Recklessly Yours

by Allison Chase

  “Yes, I believe I’ve heard of him . . . or read about him. Isn’t he listed in the Ascot racing annals? Wasn’t he owned by the king himself?”

  “Two kings, Miss Sutherland. Mad King George owned him first, and then his son, George IV.”

  “Then Cordelier is a descendant of Shooting Star?” When Colin nodded, she pushed a low whistle through her lips. “I am standing before a legacy of racing history.”

  Her enthusiasm was infectious, and his heartbeat accelerated. “Cordelier is more than that, Miss Sutherland. He has played a significant role in my theories of heredity, of how some traits prevail and are passed visibly from generation to generation, while others rest dormant in a bloodline until they surprise one with their sudden appearance.”

  Her hand strayed to the braid coiled at her nape. “Like my red hair. None of my sisters are so burdened. A bequest from my maternal great-grandmother, or so my uncle Edward told me.”

  “The man who raised you,” Colin mused more than commented. Ivy had confided some of her family history to him, how their parents perished in a house fire, and the four sisters were raised at their uncle’s modest Surrey estate. A sad look came over Miss Sutherland, and he found himself searching for words to banish it.

  She rallied with a brisk laugh. “My extraordinary luck, this hair of mine.”

  “It may be. You see, Miss Sutherland, it is sometimes those dormant traits that endow one with unexpected strength. That is what I have been working to achieve among our stock. To determine the most beneficial characteristics, not only of stamina and speed, but also of resilience and the ability to withstand disease and injury.”

  “It sounds as if you have set yourself against nature.” Cordelier nudged her arm, and she resumed petting him.

  “Not against nature so much as an attempt to use nature to its best advantage. Traits are not good or bad. Each has its purpose, and in learning what those purposes are, we can breed the ones that will best serve a particular species. Racehorses, unfortunately, are susceptible to a wide range of maladies that too often make it necessary to destroy the animal. If I could only find—”

  He stopped, realizing how impassioned he’d become. He stood with hands fisted, shoulders bunched, legs braced as if he’d just entered the boxing ring, as he sometimes thought of his laboratory.

  Her hand stilled on Cordelier’s mane. “Such an application might benefit more than mere horses, Lord Drayton.” One reddish gold eyebrow arched astutely. “Might one suppose your ambitions extend to human beings?”

  That she had made the jump and questioned him so calmly, so entirely without any look of judgment, sent a thrill through him. “Inasmuch as hereditary illnesses might someday be better understood, and even eradicated, yes.” Some impish impulse sent his forefinger reaching out to trace a burnished tendril curling about her ear. “But as for the traits that make each of us who we are, Miss Sutherland, I would not desire to interfere with those.”

  Her bosom rose and her lips parted on a delicate little sigh that melted directly over his loins. Aching to draw her into his arms, he instead clamped his teeth against his desires and turned back toward Cordelier.

  Holly Sutherland would wither among a family like his. He might not believe in curses, not in the mystical sense, but his was a family defined by bitterness and greed. These weeks of his father’s absence had been like a gift, a heady relief. But Thaddeus Ashworth would return home soon enough, bringing scorn and animosity with him.

  Colin, Bryce, Sabrina, Geoffrey . . . all of them bore the scars of their childhood, some physically, others buried deep inside. Their mother, too. The Duke of Masterfield loved no one and nothing as much as his brandy, and his brandy made him mean, unremorsefully so.

  “We tarry overlong, Miss Sutherland. You did not come here to talk, or to hear my ridiculous theories.”

  “Didn’t I?” Her voice emerged as a wisp of its usual timbre.

  He couldn’t take much more of standing beside her, of inhaling her scent and imagining the warmth of her skin beneath all those layers of linen and wool. He forced his gaze from the double row of buttons that marched up her jacket, emphasizing the swell of her breasts. “Certainly not, Miss Sutherland. Or do you not long for a brisk ride across the pastures?”

  “Oh, I do. I most certainly do.”

