Recklessly Yours

The openness of the landscape drew the full heat of the afternoon sun, but Holly nonetheless shoved her bonnet back from her brow and lifted her face. The Ascot heath was a wide, flat expanse that seemed endless and endlessly bright, accustomed as she had become to the close streets, looming buildings, and deep shadows of London, or the forested acreage surrounding Thorn Grove. The heath dwarfed the village she had left behind, so that from here it appeared no more than a huddle of bricks and stone in the middle of a vast emptiness.

No, not quite empty. Before her, sudden and stark, stood the rear walls of the neoclassical stands that edged Ascot Racecourse. To her left rose the royal stand with its sweeping drive and grand portico. To her right sat the betting box, where great sums of money exchanged hands during each Royal Meeting.

Between those structures now stood a brand-new grandstand that replaced, she had been told by the hotel desk clerk with no small amount of pride, a smaller and outmoded structure. Almost overnight, Ascot had gone from nearly forgotten to England’s premier racecourse, all because the new queen had attended last year’s meeting. The presence of workmen in and around the building attested to the unfinished state of the new facility, and the rush to have it completed before the opening of the races two weeks hence.

A sudden rumble snapped Holly out of her musings just in time for her to spot a sporty, open phaeton swinging out from between the stands. The vehicle barreled down the lane straight toward her.

Scrambling to move out of the way, she darted across the road but realized the driver swerved in the same direction in his effort to avoid her. With the phaeton almost upon her, she could chance about-facing and hurrying back across the road . . . or dive into the roadside foliage.

She landed facedown in a bed of peonies and primroses and something that prickled. Tiny pebbles pelted her back, and she heard hooves crunching on gravel and wheels skidding to a stop somewhere behind her.

An instant later, as she attempted to untwist her skirts from her legs, a pair of boots landed with a great thump beside her. A pair of strong hands closed around her upper arms and began lifting her from the ground.

All this rushed out in a deeply rumbling baritone, and a familiar one at that, before she was even upright. Her bonnet had tipped askew, covering one eye, and with the other she peeked out from under the brim. Could the man who had nearly run her down be who she thought he was?

She nodded, unnecessarily of course, for disheveled though she may be, there could be no question as to her identity. Colin Ashworth knew her well enough.

“Good grief, forgive me.” He slid an arm around her back and, rising, gently pulled her up alongside him. For a few tantalizing seconds she savored the strength of his arm around her. Then it slipped away. His hand, however, hovered just beneath her elbow, as though he feared she might suddenly topple. He bent his face close to hers, his sharp blue eyes roving over her until her skin heated. “Are you quite all right? Shall I bring you to a physician?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Truly.” She paused a moment to assess the accuracy of that statement. She felt no blood trickling from anywhere, nor anything more serious than a dull ache in her hands and knees from when she’d struck the ground. She smiled an assurance. “No lasting damage. Oh, but I cannot say as much for the flowers.”

A Holly-sized depression marred the perfect symmetry of the flowerbed that lined the drive from the road to the portico of the royal stand. Lord Drayton gazed down at the crushed chaos of pink, yellow, and violet, released a long-suffering breath and shook his head.

“Flowers can be replanted,” he said, yet the shadow that momentarily darkened his countenance suggested he regretted the demise of the flora more than he cared to admit. True, as a top breeder of Thoroughbreds, Colin Ashworth was a member of the Jockey Club, which meant that everything to do with the Ascot Royal Meeting would be of vital interest to him.

Then it struck her: his claim of not expecting anyone to be walking to the course today smacked of an admonishment, as if he blamed her for being there. He would never say as much, of course, but that flicker in his eyes betrayed a hidden emotion. . . .

“How coincidental that of all the people I might nearly have run down today, it should be you, Miss Sutherland,” he said. “What will your sisters think of me?”

“Actually, I believe the word is providential, my lord, for I’d hoped to run into you while in Ascot. Not literally, of course, but all the same.” She untied her bonnet strings, swung the beribboned silk and straw chapeau back on her head, and tied the bow off to the side, close to her ear. All this she did without taking her eyes off him, except for a brief down sweep of her lashes. She made the dimple in her right cheek dance. “And you may ask my sisters for yourself what they think of our near collision,” she said. “Willow and Ivy are here in Ascot with me. Laurel couldn’t come, of course. As you must know, my eldest sister is nearing her confinement. She and Aidan are delighted.” She didn’t add that Ivy, too, was expecting.

“Most assuredly, but . . . what are you doing here?” She lifted her chin and widened her eyes. “Last I heard, you and Mr. Quincy were shut up in your laboratory at Cambridge, mixing potions and peering at mold.”

“Oh, yes, I’d nearly forgotten your family’s involvement in horseracing.” Oh dear, had she gone too far with such a bald-faced lie? Probably, but he would never contradict her, not openly. “In fact, you are a member of the Jockey Club, are you not? Were you inspecting the track?”

“I was.” That earlier shadow returned to veil his expression. “Unfortunately there have been a couple of small setbacks in the preparations.” A muscle in his cheek bounced. “I can only hope the Meeting will not be delayed.”

