Chapter Twenty-Three
Flora stood on the shore of the lake, the rippling gray water extending out until it skirted the edge of the home woods of Ashwood Place. A strong breeze ripped strands of hair from her simple braid and lashed her face with them, but she ignored them. In truth, she hardly felt them at all.
Since arriving at her sister’s home in Yorkshire several days previously, she had been numb. While she played with her nephews, cuddled her tiny niece, indulged in witty conversations with Ashwood, and simply relaxed in Juliana’s familiar, loving presence, she had been numb to everything else but the thought of Christian. The memories of their times together. The cadence of his laugh. The feel of his callused hands gliding across her skin.
She also thought of Asad. And Mr. Mubarak. And wished she could be with them now as they prepared for the start of The Derby.
To have stayed for the race was an impossibility. As it was, Flora awoke every morning with her teeth clenched, certain it was the day she’d read in the paper of Christian’s engagement to Lady Hightower. She dreaded the moment, and yet knew she was the reason it would come to be. The knowledge did not make it any easier to bear.
She loved him. Flora knew that now. After days of replaying their happy moments together, and even the times when she wanted to smack him, her heart ached fiercely that they weren’t together. That so many silly notions and ideas had kept them apart.
That her pride had been more important than her love for him.
Flora bit down on her tongue to keep the tears at bay. She had shed so many tears since the day Christian had fled her chamber at Campbell House.
So engrossed was she in her own torment that she did not hear the soft crunch of gravel behind her.
“This has always been my favorite place to sit with my thoughts.”
Juliana stood several feet away, a light shawl draped about her shoulders. Her sister’s gaze was trained on the waters, a serene look on her lovely face.
“I’m happy you have found so much happiness here with Ashwood,” Flora said, a small spark of envy jabbing her at her chest.
Juliana took a step closer, still not meeting Flora’s eyes. “I am, too. When I set off to London with you and Niall those years ago, I hoped I would be lucky enough to meet a man I would be proud to call my husband. And I am proud of Ashwood, but more so, I love him for accepting me and loving me, strengths, faults, and all.”
“I mean, you do have a small multitude of faults,” Flora teased.
“Thankfully, he does as well.” Juliana was silent for a moment. “I had hoped you would find a measure of comfort here with the boys and the baby, but I realize now how naive that was.”
“But I have found comfort with you and the children.” She smirked. “And you know how much I enjoy complaining about society and politics with Ashwood.”
“You two are horrible together.” Juliana’s expression softened. “Still, Ashwood Place could never be your home indefinitely.”
“Of course not,” Flora grumbled, linking her arms across her chest. “Loch Kilmorow will always be home.”
Juliana looked at her then, a dubious tilt to her head. “I don’t think so, my darling. I think you’re homesick for a very different place now.”
The urge to deny it sat on the tip of her tongue, but for once, Flora held her silence. Her heart no longer ached for the Highlands, although she suspected that a part of her would always reside there. Instead, her soul was called south, to the bustling stables at Amstead Gardens where she had fallen in love with a horse and his rakish owner.
Yet, Amstead would be marrying another. The reminder made her sway on her feet, and she gripped herself tighter to withstand the painful onslaught of reality.
“Niall sent us a copy of the latest issue of the Times of London via express. It arrived this morning. I think you should see it.”
Bile touched the back of Flora’s throat. “I have no interest in reading anything in the Times.”
“You will want to read this,” Juliana said emphatically.
“I. Don’t. Want. To. Read. It,” Flora growled, her glare fearsome.
As always, Juliana was not moved. “Very well, I will read it to you.” Pulling a strip of paper from her pocket, she smoothed it flat and cleared her throat. “Triple Crown Favorite Asad Trained by a Lady!”
Flora barely avoided tripping over her own feet in her haste to rip the paper from her sister’s hands. Latching her desperate eyes on the paper, she read.
If Flora were the swooning kind, she would have been an incoherent mass on the hard, rocky beach. Instead, she balled the paper to her chest and swallowed back the sobs burning her throat and eyes.
He had revealed her part in Asad’s story. Christian had disclosed her role in readying the talented beast for the racing circuit. He had risked his investors, the wrath of the Jockey Club, his family’s good name, and the Gardens’ very future to make known the integral part she played in Asad’s success.
