Recklessly Yours

by Allison Chase

  But how many other such men could be waiting to sweep a Sutherland off her feet? In Holly’s estimate, none. Besides, she was just now experiencing her first delicious taste of freedom. And of true purpose. To her, marriage seemed a bitter medicine to swallow.

  She continued stroking Willow’s hair, so beautifully silky, and so unlike her own unruly red locks. “Don’t you fret, dearest. I hear no wedding bells in my foreseeable future. I don’t wish to hear them. I am not like the rest of you; I never have been.”

  Willow’s head came up, her eyes shining. “You mustn’t listen to what other people say. You are neither brassy nor gauche and you never embarrass the rest of us. So what if you like to gallop your horse across Hyde Park? And who cares if you prefer sturdy riding boots to dancing slippers? Or if you sometimes express your opinion in mixed company when other ladies wouldn’t dare? You’ll make some fine man an excellent wife someday, and he’ll value those traits in you.”

  Holly chuckled. “We shall see about that, I suppose. Just remember that you are next in line after me, and one of these days Victoria will call on you. If there is some strange enchantment about the vow we made her, I’ve no doubt that you, darling Willow, will reap the most thrilling reward of all.”

  She expected that to bring a smile to her sister’s face, but Willow regarded her gravely. “I doubt that very much. Soon enough, Victoria too will marry. She will have Albert to champion her and will no longer need us. My turn may never come. And then I’ll be alone. Very much alone.”

  Holly studied her younger sister’s features: her dark blue eyes, her creamy skin, and the high, round cheeks that always hinted at the velvety petals of Uncle Edward’s prized Bourbon roses. Of the Sutherland sisters, Willow was the striking beauty, and the one usually so sweet of temperament that, of them all, she should least have feared growing old alone.

  “I’m very glad that you and Ivy are here,” Holly lied. Truly, she would have preferred her mission to more closely resemble Laurel’s and Ivy’s, to allow her to work alone and at her own discretion. Willow was right—this was not how it was supposed to work. Rewards aside, Holly feared this new complication could very well hinder her from recovering Victoria’s horse and exposing the thief.

  She sighed. She would have to make the best of it. At the very least, do her best to make Ivy comfortable and Willow less sad.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you about the wardrobe,” she said.

  Willow gave a delicate sniffle. “I’m sorry I made you drop your linens.”

  Holly glanced about the tiny room, which seemed to close in around her. “These walls are too confining for two people to move about at once. You finish unpacking while I go out for a walk. Take all the space you need in the dressers and armoire. When I return, we’ll all three go downstairs and see what the chef has prepared for supper.”

  Willow rallied at the suggestion. After a quick check on Ivy, who had awakened from her nap and was now relaxing with a book, Holly decided she had done everything presently in her power to ensure the contentment of both sisters. The slanting sunshine and bracing breezes of the clear afternoon called to her. She soon left the precincts of the tiny village and headed off across the heath in the direction of the Ascot racecourse.

  “Have you lost all capacity for rational thought? Do you not comprehend the damage you might have inflicted upon yourself, your brother, the horses . . .”

  Himself. Could his sister not comprehend what havoc her antics had wreaked on him as he waited to know whether he would suddenly find himself without his two youngest siblings? Colin wished to shake her till her teeth rattled, or grasp her neck and thoroughly wring it, or thrash some small amount of sense into Geoffrey—sense the whelp sorely lacked—because damn it, damn it . . .

  He clenched his fists and dragged air into his lungs. As he calmed, an image flashed in his mind, that of the laboratory he happily shared with his colleague, Errol Quincy. Confound it, he should be in Cambridge now; he and Errol were close, so close to the breakthrough they’d been seeking these several years. Just before he’d been called home, Colin had sensed success, felt it right down to his bones. A few experiments more promised to finally lead to the development of a blight-resistant grain that could essentially end the periodic famines that threatened England’s population each year, not to mention the country’s fragile economic stability.

  But no, before he could save the country he must first find a way to save his family’s future, without ever letting them know their future was at stake . . . or that he, the eldest and heir to the Masterfield fortune, had resorted to horse theft to stave off brewing disaster.

