Willow couldn’t help wondering what had so occupied Lord Bryce’s mind that he had failed to be moved by a threat to his brothers’ lives. If anything, his sullen behavior could be seen as—good heavens—disappointment. The realization that with Colin out of the way, Lord Bryce was next in line to inherit set Willow’s feet in motion.
He strode back past the paddocks, toward the stables. A few guests also strolled the area, and Willow managed to stay hidden within them and the steady stream of servants carrying covered platters to and from the racetrack. Not that her concealment mattered, for Lord Bryce never once looked back.
At the main stables, he veered suddenly to the right, toward the building Lady Sabrina had dubbed the veterinary annex. Might he be checking on an animal he didn’t dare display openly among the rest? Could Victoria’s colt be tucked away in a secret stall, where even Colin wouldn’t stumble upon it? Raising her hems off the ground, Willow peered over her shoulder to make certain no one was following, and sped her steps.
When she reached the veterinary hospital, Lord Bryce was nowhere in sight. A closed red door confronted her like a warning against her brazen actions. For Victoria. Thus assured, she set her hand on the latch.
“Where are you going?”
Willow gasped and spun around. Her heart reached up into her throat.
His mouth a forbidding slash, Bryce Ashworth stared at her from beneath the disapproving jut of his brows. “Guests aren’t typically admitted to this area.”
“I . . . er . . . the crowd became so confining and I . . . well . . .”
“Thought the confines of the veterinarian wing would be a relief?”
She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. Was he accusing—or joking? She searched his serious features for some hint. One eyebrow hovered slightly above the other. Irony, or censure?
“I’d thought I might . . .” Goodness, what?
“Are you interested in horses, Miss Sutherland? I mean, as other than a source of exercise.”
“Horses are lovely animals.” Though in truth she far preferred cats and dogs and other smaller, furrier creatures to horses. She enjoyed pets she could cuddle and carry about. But he didn’t need to know that. “Did not your brother mention to you that my sisters and I are considering purchasing a racehorse?”
Had he just stepped closer? Or, with the door at her back, did she simply feel hemmed in by his greater height and solid physique? He studied her as if imagining what she might look like without her clothing. The notion sent flames to her cheeks, a quiver of uncertainty to her knees. “In that case,” he finally said, “do accompany me inside, and learn about the potential hazards racing poses to a horse.”
His voice held an admonishing note that burrowed under her skin even as his baritone caressed her insides. Did he disapprove of racing? She flinched as he leaned to reach an arm around her. Her gaze dropped to his hand, and she glimpsed the raised scars across the backs of the knuckles and over the fingers. Afraid to be caught staring, she flicked her gaze upward just in time to see determination claim his expression. Did he mean to grab her and pull her inside? Willow sucked in the breath she’d need to cry out for help.
But he only gripped the latch and opened the door. “After you, Miss Sutherland.”
Her better sense clamored a warning. Then again, she wouldn’t be alone with him, for there must be an extensive staff inside, caring for the sick and injured horses. She might learn something to aid in their mission. Her bottom lip clamped between her teeth, she stepped across the threshold.
“Where has Willow disappeared to?” Ivy peeked from beneath her parasol’s scalloped edges. Her skin was flushed, her brow glistening.
Holly pressed her palm to her sister’s cheek. “Do you need to rest? The day has grown quite warm. I’m sure no one would mind your seeking shelter in the house.”
“I’m fine. Did Willow tell you where she was going?” Ivy scanned the crowd spreading out around the uppermost paddock. Within the wide fenced circle, a carefully raked course snaked in and out of posts that had been set up to create obstacles. There were also four steeplechase jumps, each about waist high.
“Don’t worry. Our baby sister is hardly a child anymore, though the rest of us are apt to think of her so. I wouldn’t doubt that she has found a barn cat with a nest of kittens and is at this moment naming them all.”
Ivy laughed and nodded. A rapping on the fence post drew their attention, and that of the guests around them, to a platform that had been set up beside the paddock’s gate. Lord Shelby, the duchess’s brother, stepped up and raised his arms to quiet the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, the first demonstration will be by Lord Henry Braxton on Necromancer.”