A fire sparked hot and bright in her chest. She had to go to him.
“I asked for the carriage to be ready to depart within the hour.” Juliana’s green eyes were sparkling. “Will that be enough time to pack?”
…
“Your performance in this race was better than the first,” Christian murmured, gliding the brush along Asad’s wiry coat. “You burst from the line as if tax collectors were on your heels.”
Joyous pandemonium had broken out across the Epsom Downs racecourse when Asad crossed the finish line in front of his competitors by a commanding lead. All of Christian’s hopes were realized in that moment; his desire to restore Amstead Gardens to greatness, to pull the estate back from the brink of ruin, and to be recognized as England’s premier horse trainer had been won with Asad’s Derby victory. Christian inhaled a great sense of relief…yet heaviness still clung to his chest.
Without Flora, these things that had been his goals for so long felt almost inconsequential. His success was muted and colorless.
Even the potential scandal his newspaper article generated could not dampen the furor surrounding Asad’s success at The Derby. It sensationalized the stallion’s story, and well-wishers and potential investors flocked to Asad and Amstead Gardens like a swarm of hornets desperate to share in his achievement. Christian had even received reports that reporters had been apprehended in the Amstead Gardens stables or trying to sneak into the manor house looking for morsels of information to include in their articles. It was ridiculous…and for all that trouble, he still had not heard from Flora. Or Inverray.
He had, however, heard from Regina. The letter he had received the afternoon the article was published was covered with her hastily scrawled script, each word ripe with vitriol for him and his “underhandedness.” It was a claim that had made him laugh for the sheer hypocrisy of it. She had repeated her threat to reveal Flora’s name, but he had heard nothing from her since. Christian suspected that Flora’s siblings and friends had leaned heavily on the countess not to make trouble for herself, and he was thankful for it. There were definitely perks for Flora to count duchesses as a sister and best friend.
If only he could see Flora. The agony of her absence had settled into a dull ache in the center of his chest, as if a hole now existed where his heart had been.
As he contemplated what to do next, Asad snorted and tossed his head, his gaze trained on something behind Christian. Assuming it was another reporter, Christian turned with a scowl—and his breath seized in his lungs.
Cedric stood in the dim light of the barn, but his brown eyes seemed to glint. His hair was longer, curling about his ears in a rakish manner, and his clothes were sophisticated and expensive. He seemed to stand taller, his bearing portraying ease and confidence. Even the lines on his face had deepened, most especially the smile lines that bracketed his mouth.
Christian’s gaze fell to his brother’s hands, and his paint- and dye-stained fingers made his lips twitch.
After giving Christian a cursory nod, Cedric’s attention fell on Asad.
“He’s much larger up close, isn’t he?”
“Naturally.” Christian curled his lip. “For an artist, I thought you would be aware of such a thing. Perhaps you’re not learning as much in Italy as you thought you would.”
To his surprise, Cedric laughed, a hearty sound Christian hadn’t realized he had forgotten until that moment. “I can’t say I have missed your cutting remarks. But I see your words are just as sharp as ever.”
Christian dropped his gaze to his dust-covered boots. Shame turned sour in his gut. They had not seen each other in two years, and the first words he had spoken were uttered in disdain.
“Why are you here?” he demanded, desperate to smother the emotions his brother’s sudden appearance flared to life. “I received your regrets letter.”
“I came because of this,” Cedric said, as he reached into his pocket. He extracted a folded broadsheet, which he slowly unfolded. With a thrust of his arm, he held it up for Christian’s inspection.
It was the article about Asad’s female trainer. It was the article about Flora.
Without a word, Christian pivoted, showing Cedric his back. He didn’t regret divulging the information shared in the article, but he wished he had thought to do it before everything between Flora and him had fractured. Before she had left and rendered Asad’s triumph in the Guineas and The Derby muted victories.
“I would very much like to meet this trainer of yours.”
He snorted. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” Cedric asked, his tone curious.
Inexplicably, Christian was angry. “Because she’s not here, damn it!”
A tense silence echoed between them until Cedric broke it.
“I have a room at the coaching inn. I have no idea how I was lucky enough to get one with the crush in town for the race, but I know not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Care to join me for dinner and an ale?”
