The Sport of Baronets

by Theresa Romain

  He took up her hand. Though it was cold from the tiled floor, holding her bare fingers in his felt good. “If you will allow me to turn the subject, I have an alternative suggestion to yours. Will you entertain it?”

  “I will be as entertaining as I possibly can.”

  “I was thinking”—again, a breath for courage—“that Golden Barb could be our colt. Yours and mine.”

  Her fingers tightened within his, though the rest of her form went still. “If he is ours, then you still owe me one hundred guineas.”

  Bart had learned her features well enough to spot the crimp of mischief at the corner of her mouth. “About that, yes,” he replied. “I was thinking that the money could be our money.”

  “Is that a proposal?” The smile dropped. The eyes went wide.

  “I was thinking”—once more, the refrain—“that it could be. Family tradition would have us hate one another, but we are grown adults. We can make our own choices, and we can choose not to continue the feud. We can choose to work together. We can choose to admire one another. We can choose to kiss and to touch and to open our hearts. As soon as I knew you, I could not help but want to know you better. Always. I have already chosen to do all of those things. So the rest is up to you.” He smiled. “It’s your choice, Hannah. It’s all your choice.”

  “That sounds like love,” she murmured.

  “Oh, damn. I mucked it up.” Drawing his hand free from hers, he stumbled to one knee before her. “Yes. You are bold and brave and beautiful and…and many other things, not all of which begin with B. And I do love you. And if you want me to leave, I will. Because I want you to be happy, and that means you get to choose what comes next.”

  She blinked up at him with damp lashes. “Now that is the kindest thing a Crosby has ever said to a Chandler.”

  “Do you think so?” He sank back on his heels. How odd that her tears could bring him such relief. But then, she was smiling through them, and her smile always made him want to smile too. “I am sure I can do better.”

  “Not just yet.” Reaching up, she caught his face in gentle hands. “If I get to choose what comes next, then I would like it to be a kiss.”

  And so it was.

  Epilogue

  Rain fell for the next five days: days of conversation and laughter, of secrets and a few tears. There was so much to tell, decades to tell.

  Bart could not find an opportunity to sneak Hannah back into the weighing room for another turn on the balance, but they made the most of the hayloft in the Crosby stables. Stretching out on firm, sliding straw, he listened to raindrops drum on the roof above while he held Hannah in his arms.

  She survived tea with a querulous Lady Crosby. Bart managed an awkwardly courteous dinner under Sir William’s forbidding gaze. Bart and Hannah were determined their parents should be civil to their chosen spouses. “It might take a while for them to come around, but they shall,” he assured her after Lady Crosby had pretended to be asleep all through Hannah’s latest call. “They’ve made their habits of enmity over the course of years. But we will have years together to wear them down.”

  Race day dawned clear, though by the time the horses were walked to the track, clouds made the sky seem large and heavy. Spring grass was thick underfoot, but Golden Barb was in a temper, bobbing his head and shying at every puddle.

  “Let Wheatley handle him,” Hannah murmured in Bart’s ear. “The horse knows the difference between exercise and race day. He wants to win far more than he wants to keep his feet dry.”

  “How do you know that colt so well?”

  “How could I not?” she teased. “I observed his behavior in my father’s stables for two entire days while thinking he was a different horse. Besides which, you have always thought he would win. And if you trust the horse, then I trust you.”

  “You delight me.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm, as close to an embrace as they could risk in public.

  “I will never tire of hearing that.” Leaning closer, she tickled his nose with one of the extravagant ostrich plumes on her military-style cap. “Now, you and I must find a place from which to watch the race—and to show off your waistcoat.”

  He had to laugh at this, because the waistcoat was garish by any standard: striped in crimson and white to match the Crosby racing silks.

  Leaning on the arm of one of his sons, Sir Jubal Thompson waved from several yards and several groupings away. “Wearing your own silks? You are remarkably confident, Sir Bartlett!”

  Bart waved back. “Just happy.”

  This won him a confused look from the pair.

