Chapter Nine

“Let’s have another go.”

Flora bit her tongue as the order grated on her ears. Lord Amstead had been nothing short of a tyrant since their discussion outside the paddocks the day before. She had left that conversation feeling encouraged. He had not sacked her, and he seemed content to let her continue her work with Asad uninterrupted.

And yet, he’d been acting like an ass.

Pressing her hand to Asad’s broad neck, she leaned forward until she could whisper directly into his ear. “You’ve got this, mo bhalaich. You have shown me over and over how well you understand your role, but it appears we will have to show the marquess over and over until he, too, understands.”

Catching Lord Amstead’s glare as she regained her seat, she raised a shoulder. They had practiced the stallion’s breaks for at least an hour. He’d broken from the line successfully six times, but had balked at the seventh attempt. And while she understood the marquess’s concern for that failed break, Asad was merely growing weary. He wanted to run, and she kept pulling him up.

If he broke cleanly on the next attempt, she was going to give him his head. Lord Amstead could admonish her when they returned to the line.

Gripping Asad’s reins, she leaned low over his back and, when Mr. Mubarak dropped the red flag, she pressed her heels into the stallion’s flanks. He shot cleanly from the line like an arrow from a bow. From the corner of her eye she saw the marquess hold up his arm to signal to stop, but she ignored him. Instead, she loosened the reins and yelled, “Get up!”

The dark bay horse blazed down the track; the outbuildings and shrubs that grew along the rail becoming nothing but blurs as Asad rejoiced in his freedom. A whip of wind and the fleeting remnants of frustration were the only things he left at the line. Flora’s heart celebrated her great luck at being able to ride such an incredible beast.

All too soon the line appeared before them. She reluctantly pulled back on the reins, briefly catching Mr. Mubarak’s amused smirk before her attention was captured by Lord Amstead’s thin-lipped grimace. When Asad pulled close, he reached out and snared the animal’s reins, bringing them to an abrupt stop.

“I told you to stop,” he said, his tone clipped.

“Did you?” She adjusted the set of her cap and then worked the fit of her gloves. “I did not notice.”

Looking at him from under her lashes, she caught a muscle tic in his jaw. “In the last seven attempts, you’ve brought him back to the line directly after his break. I was under the impression you understood that that was required on this attempt, as well.”

Flora clicked her tongue. The sound used to aggravate Niall, and she was secretly pleased to see Amstead’s eyes darken in annoyance. He’d been annoying her for the last several hours, so she owed him. “Unfortunately, no. He was straining at the bit and after his eighty-seven point five percent success rate, I felt he deserved to work off his energies.”

Lord Amstead gaped at her. “Did you just do that in your head?”

“Do what in my head?”

“Compute his percentage of completion?”

She frowned. “Of course.”

“Oh, of course. I hadn’t realized you were a mathematical scholar as well as a trainer.” Before she could respond, he shook his head. “If you felt he needed a break to run off some excess energy, you could have said so.”

“I’m not sure I could have.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” the marquess asked, around clenched teeth.

She was being foolish. Just because Lord Amstead knew she was a woman did not mean she could speak to him in an insolent tone. Or countermand his orders. He was still her superior. But he had been autocratic all day, and she could no longer restrain her tongue.

“It means you have been cantankerous since you set foot on the course. Probably since you opened your eyes this morning.” Planting on a hand on her hip, she leaned toward him. “You seem to find no favor in man or beast, and while Mr. Mubarak and I are obliged to respect your commands and wishes, Asad is not.”

A strangled chuckle brought her head around. Mr. Mubarak had pressed his hat to his mouth, his laughs effectively smothered but his mirth evident in the tears glistening in his eyes.

“Baniti, is it not time to check on Kadar?” Amstead growled.

Taking a prolonged moment to compose himself, the trainer bowed his head. “Apparently it is.” He dropped the red flag into the grass and spun about, not uttering another word.

Steeling her spine, Flora found Lord Amstead examining her with a pucker between his brows.

“Why the harsh words, Flora? William would not have spoken to me as you have.”

She licked her lips. “He wouldn’t have had to. He wouldn’t have needed to assert himself. He wouldn’t have been barked at and ordered about all morning.”

Lord Amstead rocked on his feet, the only indication her words had pierced the iron reserve he seemed determined to showcase. “So you believe I would have treated you differently if I still thought you to be William?”

“I know you would have.”

“Come down,” he said, jerking his head.

She climbed from her perch on Asad’s back, thankful that the marquess made no move to assist her. William would not have needed his assistance, and neither did she.

“Take him to the stables for a rest.” He linked his hands behind his back and turned away. “Come back here when you have finished.”

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured, accepting the reins and escorting the stallion away.