Deflated and exhausted, Christian scrubbed a hand over his face and nodded.
Thirty minutes later, they sat at a corner table in the noisy coaching inn dining room, watching as racegoers chatted, ate, and drank about them.
Christian nursed his tankard of ale, his gaze landing on anything but his brother.
“So, how long has your trainer been working with Asad?” Cedric asked conversationally.
“Since he arrived at Amstead Gardens a few months ago.”
His brother cocked his head at this. “I assume you did not know she was a woman.”
“Why do you assume that?” he growled.
“Because you would not have hired her if you had known.” Taking in Christian’s scowl, Cedric chuckled. “You may be unconventional in many ways, but in others, you are as conservative as the most devout vicar. Women do not belong in the stables. Second sons are only allowed to enter the clergy or military.”
Christian barely contained a wince. He had thought that. His father had believed the same. Yet, over the last few months, he had begun to feel differently; Flora had opened his eyes to the many biased ways he sought to control those around him.
Including Cedric.
Taking a healthy gulp of ale, Christian took his time swallowing down the bitter drink. “Yes, well, perhaps my outlook has changed.”
“Is that so?” Cedric dropped his tankard onto the tabletop with a thud and leaned forward. “Tell me how it’s changed.”
Christ. The time had come to either be honest or to push Cedric away once and for all.
What would Flora do, he wondered? It did not take him long to conclude that, while she had withheld her true identity from him, she had been truthful about everything else.
Rubbing a hand across his mouth, he sighed. “I realize I didn’t ask about your plans for the future. Without ever consulting you, I assumed that we would work side by side to see the Garden’s racing reputation restored. And when you tried to assert authority over your own life, I scorned you. I all but sent you away. I felt betrayed—when I was the one asking you to betray yourself.”
The words tasted like sawdust on his tongue, but Christian was relieved to have shared them. Watching Flora struggle to be seen for her worth, to have her ambitions respected and her accomplishments celebrated made him understand how much he had wronged his brother. He might not understand Cedric’s passion for art, but he did not need to. He simply needed to support him.
Without waiting for Cedric to respond, he pushed forward. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to make you feel that you had to conform in order to win my approval. If you wish it, I would be happy to pay for your studies here in England.” He licked his lips. “Or if you would prefer to return to Italy, I will grant you a healthy allowance to ensure that you can continue your studies with the support you deserve.”
Cedric stared at him for a length of time, the tight lines around his eyes the only indication that he was moved by Christian’s offer.
“If your assistant trainer has wrought this change of heart in you, I look forward to shaking her hand.”
Christian snorted. “Well, you will have to travel to Scotland to do it.”
“And why is she there and not here with you? If she worked as hard as you say to prepare Asad for the circuit, shouldn’t she be here to see him claim victory?”
“She’s there because, as I did with you, I sought to place her in a box of my making. There is no box large enough to contain her spirit. I was unwilling to give her the things she needed, the respect she demanded, and so she refused me.”
His brother’s eyes grew wide. “So your relationship became personal, it seems. Was the article your attempt to make amends?”
“It was my apology.”
Cedric’s mouth quirked. “And has she accepted?”
“Well she’s not here, is she?” Determined not to meet his brother’s gaze, Christian traced a finger over a deep groove in the tabletop.
“Then go to her and beg her forgiveness in person,” Cedric scoffed. “It sounds as if she is a strong enough woman to deal with your autocratic behavior, and now you must be strong enough to give her the freedom to be the woman she desires to be. Perhaps then she will consent to be your wife.”
“My, you have grown wise in your time away,” Christian said, a small smile curving his lips.
“I have always been wise. You just never listened to me.”
Bowing his head, Christian nodded. He had taken Cedric for granted. He had taken so many things for granted. But maybe there was time to make things right.
Excitement kindled in his gut. “Well, I will listen to you now.”
“Would you like company on the trip?” Cedric asked. His words were light, but a hopeful glint shone in his eyes.
“I’d love some.”
The brothers departed hours later. As his gelding’s hooves thundered along the road leading out of Epsom, Christian leaned low over his back. For the first time in weeks, he felt something other than regret and sadness. He glanced to where Cedric rode by his side. If he could begin to repair his relationship with his brother, he could win Flora. He had to. The alternative was not to be borne.