“Hardly your fault, Miss Sutherland.” And yet his eyes narrowed as if he were taking her measure. She decided it wouldn’t do to linger here any longer, with him scrutinizing her beneath the glaring sun.

But neither would it do to lose a heaven-sent opportunity. She glanced over his shoulder at the stands. “As long as I am this close, may I venture a peek?”

That seemed to rouse him from his wariness. “Where are my manners? Of course you may.” He offered his hand and helped her up onto the carriage seat.

“You do realize,” he said over the grind of the carriage wheels, “that the races don’t begin for another two weeks?” Did she hear another slight note of accusation? Before she could reply, his eyebrows gathered tightly. “Why providential?”

She blinked, well aware that for a redhead, her eyelashes were thick and dark and, when lowered, cast coy shadows over her cheeks. “Your nearly trouncing me to death? My sisters and I aren’t here only for the races. We wish to acquire a racehorse of our own. I thought perhaps you could assist us.”

“Yes, I know.” She held her bonnet against the breeze. “The Jockey Club has rules against women entering horses in the races. Then Simon will enter our horse. Surely that is allowed?”

“Of course Simon knows.” She released a chuckle to hide how much the question annoyed her. Was she a child that she needed a man’s permission before leaving home? “Why, Lord Drayton, you sound as if my sisters and I were acting on the sly.”

She paused to gauge his reaction to that, but he gave no hint to his thoughts. He faced straight ahead, his profile squarely set as he maneuvered the horses through the narrow gap between the stands. “I only meant that the purchase of a Thoroughbred entails a good deal of practical experience and knowledge. There is much to consider.”

“Indeed, Lord Drayton. But I happen to know a fair amount about horses in general, and surely you’ll be good enough to lend us the benefit of your expertise when it comes to Thoroughbreds in particular.”

She put light emphasis on that last word just to see if he would react, but if she had expected him to flinch or gasp or incriminate himself in any way, he disappointed her with his calm reply. “There are benefits to both. Generally, the sooner you wish to enter your horse in the races, the more experienced you’ll want him to be when you make your purchase.”

The phaeton lurched where gravel gave way to lawn. The wheels hissed through the grass, and the shadows between the buildings fell away as they emerged into the almost blinding dazzle of the Ascot Racecourse. The brightness wasn’t due simply to a lack of trees that might otherwise impede the sun, but to the fresh white paint coating the towering stands, the flash of daylight on expansive windows, and the track itself, bleached pale and reflecting the cloudless afternoon. Holly blinked rapidly, not in flirtation this time but to help her eyes adjust to the assault.

The track was longer and wider than she had expected, and the distance between the front and back straights much more extensive. She was used to paddocks and woodland trails where a horse might canter, but achieve a gallop for only short distances before the terrain forced a slower pace.

Here on this flat, smooth track that stretched beneath the expansive sky, she easily envisioned horses at a flat-out gallop, their ears laid back, nostrils flared, legs extending to their full reach while the ground streaked beneath them.

The mere thought set her heart pounding, and in her excitement she stood up on the footboard while the phaeton was still moving, her mind’s eye conjuring roaring spectators, thunderous hooves, tumultuous clouds of dust. . . .

Like an iron cuff, Lord Drayton’s hand wrapped around her forearm. With the other hand he drew back on the reins, and the phaeton rolled to a stop that could not have been any smoother considering the grass had just given way to the track. Holly nonetheless swayed precariously, only to be caught in Lord Drayton’s arms as he rose from the seat beside her.

The fragrance of his shaving soap inundated her senses; she leaned against his solid front and breathed him deep into her lungs. It wasn’t until the clamor of voices, hammering, and sawing penetrated the haze of her pleasure that she pulled away.

Oh, such a lie. No more than a few seconds could have passed, but in those seconds Holly discovered how easily and quickly her mission could veer out of her control.

Lord Drayton’s arms still hovered halfway around her, continuing to impart his heat though he no longer touched her. “Miss Sutherland, you shouldn’t go standing in moving carriages.”

His annoyance gave way to a grin, his mouth widening to expose even teeth and score his cheeks with intriguing lines, like dimples but longer, deeper. It was the first truly uninhibited smile she had ever seen on him—except for one other occasion, months ago.

“Ascot has that effect on people,” he said in a low, confiding tone that tripped the beat of her pulse. “Especially since the renovations. Ah, but wait till opening day.”

Something high above them, on the roof of the new grandstand, clanked and then banged, and Lord Drayton’s arms fell to his sides. But he continued to lean slightly over her, his grin in place, his eyes alight with an interest he’d never shown her before. “I knew you enjoyed riding, Miss Sutherland. Do you remember that morning we rode with Simon and Ivy?”

“Indeed I do, sir.” But it startled her that he did. He had never once referred to it, not in all the months following, and that he did now raised a joyful little chorus inside her. “I remember we left Simon and Ivy far behind.”

Careful. She mustn’t make him wonder why the subject had never come up before; he must believe her interest in the turf to be a recent development, as indeed it was.

