expression brightening. “And may I be among the first to wish you happy.”

  “I thank you,” Matthew replied, his tension fading as he thought of the day that would soon come, the day when he could make Lady Wells his bride. “I thank you for your encouragement to continue pursuing the matter, Brighton. Without it, I might not now be standing here with such a joy in my heart.”

  Lord Brighton chuckled, slapping Matthew on the shoulder. “I am glad to have been so helpful,” he replied, turning his attention back to the race ground. “Oh, look. The horses are taking their places.”

  Matthew’s stomach immediately began to churn, his fingers tightening on the rail as he clung to it, as though his very life depended on how tight a grip he had. He could see the dark navy and scarlet from where he stood, could see Lady Wells as she mounted, holding onto the reins in her usual gentle manner. She had a large kerchief tied around her head, covering her nose and her mouth and hiding a good deal of her face. When questioned, Matthew had stated to the officials that it was to keep dust out of the lady’s nose and mouth, and for whatever reason, they had accepted it. He would have been happy if she had chosen to reveal her face to everyone but was also content to go along with her decision, knowing that she was making it for the sake of her cousin and her family name. Beauchamp was stamping and snorting, but Matthew did not feel any particular concern at that. The horse was clearly in an excitable mood and ready to race, but he had no doubt that Lady Wells would be able to contain him.

  He could hear a few loud jeers from all around him, hear the sounds of mocking rushing to his ears as a few of the spectators noticed that a woman was sitting astride, clad in a jockey’s outfit. He did not let them affect him and prayed that Lady Wells herself would not permit them to affect her either. Watching them closely, his heart quickening in his chest, he let out a long steadying breath and waited for the starting pistol.

  The sound ricocheted across the grounds, making him start. The horses moved as one, one large creature making its way along the racetrack. His heart moved into his throat as the horses began to separate, his hands holding onto the rail so hard that they began to hurt.

  “There she goes!” Lord Brighton shouted, his excitement obvious. “Look, she is staying near the middle of the pack! She is not falling behind!”

  This was supposed to be something of a compliment, Matthew supposed, managing a small, tight smile as he glanced at his friend. Breathing slowly so as to keep himself calm, he kept his gaze fixed on Lady Wells, seeing how she bent low over Beauchamp’s neck, her hair flying out behind her. She used no crop and did not beat nor shout at Beauchamp, as some of the other jockeys did. Instead, she simply fixed her gaze on the path ahead, her hands loose on the reins. Beauchamp, free to run just as he pleased, suddenly put on a surge of speed, pushing himself forward past the other horses.

  Lady Wells was no longer in the middle of the pack. Nor was she merely close to the front, she was, in fact, beginning to overtake the leader.

  “Look, look, Blackwell!” Lord Brighton exclaimed, his hand grasping Matthew’s arm as though he was not watching Lady Wells intently. “She is gaining! She is gaining!”

  “She is doing more than gaining,” Matthew breathed, his excitement curling upwards in his chest. “She is…winning!”

  Indeed, Lady Wells was doing precisely that. She was now at the very front, riding hard and crouched even lower over Beauchamp’s neck. The crowd had fallen almost silent, their evident surprise that a woman was able to ride so fast and so quickly in the most important race of all overwhelming them. Matthew could barely breathe, seeing how Beauchamp galloped all the more quickly, evidently delighted with the open ground and the chance to run as fast as he pleased. The end of the race was growing ever closer and Matthew found himself growing more and more anxious, fearing that something terrible was going to happen, that something dreadful would occur that would prevent Lady Wells from winning.

  But it did not. The sound of cheering exploded around him as he stared at the finish line, seeing how Beauchamp crossed it at least several lengths ahead of the others. He could do nothing nor say a single word, his eyes fixed on Lady Wells as the air about him flooded with noise. It was fuzzy, burning into his mind but not quite able to bring about a reaction from within himself. It was as if he could not quite take it in, could not quite let himself believe what had just occurred.

  Lady Wells had won. Beauchamp was the victor. He would take home the Gold Cup. And all because he had allowed her the opportunity to prove herself.

