Recklessly Yours

Holly stood at the front window of their suite, holding the curtain aside and peering down. Yesterday, her visit to the Ascot Racecourse had yielded a prize: an invitation, for her and her sisters, to Masterfield Park, the Ashworths’ nearby estate and stud farm. The invitation had come from Lady Sabrina, and while her brother had readily echoed his sister’s sentiments that the Sutherlands must come on the morrow, a reservation had darkened his bright eyes.

“One more moment,” came Ivy’s delayed and distracted reply from the other room. With a sudden concern, Holly hurried into her bedchamber, where Ivy sat hunched at the dressing table.

Ivy shook her head. The quill she held made scratching noises on the paper in front of her. “I’m just finishing a letter to Simon so I can get it in this morning’s post.”

Willow’s giggle carried from the sitting room. “That she loves him! But do hurry, Ivy. The invitation is for ten o’clock, and it would be rude to keep the Ashworths waiting. We must maintain the best of relations with them if we are to benefit from their Ascot connections.”

Holly couldn’t deny the advantage of being on good terms with the Ashworths. Through them, she and her sisters would have access to virtually all of racing society gathering daily in Ascot for the upcoming races. Neither she nor her sisters quite believed that Colin Ashworth had stolen the queen’s colt, but unless Victoria was mistaken that Prince’s Pride had not yet been taken from the area, the Ashworths would provide the best opportunities to discover the animal’s whereabouts.

Holly didn’t mean to read her sister’s private thoughts from around her shoulder, but words such as have a care, do nothing rash, and wait for my return leaped off the page at her. She laid her hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “You’re frightening me a little, Ivy-divey.”

“As if I could ever forget anything remotely related to the stone or to the events of last autumn. Why, it’s a wonder you are sitting here talking to me at all.”

“Victoria sent it to him—with Albert’s blessing—as a reward for all he suffered in helping recover the stone. She is allowing him to continue his experimentation with its electromagnetic properties and . . .” She trailed off. Setting down her quill, she turned in her chair and gripped Holly’s hands. “I’m so afraid he’ll blow himself up. He’s so impetuous. So damnably enthusiastic when it comes to scientific advancement. And without me to temper that enthusiasm . . .”

“Ivy, dearest, Simon may be a bit rash at times, but he’s also brilliant. And if you ask me, he learned some valuable lessons last fall that he won’t soon forget. Besides”—Holly smiled at her—“he has more reason now than ever to be careful.”

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” They both glanced at her belly, as yet revealing no indication of the precious secret within. Ivy blinked rapidly and gave a suspicious little sniffle.

“I need you for this mission. Victoria and I both need you here, and as more than a chaperone. Colin Ashworth . . . Oh, how do I put this? He is far more forthcoming with you, and with Willow, too, than he’ll ever be with me.”

“I can’t think why you say that. Surely you don’t believe Victoria’s suspicions concerning Colin could be true. Do you? I know him to be the most sincere and honorable of men.”

Holly didn’t know how to reply, but Willow saved her from having to by appearing in the doorway. “Ivy and Holly Sutherland, how are we to ever find Victoria’s elusive colt if you two idle away the entire day?”

Some fifteen minutes later, Holly gazed out the carriage window at the gently rolling vista of Masterfield Park. The property was all she might have expected of a duke’s estate, and perhaps more. The house was sprawling but graceful in its proportions, with an ingenious seaming of older architecture with modern additions, so that if Ivy, who had visited here before, hadn’t pointed them out, Holly would never have noticed.

But it was the Ashworth stud—the stables, pastures, paddocks—that left her awestruck. She had believed the stables owned by her brothers-in-law to be extensive and well appointed. But even from this distant view, she realized these would dwarf those other stables, as well as outshine them in their design.

As the carriage approached the wide front steps of the house, Lady Sabrina, elegant in a riding habit of deep blue serge trimmed in dark plaid, came down to greet them. “Everyone is already down at the stud. The races are to begin shortly.”

“Didn’t you know?” Lady Sabrina leaned around Holly and Willow to regard Ivy at the opposite end of the seat. “It was winter when you visited, Lady Harrow, so I don’t suppose there was any reason for my brother to show you the racecourse he installed last year.”

Holly surveyed the riding attire that emphasized Lady Sabrina’s trim figure and brought out the vividness of the blue eyes and blond hair that were so like her brother’s. “Do you intend to race this morning?”

She emitted a burst of ironic laughter. “If I thought my brother would tolerate it, certainly. But no, my role is relegated to putting a couple of the fillies and colts through their paces, to show off their potential as hunters. Not all of our Thoroughbreds are destined for the racetrack.”