A moment later a rider trotted an ebony-coated mount into the paddock. One by one he maneuvered the obstacles, horse and rider moving as one. Holly’s watched his progress with admiration, noting how instantly, with no visible signal, the rider changed the horse’s direction from right to left, forward to backward, or proceeded from a walk to a trot to a canter.
“He’s mine,” a voice behind her murmured uncomfortably close to her ear, so close a breath grazed her nape beneath her bonnet.
She glanced over her shoulder, her heart lifting at the sight of Lord Drayton. Yet he stood some several yards away observing, and could not have whispered in her ear.
She turned full around to discover one of the gentlemen she had met at the Ascot Racecourse yesterday. With a smirk she felt sure was meant to be a confident grin, Stuart Bentley bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips. “Should you not find what you are looking for in Ascot, Miss Sutherland, you must come to me at Newmarket.”
He continued to hold her hand beyond what was proper. Taken aback, tugging unsuccessfully to free her fingers, Holly took in his too-weak chin, sloping shoulders, and wide hips that even skilled tailoring couldn’t quite conceal. A certain smugness in his tone—and in that lingering smirk—suggested he might be discussing something other than horses. The directness of his gaze, unwavering from her own, bordered on insulting.
Necromancer exited the paddock to a round of appreciative applause, giving Holly the excuse she needed to yank her hand from Mr. Bentley’s grasp. Horse and rider entered another fenced enclosure across the wide, grassy aisle. Necromancer was unsaddled, walked, and then left to his leisure.
Lord Shelby announced the next horse and rider. He stepped down and strolled to his nephew’s side. The earl seemed to pay scant attention to his uncle’s comments, which were clearly about the horse now cantering around the course.
Holly angled her gaze away. If Lord Drayton was ignoring his uncle, it was because he was watching her . . . and Mr. Bentley. She glanced back at him around the edge of her bonnet brim and tried to read his expression. Puzzled? Annoyed?
“That is Dark Rider, another of my colts.” With his chin, Mr. Bentley gestured at another ebony-coated horse that stood waiting in the nearby paddock. Reluctantly Holly returned her attention to the man—a Jockey Club member, and therefore someone not above suspicion when it came to Victoria’s colt.
She stretched her lips in a smile. “A fine-looking animal, sir.”
“I’ve many more like him.” He eased closer still, his gaze boring into her. Holly retreated a step, then glared back and held her ground. “I am certain I could find you something suitable to your needs,” he said.
Oh? And what, exactly, did he believe those needs were? “I should very much like your opinion on what makes a racehorse a champion,” she lied evenly. She angled another look at Lord Drayton, then instantly dipped her chin when she discovered his gaze still squarely on her. To Mr. Bentley she said, “What traits should I seek?”
The man looked inordinately pleased with himself as he launched into an explanation that Holly heard little of. She concentrated instead on his tone, expressions, and body language. Detecting arrogance but no trace of deceit in his manner, she decided Stuart Bentley simply wasn’t clever enough to have stolen Prince’s
Pride. He possessed no subtlety, no cunning; given his present conduct, he seemed the sort of fellow to play his hand with an open fist.
Odd, but he hadn’t behaved this way toward her earlier. If anything, he’d seemed unduly interested in Lady Sabrina. . . . Ah.
Understanding washed over her. Stuart Bentley wasn’t any more interested in her than he was in the white-socked chestnut that presently entered the paddock and shied from the first obstacle. She’d wager it was Lady Sabrina’s notice he hoped to attract, even if he must do so at Holly’s expense.
That certainly changed matters . . . although perhaps not from the earl’s perspective. She peeked over her shoulder, then pretended merely to be brushing a curl off her cheek when she discovered him still watching, almost—goodness—seething from beneath the fringe of golden hair the breeze had shoved across his brow. A sudden and unquenchable urge rose up inside her to comb that forelock back through her fingers, to press her lips to that intelligent brow, to assure him—
Of what? That she could never return the attentions of any man who did not have the distinction of being him? That she would rather die alone than spend a moment of her life with a fop like Stuart Bentley?