After handing the animal to a groom and providing instructions for his care, she returned to the track. Flora was surprised to find she was not nervous about what the marquess had to say. It was as if knowing he was aware of her true identity left her free to be her true self. She had never been one to shy from confrontation or surrender what she believed was right, and she was not about to do so now. If Lord Amstead did not like it, he could sack her.

The thought of being sent home did not fill her with dread as it had even the day before. She would be devastated to leave, especially before the Guineas, but she would not stay where she was not respected.

Flora found the marquess inspecting the track. He kicked clumps of dirt and stones to the side and smoothed uneven grass patches with his boot. Such attention to detail made her chest tight and she willed the sensation away.

Holding her head high, she came to stand at his side. And she waited.

A cool breeze blew from the east, and like eager fingers, it grasped at her hat and attempted to pull it away. Pressing a hand on her head to keep it in place, her gaze fell on the red flag Mr. Mubarak had discarded in the grass. Even there, it flapped with the force of the wind.

A silent five minutes ticked away as they stood side by side before he spoke. “I was going to sack you when I learned you were a woman.”

“I know.”

He glanced down at her. “You did?”

“You do not strike me as the kind of man who’d let a woman anywhere near your prize horseflesh.”

Laughter showed in his gaze. “Is that why you knew I wouldn’t have approved of Lady Hightower riding Asad?”

“No.” She mimicked his pose and linked her arms behind her waist. “I knew she was not experienced enough to control him. I would have felt awful if she had been hurt.” Flora might not like the countess, but she would never wish her harm.

“Thank you for that.”

Studying her boots, she asked, “What made you change your mind?”

“About sacking you?”

She nodded.

His stillness brought her head up. Meeting her gaze, he said, “You helped him overcome his fear of the flag.”

“So because of that one thing”—she threw up her hands—“you found worth in my work?”

Amstead scratched his cheek. “This news doesn’t seem to please you.”

“And why would it?” She stormed away, only to pivot back to him on a hair turn. “I have been working at Amstead Gardens for several months. I have seen to every task Mr. Mubarak has given me. I have invested my blood, sweat, and tears into your horse, even while you’ve been pulled away by other responsibilities or to entertain your fine guests.” The sight of his curled lip did not stop her tirade. “I’ve done everything in my power to see Asad develop the skills needed to stand in the winner’s circle at the Guineas. And The Derby. And the St. Leger. Because he is a magnificent creature destined for greatness, and I wanted to have a small part in his journey. And I wanted to learn from you, the most heralded trainer in England today.”

Flora roughly swatted a curl from her brow. “And you were willing to see me go simply because I lack a cock.”

Without waiting to be dismissed, she stormed toward her quarters.

She would be sacked for sure this time.

…

Well.

Christian followed Flora’s movements as she marched away, frustration and no small dose of shame heating his face.

Everything she said was true. Despite her hard work and success training Asad, he had been more than prepared to have her escorted from Amstead Gardens simply because he had learned she was a woman.

He’d obviously behaved badly.

A good deal of his initial unease at the discovery had been rooted in his wariness of her motives. In his suspicions about her true identity. But while he wanted to learn such things, he could not fault her work, for she had labored tirelessly to bring Asad up to par. Baniti trusted her and Christian had, as well.

As he walked toward the north barn, he stopped in mid-step.

Would he have dismissed her if he were not attracted to her? Because he was. Wildly. Observing her lead Asad through his breaks, then glimpsing her streak down the track, her bright eyes wide with excitement, had left him charged with awareness. Even when she railed at him dressed in her disguise, with some ridiculous black substance used to mimic facial hair marring her lovely face, he felt a fierce draw to her. The memory of her sleek, womanly form was imprinted on his mind, and the garb she used to hide it no longer fooled him. Her willingness to go toe-to-toe with him and not to be intimidated by his gruffness, his size, or his title, was an aphrodisiac he had not counted on. It was a damned inconvenience and not one he had the time or patience for.

Still, he was determined to keep her on. Her deft hand with Asad was what mattered, and the Guineas was approaching. As long as he kept his tongue civil and his cock in his breeches, the arrangement would work. It had to. He had been training racehorses long enough to be superstitious about changing up routines when matters were rolling along smoothly.

Stepping from the bright sunshine into the dim interior of the north barn, he blinked until his eyes adjusted to the change in light. The barn was quiet and still, as befit a space used for the care of injured and sick animals. Thankfully, the other stables were all empty, so he did not stop to check on their occupants. His pulse spiked as he approached the last, and roomiest stall. Although Kadar’s condition had been improving, Christian always expected the worst when he peered over the half door. The sight of the stallion standing with his eyes closed as Baniti pressed fists into the muscles on his flank in a deep massage was a relief.

“So you know, then.”

Christian propped a shoulder against the frame. “What are you talking about?”

“William. You know.”

He blinked. “Know? Know what exactly?”