Holly was surprised Colin Ashworth tolerated his sister even in this role, for it did, after all, amount to putting her on display before their guests. Not all men were as open-minded as her sisters’ husbands, willing to admit that women were capable of achieving skills equal to those of men. Judging from the sardonic look on Lady Sabrina’s face, her brother had probably deemed this a necessary compromise to prevent her from attempting something even rasher.

Circling the house, the driver followed a gravel lane that skirted formal gardens and continued for about half a mile. The Ashworth holdings were considerable and impressive. Willow apparently thought so, too, for she continually craned her neck as Lady Sabrina pointed out sites of particular interest.

The lane ended in a circular forecourt enclosed by three expansive buildings of whitewashed stone with slate roofs. Corinthian columns, carved embellishments, and beveled, diamond-paned windows put each structure on a par with the manor house itself. A host of carriages lined the pavement, attended by teams of drivers and footmen, some busily attending the vehicles, others lounging and chatting.

“And these are our stables,” Lady Sabrina said unnecessarily. She pointed far to the right. “Over there is the carriage house. Before us are the stables proper, with our personal horses to one side, and racehorses to the other. To the left is the veterinary annex.”

The carriage stopped and she hopped out without waiting to be assisted. “I hope you aren’t opposed to walking. The racecourse is through there, past the paddocks and just down a little ways.”

The main stables comprised two wings that straddled a wide archway. They passed through the arch, the air redolent of hay and horses. On either side, double doors stood open, revealing wide aisles that disappeared into shadowed interiors. Holly glimpsed stable hands walking up and down, their arms filled with equipment. She longed to detour down one of those aisles and see what equine treasures they contained—a longing born from both her own desires and her duty to Victoria.

They emerged back into brilliant sunlight amid a patchwork of neatly fenced paddocks where grooms were walking a dozen or so horses. Far beyond, on the pastureland surrounding Masterfield Park, mares and tiny foals grazed and played in the morning sun. Closer, at the base of the enclosures, an assembly of some one hundred people milled about, a moving mosaic of top hats, parasols, and bright, beribboned bonnets. Some sat in chairs placed along a split-rail fence; others strolled through the grass or helped themselves to refreshments beneath the shade of a wide elm tree.

“Lord and Lady Wiltshire, may I present the Sutherland sisters: Lady Harrow, Miss Holly Sutherland, and Miss Willow Sutherland. Ah, Lord Beecham, this is . . .” Lady Sabrina made the introductions as they proceeded through the crowd.

In every instance they were met with outward civility, but Holly perceived an underlying curiosity that made her and her sisters objects of scrutiny. Who were these newcomers to the racing scene? many of those inquiring looks asked. Did these green chits know what they were about? Would they be properly guided by their menfolk? And would they pose any true challenge to the status quo and thus upset the well-established equilibrium of the turf?

“Pay sharp attention to everyone you converse with and jot down notes as soon as you can,” Holly reminded them. “You did both remember to bring notepaper and pencils?”

“Too late for that,” Holly pointed out. She passed a gaze over the crowd, raising a hand to wave at familiar faces. “We must use our present notoriety to our advantage.”

Holly whirled about. Colin Ashworth stood just behind her, his expression both quizzical and amused. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? She quickly recounted all she and her sisters had said. “I—I was speaking in general terms . . . about—about racing,” she stammered, hoping her pounding heart wasn’t just then sending a revealing blush to her cheeks.

It didn’t help that he wore a riding coat of rich brown velvet that made his hair flash brighter gold and his eyes darken to cobalt, or that those eyes crinkled as he flashed a devastating smile. “Were you, indeed?”

Something in those wide eyes of hers raised a suspicion that Colin had interrupted a conversation not meant to be overheard. While her sisters smiled at him, Holly Sutherland blinked up at him as she seemed to gather her composure and prepare to . . .

To what? Unless he was greatly mistaken, she had flirted with him yesterday at the track, employing those thick lashes and that single dimple in her right cheek as persuasively as a highwayman employs his blunderbuss. Except instead of valuables, the item in danger of being stolen was Colin’s heart.

The darker-haired Ivy stepped forward and grasped his wrists. With the privilege of a best friend’s wife, she kissed his cheeks and then stepped back without releasing him. “Colin, you scoundrel! Do stop teasing my sister, won’t you?”

From over her shoulder he watched Holly blow out a little breath; the stain faded from her cheeks. Surely her flirting had been nothing more than an effort to procure an invitation here today. She had spoken rightly a moment ago; if she and her sisters wished to learn about racing and Thoroughbreds, they would certainly achieve that goal at Masterfield Park. But that notion left a pertinent question bandying about his brain.