Good heavens, where had that come from? She didn’t love Colin Ashworth. She couldn’t; she didn’t even like him. Well, she supposed she did, but he didn’t like her. Not that he was ever unkind or treated her as Mr. Bentley did, without the proper respect. But . . .
He never treated her as he treated her sisters. He showed her none of the easy, brotherly affection he always showed them. He never ran to fetch things for her, or joked with her, or invited her to stroll among the shrubbery, as he had with Willow the last time they had all been at Ivy’s home of Harrowood, in Cambridge.
When Holly had remarked upon his oversight, Ivy had told her she might have gone with them if she’d spoken up sooner. But she hadn’t wanted to speak up, hadn’t wanted to impose her company on a man who clearly didn’t seek it. She had wanted . . . still wanted . . .
An ache pushed its way from her heart to her throat, and she swallowed, blinking sudden moisture from her eyes. Mr. Bentley had kept up a steady stream of conversation that had required little more from her than the occasional nod, until now.
“My home is always open to you, Miss Sutherland,” he said in a less-than-decent whisper.
She drew back and raised an eyebrow in her best imitation of Victoria. “Why, thank you, Mr. Bentley. Should my sisters and I fail to find the right horse here, we”—she emphasized the word—“shall certainly accept your gracious invitation to visit your stud. However, I confess I do have trouble believing Newmarket can offer anything superior to what may be found here in Ascot.”
Bentley’s jaw stiffened. “That remains to be seen.”
“Indeed.” Still smiling, she turned her back on him as a dark bay with black points entered the paddock. From the platform, Lord Shelby tugged his coat into place and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, Lady Sabrina Ashworth riding Sport o’ Kings.”
Holly pressed forward, Mr. Bentley all but forgotten behind her. She was curious to see how well the noblewoman rode, not to mention a little envious of any woman fortunate enough to have such opportunities at her disposal.
Apparently, not everyone agreed. “Blast Drayton for allowing his sister to take such risks,” Mr. Bentley murmured.
Perched sidesaddle, Lady Sabrina cantered once around the paddock, catching Holly’s eye as she rode past her and flashing a grin Holly couldn’t help returning.
She flinched when Mr. Bentley, moving up beside her, called out, “Do have a care, Lady Sabrina!”
If the young woman heard the warning, she gave no indication. Mr. Bentley waited until she came round again, then raised a hand in a salute as she did. Again, she made no response, but steered her mount toward the first of the obstacles.
The horse glided in and out of the posts, its stride smooth and steady. “Oh, Lady Sabrina is quite good,” Holly exclaimed, her pulse accelerating even as the young woman quickened the pace.
Beside her, Mr. Bentley grumbled, “If their father were at home, he’d never allow it.”
“Allow what?” Holly tilted her head at him, though she kept her eyes on Lady Sabrina. She had neared the end of the first row of obstacles without mishap, and was about to come around again and take the first jump. “Why do you fret, sir?”
Eyes narrowing, he mumbled his excuses and pushed away. He soon disappeared behind the guests crowded along the fence.
Holly returned her attention to Sabrina Ashworth. She took the first jump smoothly, but as she approached the next, the animal balked, threw his head up, and swerved hard to the right. Unprepared, Lady Sabrina wobbled in the saddle. Gasps shot through the spectators. She quickly recovered her balance, but the horse’s footing remained erratic. It shied away from the next obstacle and again, the sudden motion threatened Lady Sabrina’s balance. She hung on and tried to steady the animal, but to no avail.
“She’s in trouble,” Holly announced to no one in particular.
“Good God, not again,” replied a voice she hadn’t expected.
Lord Drayton stood at her shoulder, his brow knotted in a scowl of concentration.