  “You did it, old boy!” Lord Brighton slapped him on the back and then grabbed his hand, shaking it hard. “My goodness, what a race! I don’t think there’s ever been anything like that before! I’d say that jockey of yours has done what no other jockey has ever achieved before. Several lengths ahead, I’d say, several lengths at least!” He pumped Matthew’s hand firmly, laughing as Matthew looked back at him, a little dazed.

  “She won,” Matthew heard himself say, as Lord Brighton laughed all the more. “She did it.”

  “She did,” Lord Brighton agreed loudly, letting go of Matthew’s hand and gesturing towards the race ground where Lady Wells had slipped from the saddle and was now leaning against Beauchamp’s neck, perhaps murmuring something to him as she patted his neck. “Hadn’t you better go down and congratulate her?”

  Matthew nodded, his legs feeling a trifle weak as he did so. “Yes,” he mumbled, trying to move away from the rail. “Yes, I should. Good gracious.” He turned back to Lord Brighton, blinking quickly. “Has she really won the Gold Cup?”

  Lord Brighton shook his head and laughed uproariously. “Believe it, old boy!” he said loudly. “The Gold Cup is finally yours!”

  It felt as though every eye was on him as Matthew made his way to the race ground, seeing how Lady Wells eyes were darting this way and that, perhaps afraid that someone else would approach her and tug the band from her face. When she saw him, however, relief flooded her gaze, and he felt certain she was smiling.

  “My goodness, Lady Wells.” He shook his head in sheer amazement and wonder as he reached for her hands. “What an amazing rider you are.”

  She flushed, her cheeks and temples going a delicate pink. “I cannot tell you how much this meant to me, Blackwell. To ride Beauchamp on the Ascot Heath, to be able to have the chance to ride against those who would consider themselves to be my betters…it was all quite extraordinary.”

  “But you have done so,” he murmured, wishing to goodness that he could catch her up in his arms and press his mouth to hers but knowing he could not do so in front of the crowd. “You have shown everyone here that a woman can ride even better than a gentleman, and that they are capable of a good deal more than some might think them.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, looking up at him with shining eyes. “If it had not been for you, then I do not think that I should ever have been able to achieve this wonderous moment. You gave me the opportunity when so many would not have done so. You allowed me to ride Beauchamp and to prove myself to you.”

  “And you have done more than prove yourself,” he replied fervently. “If it were not for this crowd, Catherine, I would hold you close and whisper all that is in my heart, for you have become more dear to me than any other.”

  Agai
n, her eyes sparkled, and she made to say more, only for an official to clear his throat loudly as he began to make his way towards them.

  “I believe you are the winner, Your Grace,” the man said, barely giving Lady Wells a glance. He was tall and thin, with a thin white moustache and a neat grey beard. His top hat was placed firmly on his head, and he seemed to have an air of arrogance about him that Matthew immediately despised. A young lad was behind him, carrying a small cloth bag that Matthew presumed held Lady Wells’ winnings and, in the other arm, a Gold Cup. The cup that Matthew had sought to hold for so long.

  “I believe that my jockey here, won the race,” he replied, forcing the gentleman to look at Lady Wells, who was standing tall and proud next to Beauchamp. “You may give her the winnings during the upcoming presentation. I shall not come forward.”

  The man cleared his throat, appearing a little uncomfortable. “Your Grace, you must understand that, whilst that is normally the situation, in the current circumstances, we cannot…” Trailing off under the heavy glint in Matthew’s foreboding gaze, the gentleman turned his head away, trying to appear nonchalant. “The situation is vastly different from previous years, and I had hoped Your Grace would understand.”

  Matthew did not understand, his frustrations and anger beginning to burn in his heart. Lady Wells had been the victor; Lady Wells had been the one to achieve the win; and therefore, she ought to be treated as any other victor had been done in the past. “You mean to say that, because my jockey is a woman, you will not give her the winnings in front of the crowd?”

  The man began to stammer, clearly embarrassed. Matthew made to say more, only for Lady Wells to press her hand to his arm.

  “I do not need the accolade, Blackwell,” she said gently. “I do not need any of it. I have won. The crowd knows it, you know it, and I know it to be true. I have won the Gold Cup. That is more than enough for my heart.”