  They would never understand. Neither would the queen. There were moments when he scarcely understood what sardonic devil had prompted him to press his advantage as the queen’s chief horse breeder, steal onto the royal property and reclaim what his father should never have given away.

  He wondered if dear old Papa had acted in blind ignorance or bald-faced spite before he had sailed away from England last week. Was the old bastard even now standing on the deck of the America-bound Sea Goddess, laughing into the wind?

  A string of curses streamed through his brain, but he fought them back and summoned a shred of cool and, in his opinion, fair reason.

  Before he could speak, Bentley touched his elbow and pointed to the grandstand. “Looks like your carriage survived, old boy, but the railing fell and shattered.”

  Colin pinched the bridge of his nose and regarded his siblings. “A torn-up track, a broken balustrade—you two have much to answer for.”

  “Bother the track,” Sabrina shot back. “A few men with rakes will set it to rights in no time. And you can hardly blame us for some old balustrade shattering.” She looked to Geoffrey for concurrence. The boy shrugged a shoulder and looked away.

  Colin turned to Bentley and Lord Kinnard. “Would you excuse us, please.” He waited for the two men to walk out of hearing range, then rounded on his sister. “If not for your ridiculous stunt, my attention would have been on the workmen. Who knows but that I might have issued a warning that could have saved the railing? Have you any notion of the cost of either the workmanship or the materials?”

  “A pittance, most likely.” She tossed her golden curls. “I hardly see what all this fuss is about.”

  “Then I shall educate you. Until the damages are repaired and paid for, neither of you will see so much as a ha’penny of your allowances.”

  “Our allowances?” Ruddy color suffused her face. “You can’t do that. You haven’t the authority.”

  “Don’t I? Until Father returns from the West Indies I am head of this family. One short note to our bankers in London is all it will take. Unless . . .” He leaned in closer, drawn by a flicker of vulnerability in his sister’s eyes. He raised a hand to gesture at the sweating horses. “This exceeds even your wildest penchant for mischief. I’ve never seen you mistreat a horse, not in your entire life.”

  He paused as her cheeks reddened yet more, became mottled. The slightest of quivers shook her chin. Or was it only a passing shadow?

  “Why today, Sabrina? What is different about today?”

  She ignored the question and asked one of her own. “So then, I managed to capture your interest, did I?” Her mouth quirked with disdain. “Too little, too late, brother.”

  “What are you talking about?” When she only glared at him as though he were some disgusting insect to be trampled, he shifted his gaze to Geoffrey. “What is she talking about?”

  “Don’t ask him,” his sister snapped. “Ask yourself. Where were you when I appealed to you for help? Where was your precious attention then? I’ll tell you. In that repulsive laboratory of yours. And because of you—”

  Sudden tears filled her eyes, reflecting the bright sunlight. She clamped her lips into a tight line. Her characteristic bravado falling into place like the painted backdrop of a play, she held her skirts and set off toward the grandstand. “I believe I shall ride home wit
h Mr. Bentley,” she murmured over her shoulder.

  Colin pushed out the breath he’d been holding. Meanwhile Geoffrey had moved beside the carriage, half hiding behind the nearest horse’s flank. He pressed tighter to the horse’s side as Colin approached him.

  “What did she mean?”

  Geoffrey shoved his hands in his coat pockets; the sun flashed on his blond hair as he stared at the ground.

  “Geoff!”

  The boy’s chin came up in an abrupt gesture reminiscent of Sabrina’s defiance. His blue eyes sharpened as they met Colin’s. “Frederick Cates became engaged last week. Sabrina got word of it this morning.”

  Colin’s mouth dropped open and a single syllable came out. “Oh.”

  “Oh.” Geoffrey shoved away from the carriage. “If I go with Sabrina and Mr. Bentley, will you drive this rig home?”

  Colin nodded and watched his brother saunter down the track to the little group still milling near the grandstand. He wanted to join them, wanted to take his sister aside and apologize and . . .

