Chapter Twenty-Two

The buzz of the crowd was deafening, and it pumped into Flora’s blood like a drug, leaving her with a smile that stretched ear to ear.

She stood at the rail, a race pamphlet clutched to her chest as she surveyed the colorful array of race goers that ebbed and flowed about her like a giant beehive. Many spectators stood on the top of wagons or carriages hoping for a better view of the action, while others like her huddled along the course itself. The headline race approached, and anticipation hung heavy over the racecourse.

Flora glanced up at the boxes lining the track. She could make out Christian, his arms propped on the wooden fence that separated the box from the grandstands, his expression shielded from her by the brim of his top hat. But the distance between them could not hide the tension in his shoulders and jaw. She understood, for her nerves felt strained and raw.

A blonde-haired woman laid a hand on his back at that moment and dipped down to whisper in his ear. Lady Hightower. His fiancée.

Although no engagement announcement had appeared in the papers, it was only a matter of time. Flora had spurned him when he needed her the most and all but sent him into the countess’s arms. The knowledge kept her up at night.

Still, that did nothing to deaden the pain she felt watching Lady Hightower touch Christian as if she had leave to. Not that she could fault the woman. She remembered the heady feeling of his strong body beneath her fingertips, his skin unbelievably soft.

Mo creach, what was she doing to herself?

“The headliner is up next. Are you ready?”

Blinking, she met her cousin Duncan’s eyes. “I am.”

“Why are you doing this, Flo? You could have read about the race in the papers. You did not have to be here, where Amstead is parading about with his soon-to-be fiancée, to know if Asad succeeds.”

“He is not parading about,” she said staunchly, just stopping herself from elbowing him in the ribs. “He’s all but ignored her this entire time.”

“So you have been watching him.”

“Of course I have, you daft idiot. He’s there. Even if I were disciplined enough to avoid looking at him, my body would turn to him like a sunflower at the rising.”

Duncan rocked back on his feet, his green eyes wide with surprise. “That’s doing it up a bit brown, don’t you think?”

Flora should have known better than to share such thoughts with her cousin. How could he possibly understand the depths of longing she felt every time she looked at Christian? Every time she thought of him?

“Do be quiet,” was all she said.

If Duncan intended to respond, it was drowned out by the announcement that the Two Thousand Guineas was about to begin.

Her thundering heart was in her throat as Asad was brought to the starting line by the firm, capable hands of young David. Closing her eyes, Flora prayed that Asad would have a clean break and that David would remember to save the stallion’s strength for the straight.

She prayed that Asad would be victorious for Christian. For Mr. Mubarak. For all the lovely employees at Amstead Gardens who even now saw to their responsibilities while all their hopes hung on a temperamental horse that could either save them or ruin them.

And when the flag dropped, Flora forgot to breathe. Asad’s break was effortless, as if it was normal for him to burst into a gallop at a moment’s notice. She couldn’t see him when he disappeared around the bend, but excited whispers traveled over the crowd from the other side of the track.

Asad has a two-length lead over Liverpool Lad.

Amstead’s horse is running strong.

He’s flying!

The increased cheers were the only indication the field was coming around the far turn and heading into the straight. Flora clicked her tongue when she saw Asad neck and neck with Liverpool Lad, his closest competitor. David had obviously remembered to hold back the colt so that he had a nice long view of his competition. And as if scripted, Flora watched in awe as Asad simply pulled away. As if he shifted into some unknown speed only he was capable of.

The stallion dropped his head and raced away from the field. She jumped up and down, her voice hoarse from shouting, when Asad darted across the finish line to the roar of the approving crowd.

But her gaze did not remain on Asad. It returned to Christian. While the occupants of the box cheered around him, he simply stood stoically by the fence, an odd sort of sadness on his face. The sight wrenched her heart, and she buried her face in her hands and shed a few tears.

…

“Congratulations on a spectacular race, Amstead!”

“Thank you.” Christian smiled at the well-wisher but did not break his stride. He wanted to find Baniti and coordinate the return trip to the Gardens. After a week in Newmarket, he was ready for his own bed. For the familiar surrounds of the stables and pastures, and the smell of hay and sunshine.

He found the man supervising Asad’s bath, an air of content cloaking him. Considering that his charge had just claimed victory at the Two Thousand Guineas, Christian could excuse the trainer’s smugness.

As for the beast in question, the stallion practically preened. With his head held high and his tail swishing, he moved about as if he were anxious to return to the track to bask in the crowd’s adulation. Christian rolled his eyes, even while a smirk twitched his lips.

“He’s done well. I’m pleased.”

Baniti turned, his brow knit. “Well? My lord, he just won The Guineas. I would say he’s done more than well.”

Christian flicked a hand. “Considering he did not have a two-year-old season here in England, I am impressed with his showing.”

“But he raced in Egypt.” The older man crossed his arms over his chest.