“In truth, I am not such a race enthusiast—not yet. But I wish to be. It seems such an exciting diversion, especially now that our book emporium is being run by an employee—”

A young woman whose golden curls spilled from her bonnet came strolling out the wide double doors of the grandstand. Two gentlemen in top hats followed, trailed by a gangly, towheaded youth who scuffed his feet sullenly. All four crossed the terrace and came down the steps to gather beside the track.

Holly immediately recognized both the blonde and the youth as Lord Drayton’s sister, Lady Sabrina, and his brother, Lord Geoffrey, who presently scrutinized her from beneath an untidy forelock. Lord Drayton and his younger siblings, including another brother, Lord Bryce, had attended Simon and Ivy’s wedding last autumn. She had never met the two men in top hats, the older one plump and round-faced and the young one leaner though rather pear-shaped.

Before Lord Drayton could reply to his sister, her gaze lighted on Holly. “Miss Sutherland?” She shaded her eyes with her hand. “Miss Holly Sutherland, can that be you? Why, how splendid to see you!”

Her striped skirts billowed as she hurried to the phaeton. Lord Drayton assisted Holly down, and though she prepared to dip a curtsy, the next thing she knew, she’d been captured in Sabrina Ashworth’s enthusiastic embrace.

The young woman’s zeal took Holly aback. While the Ashworths had seemed to accept Ivy, now a marchioness, into their aristocratic set, upon their first meeting Sabrina Ashworth had spared precious few words for either Holly or Willow.

Holly had forgotten about the state of her walking dress, smudged with dirt here, stained from the flower petals there. Looking down, she spied a small tear near her knee.

“Then how do you account for this?” Her hand shot out, encompassing Holly’s tousled state. “Poor Miss Sutherland, narrowly escaping death. And I am to be condemned as a reckless driver? The pot and the kettle, Colin, the pot and the kettle.” She slipped an arm around Holly’s shoulders. “What a fright you must have suffered.”

But Lady Sabrina suddenly tired of the subject, or so it seemed, since she changed quickly to another. “Have you come to see the improvements to the racecourse?”

“Never? Then I shall enlighten you.” Lady Sabrina linked her arm through Holly’s and walked with her back to the steps she and the others had just descended. “We’ll begin with the new grandstand. We may only proceed to the second story, mind you, since the work is not completed above, but . . .”

Colin watched his sister sweep Miss Sutherland away, unsure if he should be annoyed or relieved. Surely now, with distance between them, his pulse would ease back down to its normal pace.

Not that he believed for a moment that his sister played the accommodating hostess out of purely unselfish reasons, or that she had developed a sudden admiration for Miss Sutherland. Sabrina was toying with him, no doubt devising ways she might use Miss Sutherland to strike back at him for his failure to intervene when their father withheld his permission for her to marry Frederick Cates.

His gut tightened at the thought of her dashed hopes. He supposed he should have come home sooner, instead of lingering in Cambridge, hoping for a breakthrough in his experiments. Then again, if Cates had had any true feelings for Sabrina, he would have shown some patience rather than proposing so readily to another woman. Colin found the man’s behavior all too telling . . . but Sabrina wouldn’t see it that way. Not yet, while she was still hurting.

Instead, she seemed intent on pressing her advantage with information Colin had months ago predicted he would have cause to regret. At Ivy and Simon’s wedding, his astute sister had quietly studied him, noting his every movement and expression, until, satisfied she had guessed the truth, she had confronted him with a shrewd smirk.

It had been the red hair that had first caught his notice. He had always loved thick, fiery curls, and Miss Sutherland possessed those in abundance. He’d never forget that morning soon after the wedding when he, Simon, Ivy, and Miss Sutherland had gone out riding together at Simon’s Cambridge estate. Miss Sutherland’s cap had gone flying off and her hair had tumbled down her back. . . .

Whether she’d noticed or not, she’d kept riding, urging her mount faster until she had opened a substantial distance between herself and the others. Worried for her safety and leaving Simon and Ivy behind, Colin had spurred his mount to catch up, only to discover her completely in control and barely winded from her gallop. When they’d finally stopped beside the river to rest the horses, she’d turned to him with laughter spilling from her generous lips, joy glittering in her verdant eyes, and her wind-tossed curls dancing like flames about her rosy cheeks.

To this day he didn’t know if it had been the red hair, the laughter, or the realization that here was a woman unafraid to express her delight. What a refreshing departure from the icy debutants the society matrons forever tossed in his path, prudish young women who wanted him for his future title and fortune and little else.

That day, he had discovered countless tiny details about Miss Sutherland that he liked—liked exceedingly well. But that hadn’t stopped a single, formidable obstacle from standing between them.

He was the Duke of Masterfield’s son, and from an early age he’d known it was his duty to marry an heiress, a woman who would bring land and further wealth to augment the Ashworth holdings.

More important to Colin, he was Thaddeus Ashworth’s son. He bore a scar or two to prove it, and there was no way in hell he’d ever bring an innocent, ingenuous woman like Holly Sutherland within arm’s length of a man like his father.