  It was too late. Sabrina had put her hopes in Frederick Cates, fourth Earl of Redmond, and to all appearances, her expectations had not been in vain. Redmond had even spoken to Colin’s father, but for some reason no one could fathom, Thaddeus Ashworth had refused to give his permission. Colin suspected he had been holding out for an even better—more lucrative—offer, for titles alone didn’t interest the duke, nor even wealth. It was power the Duke of Masterfield respected, and how that power might be of use to him.

  Sabrina had written to Colin begging him to intervene, but by the time he had been able to leave Cambridge, their father had already embarked for America, where he would remain these next several weeks as he surveyed his plantations and purchased more land.

  “I’m sorry, little sister,” he muttered to himself, then stepped up into the phaeton and hoisted the reins. “Once again, Father, you’ve managed to leave devastation in your wake.”

  Sabrina . . . Briarview . . . it seemed neither would emerge unscathed from Thaddeus Ashworth’s disregard. Colin could do nothing now about his sister’s dashed hopes, for Frederick’s engagement could not be undone. But Briarview Manor, the family’s estate in Devonshire, was perhaps another matter.

  Good God, he was a scientist, not a shaman. But when Thaddeus separated the colt from the Devonshire herds, he had, in the minds of the local folk, unleashed an ancient curse meant to protect a native breed of ponies—a breed whose blood ran in the colt’s veins. The Briarview tenants believed themselves and their land to have fallen prey to this curse, which supposedly explained the recent falling in of the Brocktons’ barn roof, the stillbirth of a pair of the Wileys’ lambs, and the flooding of the river, which washed away a goodly portion of pastureland.

  It didn’t help matters that his grandmother, the dowager Duchess of Masterfield, who lived at Briarview Manor, believed in the curse just as strongly. “We are doomed unless the colt is returned immediately,” she had insisted in her urgent letter to Colin.

  Doomed. Yes, because they assumed it was so. He had tried reminding them all that the roof had needed replacing, the lambs had been a rare pair of twins born too small to survive, and the river, which flooded every four to five years, had been due again to overflow its banks. And it wasn’t that the Ashworth coffers lacked the funds needed to make restorations. But in Devonshire his logic wasn’t worth a tin farthing, and neither was his coin. The villagers and tenant farmers believed, and work had come to a wary, stubborn standstill.

  All he wanted—all—was to resolve his family’s troubles and return to Cambridge, to his work, his friends, and the life he had built for himself there. At the university, he felt free to be the man he truly was, not the man he was born to be. Some would argue the two were the same, but the rigid reality of being Thaddeus Ashworth’s son and heir bore no resemblance to the worthwhile niche he had carved out for himself as a scientist, scholar, and educator.

  He picked up the pace, intent on studying the horses’ strides to determine if Sabrina’s reckless driving had done them any damage. So absorbed was he in watching the rise and fall of the animals’ shoulders and hindquarters, he didn’t see the woman crossing his path until it was nearly too late.

  Chapter 5

  The openness of the landscape drew the full heat of the afternoon sun, but Holly nonetheless shoved her bonnet back from her brow and lifted her face. The Ascot heath was a wide, flat expanse that seemed endless and endlessly bright, accustomed as she had become to the close streets, looming buildings, and deep shadows of London, or the forested acreage surrounding Thorn Grove. The heath dwarfed the village she had left behind, so that from here it appeared no more than a huddle of bricks and stone in the middle of a vast emptiness.

  No, not quite empty. Before her, sudden and stark, stood the rear walls of the neoclassical stands that edged Ascot Racecourse. To her left rose the royal stand with its sweeping drive and grand portico. To her right sat the betting box, where great sums of money exchanged hands during each Royal Meeting.

  Between those structures now stood a brand-new grandstand that replaced, she had been told by the hotel desk clerk with no small amount of pride, a smaller and outmoded structure. Almost overnight, Ascot had gone from nearly forgotten to England’s premier racecourse, all because the new queen had attended last year’s meeting. The presence of workmen in and around the building attested to the unfinished state of the new facility, and the rush to have it completed before the opening of the races two weeks hence.

  A sudden rumble snapped Holly out of her musings just in time for her to spot a sporty, open phaeton swinging out from between the stands. The vehicle barreled down the lane straight toward her.