“He did. But then, races in Egypt are not like races in England.”

“There is not as much mud.” When Christian shook his head, Baniti chuckled softly. “In Egypt he learned endurance and strength. But here, with you, he learned patience. That is always a hard thing to teach a horse. To run quickly, but know to save your energy for the right moment.”

“He has been the best…so far.”

Why didn’t this knowledge bring him more happiness, or more importantly, mollify his concerns for Amstead Gardens? If Asad won The Derby in addition to the Guineas, Christian would have more than enough to pay percentages to his investors and set the Gardens back toward paying off debts his father had incurred. Asad was proving himself to be all that he had hoped for.

But he seemed incapable of celebrating. The victory felt hollow and unsatisfying.

“Look at him, my lord. See how he struts about, hoping for your praise?” Baniti scowled. “Yet you stand here frowning when you should be smiling.”

Christian sighed and approached his stallion, running his hand along his neck to his head, where he scratched under his chin. Asad considered him with a solemn expression. “You have done well, lad. I knew you had greatness in you.”

The beast’s large black eyes considered him for a long moment, and Christian was certain the animal understood his melancholy. Suddenly, his ears twitched backwards, and Christian looked up.

Regina stepped out from the shadows of the barn, a picture of English femininity in a primrose-colored day dress and a becoming straw bonnet. Her smile was welcoming, but something vulture-like hovered in her blue eyes.

With one last pat for his stallion, Christian exhaled before he approached her. “Lady Hightower, did you come to greet the winner? He does so love to meet his fans.”

She smiled, all white teeth and charm. “I came to congratulate his owner.”

“How kind of you.” He grabbed her hand and kissed the air above her knuckles. “I am happy you could be here to see Asad’s run. We did not have an opportunity to talk much, so did you enjoy the race?”

“Most assuredly.” Regina turned and walked several paces away. He followed, apprehension curling about him.

She linked her hands before her waist, all elegance. “Amstead, you are stalling.”

Christian slowly arched a brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do,” she said primly, her tone thick with condescension. “You have not announced our engagement.”

“Do forgive me, my lady, for being distracted from our unwanted engagement by the fact I was preparing my blasted colt to race in the damned Guineas,” he bit out, spinning and prowling further into the stables’ dark interior.

Christian had not wanted to think about Regina. He had done his best not to consider the blasted blade hanging over his head like a guillotine of old, just waiting to sever his freedom and yoke him to a woman who had no qualms about entering into the holy marital state under cutthroat pretenses. After Flora’s refusal the week prior, he had thrown himself into preparing Asad for the race, and he was not going to apologize for not giving Regina and her conniving blackmail scheme even a tenth of his attention.

Soft footfalls heralded her presence behind him. “The race has been won now. I think an engagement announcement in the wake of Asad’s big victory would be charming.”

Gritting his teeth, he glanced over his shoulder at her.

Regina held up her hands as if imagining the headline in her mind. “‘The Marquess of Amstead claimed victory on the track and now he claims a wife.’ What do you think?”

“It sounds rather mercenary, if I’m honest.”

“I’ll leave the wording up to you, then.” She waved a dismissive hand. “But I expect to see it within the next several days.”

She approached him then, running her hand up his back, to grip his shoulder. With more strength than he knew she possessed, she yanked him about. Locking her blue eyes on his, she dropped her voice. “Do I have to remind you what’s at stake if you do not give me what I ask?”

“No,” he managed around his teeth.

“Excellent,” she said, her voice cheerful. Dropping into a polite curtsey, she said, “I so look forward to the announcement, my lord. Perhaps we can even be married by The Derby. Wouldn’t that be delightful?”

She did not wait for him to answer, the jaunt of her departing steps a testament to her happiness with the world.

But Christian wanted to kick something. He had never felt more helpless. Or more impotent to stop impending doom from crashing about his head. Balling his hands into fists, he banged them against his forehead as he mentally cursed the day he dallied with Lady Hightower.

With dejection threatening to smother him, he wandered toward Asad’s stable on heavy feet. Nodding to the groom who stood watch at the stable door, he slipped inside and slowly sank into the soft hay, his back resting against the rough wood. Asad munched on his feed, his tail swishing to and fro in contentment.

Christian was jealous of the beast.

Running his hand through his hair, he stopped abruptly when he noticed something buried in the straw. Fishing it out, he found it was a copy of the Times of London, with handwritten notes scribbled along the margins of the spread for the day’s racing events. Asad’s name had a dark circle around it. Christian smiled at the sight.

A thought came to him, and he went still. It was a dangerous thought, because while it was promising, it carried a multitude of risks. Yet…he considered it until the sun had disappeared below the horizon, until all the stables’ occupants had settled down to sleep.

And as he rose to shake his trousers free of straw, a determined grimace settled on his lips. For he had an announcement to send to the paper.