  Chapter 11

  Something in Lord Drayton’s tone, in his gaze, convinced Holly he understood, even better than her sisters, what horses and riding meant to her. That to her, riding was freedom itself, akin to sailing over the hillsides like a low-flying bird, powerful and tireless and unhindered. The closest comparison she could think of might be Ivy and her science, how she and Simon harnessed the earth’s mightiest powers.

  While she was growing up, Uncle Edward had always frowned upon her antics, as he had termed them; he had called her reckless and unladylike, until she had grown ashamed of the abandon that filled her during her madcap rides. She had stopped riding astride, and rarely galloped except when she felt safe from disapproving eyes.

  Lord Drayton was busy adjusting something on Cordelier’s halter that didn’t seem to need adjusting. “What you did in the paddock yesterday was not the act of a casual rider, Miss Sutherland, and most especially not typical of a female rider.”

  Oh. Mortification crept hotly up her neck. He shot her a glance. “Don’t misunderstand. I admire your skills. I merely meant that such abilities are not acquired haphazardly. So what shall it be, Miss Sutherland? We have several dependable geldings available, or perhaps one of the older mares will do?” The slant of his lips issued a challenge she could not resist.

  “No old mares or geldings for me, Lord Drayton. A stallion, if you please.”

  “We shan’t be riding in a paddock,” he warned. “Are you certain you are equal to a gallop across the open pastures?”

  She grinned, then grinned harder when his features lit with the same eager enthusiasm. Yet it was with the utmost gravity that he asked his next question. “Sidesaddle or astride?”

  Hoping for just this opportunity, she had worn the doeskin leggings she’d had made specially some years ago. Her reply must have shown on her face, for without waiting for her answer, Lord Drayton called for his grooms. If the lads found the unorthodox instructions shocking, they gave no indication.

  “His name is Thunderbolt,” he told her some ten minutes later, just before he leaned over and laced his fingers to boost her up onto the animal’s back.

  “Oh, dear. That sounds rather formidable.”

  He unlaced his fingers and straightened. “Second thoughts?”

  Ah, another challenge. She lifted both a foot and an eyebrow, and waited for him to lace his fingers again. When he did, she set her knee into his palms and gathered the reins. Supported by the strength of his arms, she fairly floated into the saddle. The horse shifted beneath her weight and stomped his back foot. Then he settled down as she leaned forward to stroke his neck and murmur reassurances.

  The earl swung up onto Cordelier, and they clip-clopped out of the stable yard. Once they had passed the paddocks, he clucked the horses to a trot, and then to an easy canter that took them beyond the racetrack. The sun was just climbing above a bank of clouds on the horizon. It was a fine, cool morning, and Holly filled her lungs with the scents of lush spring grass and the pungent tang of horse and leather.

  At a smooth, steady pace they traversed a rolling field and circled some low hills. Holly found her patience growing short. Despite all his intimations to the contrary, the earl seemed intent on keeping to a safe speed—safe for a lady. The notion threatened the prospect of a vigorous morning ride.

  He surprised her by bringing them to a halt. Twisting in his saddle, he gestured back toward the way they had come. “As you can see, we are no longer visible from the house.”

  “Aren’t we?” She twisted around, too, and saw only the gentle swell of the fields in all directions.

  He replied with a question of his own. “Are you ready,
Miss Sutherland?”

  Her heart leaped. She smiled, and he gave Cordelier some invisible signal. The horses broke into a gallop that devoured the ground beneath them.

  True to his name, Thunderbolt stormed across the open terrain. His body elongated and his head and neck stretched straight out. As the countryside streaked by, Holly felt her very soul expand, even as her lungs filled with sweet, crisp air. Yesterday’s concerns flitted away. It had been so long—too long—since she’d felt such power beneath her, conveying her into the wind in defiance of earthly gravity. A whoop escaped her, and then another.

  Lord Drayton rode Cordelier beside and a little ahead of her. He turned his face toward her and smiled, and a sudden realization stole a portion of her elation. Theirs was no wild pace determined by the impulse of the horses, but rather one carefully controlled by the earl himself.

  He wasn’t acknowledging her abilities as a horsewoman; he was merely indulging the lady’s fancies with a symbolic pat on the head while keeping her safe from any real risk.