Sabrina came around the paddock toward them, her horse kicking up enough dust to attract first Colin’s attention, then his concern. He studied the animal’s stride, heard the faltering beat of its hooves striking the ground. Around the fence, spectators pulled back and covered their mouths to ward off swirling clouds of earth.
The filly, Sport o’ Kings, was the half sister of the colt that had replaced the one his father had given the queen. Marked with the same Ashworth star across her brow, she represented the finest of the Ashworth stock, destined to become a star of the turf.
Then why was she struggling to maintain a smooth canter as Sabrina tried to maneuver her back toward the obstacles?
“It’s become a battle of wills,” Miss Sutherland said softly. The breeze shifted, bringing her spicy scent to tantalize his senses. For a moment he forgot his sister and thought only of the beauty beside him. What had she and Bentley been talking about?
Bentley—if ever a man had been in danger of having his neck snapped, he had in those minutes he’d claimed Miss Sutherland’s hand. And yet what business was it of Colin’s whose hand she held? She wasn’t his. She could never be. Period.
“My lord, your sister is typically a proficient rider, is she not?”
The urgency in her voice snapped him back to his senses. “This isn’t at all like Sabrina,” he said. Not until yesterday, at least, when his sister had lost control of the carriage team. Now she seemed to be doing all the wrong things and making matters worse. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Sabrina, ease up and go with her, not against her.”
The filly stopped, lurched, and attempted abrupt changes in direction while Sabrina fought to hold her on course. Miss Sutherland leaned forward over the rail. “Something must be done. If she doesn’t loosen the reins, she risks rendering the animal head shy.”
The term set off an alarm inside him. “I’m not about to let that happen.”
He strode to the gate, swung it open, and entered the paddock. Sabrina came round again, still clearly struggling, the filly increasingly agitated. Colin moved into their path, his arms extended to attract the horse’s attention. The animal knew him; he’d conducted the greater portion of her training and had long since won her trust. He could have approached her in any field, held out his hand, and within moments had her nibbling oats from his palm.
Not today. When she saw him, her eyes rounded and her nostrils flared. Colin sensed her apprehension just before she whinnied and swung wide. The filly reared and Sabrina’s little plaid riding cap flew off. Colin’s gut clenched as he expected his sister to tumble to the ground after it, but her well-honed sense of balance kept her in her seat. Even so, confusion and fear flickered in her eyes.
Colin started toward them again. He was still som
e yards away when hoofbeats surged from behind him and a lengthy shadow swept past him.
Chapter 8
Holly didn’t wait to see if Lord Drayton would meet with success. As he hurried to his sister’s aid, she hefted her skirts and ran to the opposite enclosure, where other horses awaited their turn in the paddock.
The closest horse to the gate was a bay, already saddled and tied to the rail. The animal didn’t bear the star, but everything else about him suggested he hailed from the Ashworth stud.
“Miss? Excuse me, but what on earth do you think you’re about?”
Holly ignored the groom as she hastily unwrapped the reins from the fence and pulled herself into the saddle. With no time for niceties such as adjusting her skirts so she could approximate a sidesaddle position, she slipped her feet into the stirrups. The youth’s face was a streak of ruddy color as she urged the colt past him.
“Miss! Come back here! You can’t—”
She cantered the colt through the open gates and into the larger paddock. A shocked twitter rippled through the crowd, but she ignored the gasps and set her sights on Lady Sabrina and the filly.
The colt’s energy pulsed beneath her like surging ocean waves. She must be careful or she could just as easily lose control and find herself in the same predicament as Lady Sabrina. She glimpsed Lord Drayton’s face as she rode past him, saw his surprise give way to consternation and then anger. She took no heed as he shouted her name.
Sport o’ Kings danced about, shaking her head and pulling at the reins, giving Lady Sabrina a jolting ride. It appeared the young woman could barely manage to hang on. Praying she could keep the colt calm, Holly urged him to the filly’s side.
“Give her her head and allow her to follow my lead,” Holly called softly to Lady Sabrina. The girl nodded and carefully loosened the reins.
Recklessly Yours Page 8