  “You have just sent them scurrying to lay money against you,” said Hannah.

  “Their loss.” He was distracted, looking for a place from which to watch the race. He discarded the idea of the watchtower-tall stand of drab green. It offered a superior view to those willing to pay an extra coin, but raucous men hung from the windows and over the shallow balconies, waving hats and shouting, clearly the worse for drink.

  Aside from those, the track had the convivial, excited atmosphere of a street fair. Carriages cluttered the lawn beside the track, and people sat atop them to eat, booted feet hanging down. Food sellers hawked their wares, and bookmakers seemed to be everywhere—comparing notes, arguing over likely possibilities, taking wagers.

  Hannah looked about, beaming. She wore a riding habit, as usual. Bart liked to think it was so she’d be prepared to hop onto a horse’s back in case any jockey was unable to complete his mission.

  “My brothers would tell me I ought not to be here,” she murmured as they found a spot near the rail, not far from the starting post. “The crowds! My reputation! Shall I expect the same from you?”

  “Why would I say such a thing?” Bart scoffed. “I love you, and you love the turf. I’d sooner ask you to cut off a hand than miss a race.”

  “How I love you. You know just the odd assurance that I need. That might be a bit excessive, though. Might, mind you. It depends on the race.”

  They shared a laugh, though it then occurred to Bart that his mother must be miserable, missing the Two Thousand Guineas for the first time since its inauguration in 1809. Likely Sir William would want to see the race too. If Bart could keep Lady Crosby from wagering, he and Hannah could figure out how to get their parents to the track. Maybe even in time for the next stakes race. Perhaps wheelchairs could be fit into a carriage?

  Before he could mull too much over the possibilities, the horses were brought up to the starting post in a jostling, prancing line of black, chestnut, and bay. Atop their mounts, the jockeys sat straight and square, their heels down in the stirrups to anchor them. Bart picked out Wheatley in his red-and-white silks, a wiry young man with a friendly but shrewd face. At the moment, he was guiding Golden Barb into place—

  Right through a puddle.

  The dark-dyed colt pawed just as the starter flipped his flag, and the horses were off. Wheatley had to take in the reins to get his mount’s feet beneath him. Golden Barb shook his head, annoyed, and launched himself forward—only a few strides behind the pack, but every stride was crucial.

  “Him and his wet hooves.” Bart cursed, veins coursing with tension.

  Hannah patted his arm, quick as a drumbeat. “Wheatley will guide him through. He’s good at creeping up on the leaders.”

  “If he doesn’t run out of time.” One mile would decide everything. Less than two minutes; far less. Never was every second so long or so important.

  By the first post, Golden Barb had caught two other horses, and the pack thundered by the first judge in a close bunch.

  Glossy bodies stretched long, their docked tails snapping behind them like flags. Surely there were cheers, shouts, curses—but this time Bart could not join in with the raucous throngs. Tighter, ever tighter, he and Hannah held hands, and he knew she was watching the crimson-and-white silks as closely as he was.

  The swift-pounding Thoroughbreds spl
it and scattered across the wide track, and it was difficult to tell who was in front as they passed his vantage point. Was that Golden Barb, or another horse and rider? The horses hurtled past far too quickly, the field a blur of colored silks and straining strides, the crack of crops and shouts of jockeys.

  And then he could see no more, blocked by the screaming crowd. No Thoroughbred could have thundered more quickly than his heartbeat. Without thinking, he was running, pushing through the throngs with Hannah at his side, as though two people on foot could possibly catch up with the fastest horses in England.

  The white finish post was too far away, and too many people stood in their path. By the time they caught sight of the judges’ box, the winning colors had already been flung forth over its white-painted face.

  Crimson and white, striped like a stick of candy.

  Bart sat down heavily, right there on the turf.

  “Why on earth are you surprised?” Hannah beamed. “You were sure he would win.”

  “I hoped.” Even now, his heartbeat had not slowed. “I only hoped.”

  As he struggled to his feet, she was laughing. “Did you wager anything?”

  “I did not. I could not afford to lose anything.”