  It would not do. Not now, with the thrill of true freedom so close at hand. Holly squeezed with her knees and leaned lower over Thunderbolt’s neck.

  The horse shot forward in a burst of vigor that confirmed her suspicions that he’d been held in check. As she passed Lord Drayton’s surprised countenance, she laughed. “Don’t be afraid, sir. I’m certainly not.”

  Then she leaned lower still, her fingers splayed over her horse’s mane, the reins looped loosely through her thumbs. In many ways she relinquished control to the stallion, but it was a control based on mutual trust, one she felt confident of resuming whenever she liked.

  Would the earl be furious with her? Her last glimpse of him had revealed his consternation. She braved a peek now over her shoulder. He had fallen several horse lengths behind. Then he, too, urged his mount faster. As he gained ground and pulled up alongside her, their gazes met, his glinting with admiration. He made no effort to curb their speed, and with a nod she thanked him.

  Then she squeezed Thunderbolt’s sides again and once more resumed the lead, even if only by a nose. She directed their course over the wide swell of a hill, around a copse of birch trees, across a narrow stream. To the west, several rolling hills converged to form a soft, shady vale that invited exploration. Holly headed Thunderbolt in that direction.

  “Miss Sutherland!”

  Suddenly he was no longer several feet away but so close she might easily have touched him. Her name boomed again from his lips, and she drew back in the saddle. Thunderbolt’s pace immediately slowed. In the next instant Lord Drayton leaned over and snatched the reins from her hands.

  Gradually Colin slowed the horses to a canter, then a walk, and finally a halt. As the animals stood stamping and snorting, Miss Sutherland’s obvious anger shot like green arrows across the space between them.

  “Why on earth did you do that? There was no danger and I certainly was not pushing Thunderbolt beyond his limits.” A kid-gloved hand went to her slender hip. “Or do you still doubt my horsemanship?”

  “I never doubted your horsemanship, Miss Sutherland. Though I do not doubt that if left to your own devices you would run pell-mell into the eye of a raging storm.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and though sounds of indignation poured forth, no actual words formed. He tossed back her reins and turned Cordelier toward home. Thunderbolt would follow. The stallion’s impetus had been snipped short, and now he would long only for a good brushing down, water, and the treats he would receive upon being handed back to the grooms.

  They rode in silence until the racetrack came into view. By then Miss Sutherland’s brooding scowl had eased to puzzled curiosity.

  “Was it the vale? Did you not wish me to ride down into it? Does some danger exist there?”

  Indeed it did, to him and everything he held dear. But she had supplied him with a convenient excuse. “The terrain there is treacherous, Miss Sutherland. I could not have you rushing headlong into marshy bottomland.”

  “You might have simply said as much, my lord. I’d have gladly changed direction.”

  Would she have? At the time he hadn’t believed so. The look on her face, that whoop she’d let out—both were evidence of a bold, unstoppable spirit. She had reminded him of himself, but not the self he was here in Ascot . . . and not as any other living soul ever saw him. Except perhaps for his grandmother, of course, who sometimes watched from her bedroom window at Briarview while he galloped with the ancient ponies across the Devonshire hills. Infused with the spirit of the Exmoors, he became as fearless and undaunted as they were; even thoughts of his father couldn’t shake his buoyancy.

  He had seen the same fortitude in Miss Sutherland’s eyes as she’d headed for the vale. And he had believed there was no other way of stopping her. She would have laughed and kept going, ridden between the hills and into the trees, and discovered the secret that could destroy everything he was striving to preserve. Even now, despite her insistence to the contrary, he didn’t believe matters would have gone any other way.

  When they reached the stables, she didn’t wait for him to help her down but swung from the saddle on her own, landing with a light footfall on the ground. “Thank you for the ride, Lord Drayton, and for the tour. I enjoyed both immensely.”

  Irony bit through each word. He wished he could apologize. But he’d become careless this morning. Instead of using his brain he’d allowed a lower region of his anatomy to take charge. He must be more careful, even if that meant playing the boor whenever he confronted Miss Sutherland’s charms.