The older man sighed deeply and loudly. Kadar’s ears went back at the sound. “Amstead, you must think me a fool.”

Now it was Christian’s turn to sigh. “Of course not. Although I do think myself a fool at times for hiring you,” he added under his breath.

Baniti stepped away from the horse, spearing him with a thin-lipped glare. “You know William is a woman.”

Christian pulled away from the frame and wrapped his hands about the door top tightly, surprise and a smidge of anger firing in his veins. “So you do know!”

The man rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. Admittedly, my wife noticed first, but it did not take me long to understand she was right.” He gave a belly laugh. “For the first week, she made to curtsey before she bowed.”

Christian shoved roughly at the hair that fell onto his brow. “She’s worked with Asad for weeks. Never during that time did you think it important to tell me that the assistant trainer was a woman?”

Baniti’s lips had compressed into a fine line. “Why would I? She was doing her job, and she was doing it well. If she chose to hide her identity, I did not think it my place to reveal it. What if she enjoyed living as a man? Where I’m from, some men choose to live as women, and some women choose to live as men. It makes no difference to me, and it should not to anyone else.”

Christian had not thought of such a thing, and while he had encountered similar people during his travels, he was more concerned about Baniti withholding such an important thing from him. And he told the man so.

“But it is only important to you.” The Egyptian man turned back to Kadar, who seemed to have been following their conversation with alert eyes. Pressing his hands into the animal’s thigh, he continued his ministrations. “Her true identity was not important to me. What was important to me was that Asad responded to her. Seemed to enjoy her attentions and performed for her. I assumed that would be important to you, as well.”

“Of course it’s important to me, damn it.” Christian snatched his hat from his head and crushed it in his fist. “But how do you know she has not been sent by a rival farm to sabotage Asad and his chances? That horse is all that stands between the Gardens and ruin.”

He looked away, his stomach churning. He was embarrassed to have blurted out such a truth. It was not like him to be so careless with details that were best left a secret. The Gardens’ ruination would affect not just him, but every person employed there. Baniti had moved his family thousands of miles to work for him and train his racehorses, and such a responsibility was not one Christian took lightly. While he was stressed about Asad’s showing at the Guineas, he had no intention of revealing the deeper significance his victory could mean.

Dragging his eyes up, he met Baniti’s stalwart gaze.

“If you are going to fret, do not do it in the stables. The horses can detect it, and Asad should run for joy and pride, and nothing else.”

Christian smirked. “Son of a bitch.” He studied Kadar, taking in his relaxed mien. “If only he had not been injured. He could have been a legend.”

Baniti paused, his gaze raking over the beast. “Possibly. But you gain nothing by thinking of what could have been. He was injured and Asad was not.”

“Is he any closer to being ready for race day?”

“Of course. His breaks have improved and become more consistent.”

Christian nodded, but anxiety still chewed his insides.

“You are not convinced, I see.”

“I will not be convinced until the race is won.”

The older man ran a hand up Kadar’s back, stopping only to scratch behind the horse’s ear. “Naturally. Still, you must have some confidence in the beast.” He pointed a finger at Christian. “What did I tell you about bringing your doldrums…is that right? Depressions? What is the correct term?”

“Doldrums is appropriate,” he said with a smile.

“Good. And what did I say about bringing them around the horses?” Baniti arched a mocking brow. “Will I have to ban you from my stables?”

Christian snorted. “Your stables?”

“Once you begin to show faith in Asad again, I will grant you admittance.”

“Very magnanimous of you,” he drawled dryly.

“I am very gracious.” All humor fled from the Egyptian man’s face. “See to your guests, Amstead. Court your investors. I will make sure Asad is ready.”

“You know I cannot do that,” Christian said, with a shake of his head. He had to be involved. Now that he knew William was not who he thought he—she—was, he needed to keep his finger on the pulse of the training regimen. His father would have done the same.

Baniti sliced at the air, causing Kadar to flick his tail. “Try, my lord. Remember everyone in your employment wants Asad to succeed.”

“Even William?”

“Especially William.” The trainer spread his palms. “Have you not noticed her clothing? Her well-bred mare? She is not in need of employment. She does this because she wants to, not because she needs to.”

Christian suspected the same. Flora came from quality, although he was not sure of her connections and whether or not they could hinder his operation. He suspected that a young, unmarried woman working in the stables of a bachelor marquess was not a slight most genteel families would easily overlook.

Brushing aside the thought, he slapped his hat on his head. “Very well. I will do my damnedest to keep my worry far from the stable yard.”

“Thank you.”

As he turned to depart, he was pulled up short by the older man’s voice. “What is William’s real name?”

Without turning, Christian said, “Flora. Flora Grant.”

The older man whistled. “It’s a perfect name for her, really. She’s as pretty and as stubborn as an early spring flower.”

Christian walked away, readily agreeing with the comparison.