While they raced along poor country roads, he told Cedric about Flora. About her talent with the horses, her hoydenish tendencies, and her sunny smiles. He shared how he came to love her, even though he knew her social status meant that she could never be his bride. And he revealed how he had discovered her true identity but, instead of celebrating the fact that a real future together was possible, he had mucked it up.
In turn, Cedric told him of his adventures in Europe. He spoke with animation and admiration about the techniques he’d learned and the fellow artists he’d met, and Christian was reminded of how wrong he had been to try to keep his brother from exploring his passion for art.
When the dirt road gave way to cobbled pavers, he directed his mount to Grosvenor Square. A groom in Kilmorow attire greeted him as soon as Loki came to a stop, and Christian launched himself up the front steps of Campbell House, Cedric following close behind. The butler opened the door before he could knock, and once he had taken their dusty coats, said, “Allow me to show you to His Lordship.”
They followed the butler to a room at the corner of the house. Christian had not entered this space when he attended the Campbell ball the previous month. For a second, he contemplated how the past month had felt like a year. A sad, painful year.
Mentally refocusing, he strolled through the doorway and was greeted by the scent of beeswax candles. His gaze was drawn to a large candelabra that dominated the room, illuminating the space, even with only a fraction of its candles lit. Bookshelves lined three of the four walls, shorter ones filling the space under the large glazed windows that overlooked Grosvenor Square. Christian studied the shelves, his lips twitching as he noted that books were wedged every which way they could fit, the effect more charming than disorderly. A vision of Flora curled up on one of the plush leather chairs under the windows reading an adventure story made him smile.
Movement on the other side of the room snagged his attention.
“Amstead, what a surprise.” The Marquess of Inverray frowned as he rose to his feet, slipping a pair of spectacles from his nose. “I did not expect to see you here. Didn’t your stallion race today?”
“He won today,” Christian stated, walking closer.
“I offer you my congratulations,” Inverray said, his gaze sliding to the side.
Gesturing with his hand and smiling, Christian said, “This is Lord Cedric, my brother.”
After the men exchanged pleasantries, the marquess returned his attention to him. His expression was both curious and wary. “I suspect you have other motives for arriving on my doorstep when you should, rightfully, be celebrating.”
“Victory feels hollow without Flora.”
He had not meant to share such a confession, but, alas, he was not known for his delicacy.
Inverray stepped back, a hand rubbing across his stubbled jaw. “When last you saw her, under this very roof in fact, you declared that you didn’t want her.”
Christian flinched. “I was wrong.”
“Of course you were. She’s absolutely perfect for you.” The marquess leveled a finger at him and glared. “And you’re perfect for her. But what has changed? Surely you haven’t decided to give her leave to work with your precious chattel?”
Grunting, Christian looked away. “If I had continued to believe she was a lad, I never would have questioned her abilities. William would have gone about his work with Asad and all the horses in my stable with nary a worry from me.”
“So you changed your mind when you discovered that he was in fact a she?”
“No.” He swiped at his brow. “My confidence in her abilities was overshadowed by my fear for her when I learned she was Lady Flora Campbell. The rules for the game had suddenly changed.”
“Flora always did like to play by her own rules,” Inverray murmured, strolling to the sideboard, where he gestured to two decanters. “Which do you gentlemen prefer?”
“The whisky, if you please,” Cedric said animatedly.
After handing them each a glass of amber liquid, Inverray returned to his seat. He considered Christian over the rim of his tumbler. “What do you want from me, Amstead?”
Christian took a gulp of whisky. “I want you to tell me where she is.”
“What are your intentions?”
“I intend to beg for her forgiveness and ask her to be my bride. Not because there is any scandal to hide, but because I want to marry her.”
Inverray studied him, seeming not at all bothered by the suffocating silence that descended on the trio. Christian worked to keep his nerves at bay. He was certain he could find Flora without Inverray’s help, but it was important for her brother to approve of his suit.
For all her grumblings, she adored the man.
When Christian’s patience was waning, the marquess nodded. “It’s about damn time you went after her. An article is all very well, but Flo deserves to be swept off her feet, and I expect you to do as much, Amstead.”
A grin creased Christian’s face. “Oh, I intend to.”