  He returned her thanks with a correct and impersonal bow, then raised an eyebrow as if taking her measure and judging that she fell rather short—another lie, the worst of all. “If there is any other way I can assist you and your sisters in your purchase of a racehorse, you have only to ask, Miss Sutherland.”

  “Thank you again, sir.” Arching a coppery eyebrow of her own, she met his mockery and raised the stakes with the stiffest of curtsies, one that conveyed far more indignation than respect. Every sleek line of her body radiated pride and indifference that would have cut him to the quick if it hadn’t been exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. Even so, the haughty sweep of her skirts as she stalked away left his insides stinging.

  “And where were you two?” Stuart Bentley’s voice echoed from within the archway between the stables. A moment later he emerged into sunlight. “Up rather early with our pretty Miss Sutherland, weren’t you?”

  Colin didn’t like the man’s tone, or the insinuating look in his eye. “She is a guest, Bentley. I often ride with our guests in the morning. Especially ones with Miss Sutherland’s equestrian skills.”

  Bentley smirked and tapped his riding crop against the flawless sheen of his right boot. “Is that all she is skilled in?”

  A burst of fury sent Colin across the paving stones. His pulse surging, he seized Bentley’s riding crop. His first impulse was to use it on the other man; only a steadying breath and an effort of will prevented him from doing so. Instead he bent the crop between his hands, stressing the leather-encased wood until it snapped.

  The crack penetrated his anger, leaving him calmer, if still breathing heavily and feeling no less adamant. “Miss Sutherland is the relative of a close family friend,” he said evenly. Bentley had backed against the stable wall. He stared at Colin and swallowed. “I will not tolerate that kind of talk about her, nor about any guest in my home.” He handed Bentley the two halves of his riding crop. Then he backed a couple of steps away from the other man. “Clear?”

  “Quite.” Bentley rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean anything by it, old man. A jest, nothing more.”

  Just as he hadn’t meant anything by sidling up to Miss Sutherland yesterday during the demonstrations? Colin still burned to know what he’d said to her, but he wouldn’t give Stuart Bentley the satisfaction of asking. On the turf, and when administering Jockey Club business, they were colleagues, even allies. But never qui
te friends. “A jest in rather bad taste.”

  The man gave a quick roll of his eyes. “Apparently.”

  Colin gestured at Bentley’s black riding coat. “I’ll order a horse saddled. Your own, or one of mine?”

  In preparation for the races, Bentley had stabled several of his Thoroughbreds there, as well as his personal mount.

  “I, er, think I’ve changed my mind about riding.” The man shoved away from the wall and moved to make his retreat. “Later, perhaps.”

  “Let me know when and I’ll join you.”

  Bentley assured Colin he would, but Colin would have wagered a hefty sum that the odds of that happening were low, at least for the duration of that day. He’d overreacted, to be sure. His response to Bentley’s comment had come on lightning quick and with equal intensity, a fact from which he derived little pleasure. It meant that he’d conquered very few of those emotions that had barraged him months ago, on the first occasion of finding himself alone with Holly Sutherland.

  Now, as then, there seemed very little logic attached to the urgent need to have her in his arms, a desire that reduced his Cambridge-educated mind to that of a caveman. Her. Here. Now.

  But if he’d had reasons then not to become involved with her, those reasons had now increased tenfold. He was a horse thief who had chosen the queen as his victim.

  And that constituted treason.

  No, Holly Sutherland was not for him. But, heaven help him, if he couldn’t have her, he’d be damned if a dandy like Stuart Bentley would have her, or would have his way with her, which was no doubt more what the other man had in mind.

  “But surely you questioned him.”

  “You certainly spent plenty of time with him this morning. If you didn’t question him, what did you speak about?”

  Holly lifted the pearl brooch from the dressing table and held it in her palm. So smooth and round in its simple gold setting, so perfect. So pure. During the past two days, there had been moments when Holly wished her life could be as unsullied as that pearl, free of deceptions and suspicions, with no crimes to be investigated and no criminals to apprehend.