  “Sir William laid out a pretty penny on Golden Barb—and he said if he won, it should be a wedding present to us.” She looked abashed. “He added that he couldn’t bear to keep the winnings of a Crosby horse, but he smiled, so I think he was in jest.”

  “Your fortune,” Bart said. “It’s all due to you.”

  “Our fortune.” As they began to make their way to the winner’s enclosure, arm in arm, she added, “Why should racing be called the sport of kings? The baronets are masters of the turf this year.”

  “And baronetesses,” he reminded her. “Once the special license arrives, that is. Now that the race is over, would you like to make preparations to leave Newmarket? We could travel to London for the Season. I could buy some new waistcoats.”

  “I will let you know if I do. But for now, how could I leave your colt just when he has triumphed?” Her hazel eyes were pure mischief. Pure delight.

  He smiled down at her. “Or do you mean your colt?”

  “Our colt,” they said together, and their lips met.

  Thank you for reading this novella! I hope you enjoyed Hannah and Bart’s love story. If you have a chance to leave a review, I’d appreciate that so much. Reviews help other readers decide what to read next.

  To find out when my next book will be out, please sign up for my newsletter at http://theresaromain.com or follow me on BookBub. I also love chatting with readers on Facebook and Twitter. See you there?

  * * *

  About Theresa Romain

  Theresa Romain is the bestselling author of historical romances, including the Matchmaker trilogy, the Holiday Pleasures series, the Royal Rewards series, and the Romance of the Turf trilogy. Praised as “one of the rising stars of Regency historical romance” (Booklist), she has received starred reviews from Booklist and was a 2016 RITA® finalist. A member of Romance Writers of America, Theresa is hard at work on her next novel from her home in the Midwest.

  To keep up with all the news about Theresa’s upcoming books, sign up for her newsletter here or follow her on BookBub.

  Visit Theresa on the web at http://theresaromain.com * Facebook * Twitter * Pinterest

  COMING SOON

  His Wayward Bride, the passionate conclusion to the Romance of the Turf series!

  Everyone has secrets…

  Though their horse-racing family is as troubled as it is talented, all of the Chandler siblings have found love…except eldest brother Jonah. Married four years ago and abandoned after his wedding night, single-minded Jonah now spends his days training Thoroughbreds—while his lost bride is a family mystery no one dares discuss.

  And that’s just the way Jonah and his wife, Irene, want it.

  The biracial daughter of a seamstress and a con artist, Irene has built a secret career as a spy and pickpocket who helps troubled women. By day she works as a teacher at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies; in spare moments she takes on missions that carry her everywhere from London’s elite heart to its most dangerous corners.

  Jonah agreed to this arrangement for four years, until Irene’s family fortunes were made. After surviving on passionate secret meetings and stolen days together, now it’s time to begin the marriage so long delayed. But as these two independent souls begin to build a life together, family obligations and old scandals threaten to tear them apart…

  PRE-ORDER NOW!

  Books by Theresa Romain

  Stand-Alone Works

  Those Autumn Nights (novella) in A Gentleman for All Seasons

  My Scandalous Duke (novella)

  The Prodigal Duke (novella) in The Dukes of Vauxhall

  Desperately Seeking Scandal (novella) in The Duke’s Bridle Path

  Rhapsody for Two (novella) in How to Ruin a Duke

  Romance of the Turf

  The Sport of Baronets (novella)

  A Gentleman’s Game

  Scandalous Ever After

  The Way to a Gentleman’s Heart (novella) in Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies

  His Wayward Bride—coming late 2019

  Royal Rewards

  Fortune Favors the Wicked

  Passion Favors the Bold

  Lady Rogue

  Lady Notorious

  The Matchmaker Trilogy

  It Takes Two to Tangle

  To Charm a Naughty Countess

  Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress

  Holiday Pleasures

  Season for Temptation

  Season for Surrender

  Season for Scandal

  Season for Desire

  Copyright © 2015 by Theresa St. Romain

  Cover Design: The Killion Group, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.