  Scrambling to move out of the way, she darted across the road but realized the driver swerved in the same direction in his effort to avoid her. With the phaeton almost upon her, she could chance about-facing and hurrying back across the road . . . or dive into the roadside foliage.

  Holly dove.

  She landed facedown in a bed of peonies and primroses and something that prickled. Tiny pebbles pelted her back, and she heard hooves crunching on gravel and wheels skidding to a stop somewhere behind her.

  An instant later, as she attempted to untwist her skirts from her legs, a pair of boots landed with a great thump beside her. A pair of strong hands closed around her upper arms and began lifting her from the ground.

  “Madam? Good heavens, madam, are you hurt? Did the carriage strike you? Can you speak?”

  All this rushed out in a deeply rumbling baritone, and a familiar one at that, before she was even upright. Her bonnet had tipped askew, covering one eye, and with the other she peeked out from under the brim. Could the man who had nearly run her down be who she thought he was?

  Could she be so lucky?

  She reached up and shoved her errant bonnet back off her brow so hard it slipped off and bounced from its ribbons against her back.

  “Madam, I am dreadfully sorry. I never expected anyone to be walking to the course today and was not paying proper attention—”

  As his mouth dropped open she drew a steadying breath. “Lord Drayton, good afternoon.”

  He gaped at her for more seconds than any self-respecting earl should ever gape at anyone or anything. “Miss Sutherland?”

  She nodded, unnecessarily of course, for disheveled though she may be, there could be no question as to her identity. Colin Ashworth knew her well enough.

  “But . . .” His apparent astonishment could have been no greater than if she had fallen out of the sky. “What are you doing here?”

  “I . . . er . . . that is . . .” With the back of her fingers she brushed tattered flower petals from her lap.

  “Good grief, forgive me.” He slid an arm around her back and, rising, gently pulled her up alongside him. For a few tantalizing seconds she savored the strength of his arm around her. Then it slipped away. His hand, however, hovered just beneath her elbow, as though he fear
ed she might suddenly topple. He bent his face close to hers, his sharp blue eyes roving over her until her skin heated. “Are you quite all right? Shall I bring you to a physician?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Truly.” She paused a moment to assess the accuracy of that statement. She felt no blood trickling from anywhere, nor anything more serious than a dull ache in her hands and knees from when she’d struck the ground. She smiled an assurance. “No lasting damage. Oh, but I cannot say as much for the flowers.”

  A Holly-sized depression marred the perfect symmetry of the flowerbed that lined the drive from the road to the portico of the royal stand. Lord Drayton gazed down at the crushed chaos of pink, yellow, and violet, released a long-suffering breath and shook his head.

  “Flowers can be replanted,” he said, yet the shadow that momentarily darkened his countenance suggested he regretted the demise of the flora more than he cared to admit. True, as a top breeder of Thoroughbreds, Colin Ashworth was a member of the Jockey Club, which meant that everything to do with the Ascot Royal Meeting would be of vital interest to him.

  Even, she supposed, the gardening.

  Then it struck her: his claim of not expecting anyone to be walking to the course today smacked of an admonishment, as if he blamed her for being there. He would never say as much, of course, but that flicker in his eyes betrayed a hidden emotion. . . .

  She shrugged away the thought as he held her hand and helped her step back onto the gravel lane.

  “How coincidental that of all the people I might nearly have run down today, it should be you, Miss Sutherland,” he said. “What will your sisters think of me?”

  “Actually, I believe the word is providential, my lord, for I’d hoped to run into you while in Ascot. Not literally, of course, but all the same.” She untied her bonnet strings, swung the beribboned silk and straw chapeau back on her head, and tied the bow off to the side, close to her ear. All this she did without taking her eyes off him, except for a brief down sweep of her lashes. She made the dimple in her right cheek dance. “And you may ask my sisters for yourself what they think of our near collision,” she said. “Willow and Ivy are here in Ascot with me. Laurel couldn’t come, of course. As you must know, my eldest sister is nearing her confinement. She and Aidan are delighted.” She didn’t add that Ivy, too, was expecting.