He took Ivy’s hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Why didn’t you write to me and let me know you were coming to Ascot? Surely you knew I’d have replied immediately with an invitation to stay here at the Park.”

“Oh, we didn’t wish to inconvenience you and—” She paused, her bottom lip easing between her teeth. “And our decision to come was rather sudden. I had been feeling under the weather previously and—”

He turned to Willow then, waiting silently beside Holly, and reached for her hand. “I hope you, too, are well, Miss Willow. Are you still dabbling in watercolors?”

“Good. Then perhaps you shall not ask me to sit again. I am afraid I made the most capricious of subjects last time. My portrait could not have turned out well.”

Why was it so easy with her? Though as unmarried as her older sister, he could hold her small, warm hand in his own and feel nothing but an acceptable brotherly affection.

They moved off, and Colin wondered if it had been his imagination that Ivy had tugged her younger sister away, purposely leaving him standing alone with Holly. He caught her staring at him with a perplexed expression, as if she couldn’t quite make up her mind about something. An instant too late she lowered her lashes and flicked her glance away.

“Sabrina told us there are to be races today,” she said overbrightly, turning her face toward the racecourse, where the grooms were tending the waiting horses.

“Ah.” He offered her his arm, and she slipped her fingers lightly into the crook of his elbow. Strolling with her toward the track, he said casually, “And yet you were able to procure lodgings in the village.”

“I mean, Miss Sutherland, that reservations for the Royal Meeting are made months in advance. I am astonished that the Robson could accommodate you on such short notice.”

“Perhaps.” Why did he have the distinct impression—a slight prickle at his nape, really—that there was more to the sudden appearance of the Sutherland sisters than they were willing to say?

They reached the fence bordering the racetrack and stood side by side, watching the grooms on the other side make a last check of the bridles and girths. Her subtle perfume drifted to his nose, making him forget what they’d been discussing. She didn’t smell flowery as most women did, but spicy, almost peppery. Did he detect a hint of cinnamon ? He breathed the scent in, turning his head a little toward her, and was very nearly tempted to bury his nose in her hair.

“Lord Drayton—” Her hand closed over the rail in front of her, and even through her glove he could see her fingers straining. “As Ivy herself said, she is quite well. A woman doesn’t suddenly become breakable simply because she is . . .” She darted a furtive gaze around her, then whispered, “And if you would only stop mentioning it, no one need be the wiser.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then relented with a quirk of a smile. “There is no need. I thank you for your concern for my sister. And after all, you were kind enough to invite us here today. What kind of guest would I be to reprimand my host?” She unclenched a hand from around the railing to gesture to the horses, now being led to the starting line. “Which among them is favored to win?”

“My own.” He raised his arm to point, and as she leaned closer to follow the line of his outstretched finger, he was again pleasantly assaulted by a waft of her fragrance. “The tall one in the middle. His name is Cordelier. In fact, I should be taking my place right about now.”

“Not very.” Her head tilted in disbelief, and apprehension flitted across her face. Was she worried for him? Or were her concerns directed toward the horses? “This track is too small to allow the sort of speed achieved at courses like the Ascot. It’s merely a demonstration track, designed to show off the potential of the Thoroughbreds for sale.”

“And should you see anything you like,” he murmured, leaning close enough to see the faint freckles sprinkling her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, “you’ll be sure to let me know. Won’t you?”

Her eyes widened and he stared down into them, drawn by the tiny specks of gold like a pirate to secret treasure. Oh, wouldn’t he like to plunder lovely Miss Sutherland. To take her in his arms and claim first her sumptuous lips and then the rest of her glorious body hidden beneath the folds of her clothing. He imagined that, as proficient a rider as she was, she must have the sculpted thighs and hips of a goddess. . . .

She was speaking to him, wishing him luck, bidding him to have a care. He straightened, managed a word of thanks, and strode off, giving himself another shake that did little to clear away the haze that had settled over his senses.

Holly stood gripping the rail, looking about for Willow and Ivy. Colin Ashworth suspected . . . something. Or at least he did before she managed to distract him away from the fact that their story didn’t quite add up. She needed to warn her sisters.

She spotted them through the crowd, speaking to Mr. Charles and Lady Elizabeth Dalton. For a moment she considered going to them and drawing them away, but she remembered that last year Mr. Dalton, a renowned London barrister, had achieved sweeping victories at the Ascot, Newmarket, and Epsom races. The man knew everything and everyone connected with the turf. Better she let Ivy and Willow continue their conversation.

Besides inquiring into the attributes of racehorses in general, they planned to prompt horse owners to expound on their latest acquisitions and their prospects of raising a future champion. Would the thief, through pride and believing he’d gotten away with his crime, say something to give himself away? Holly hoped so. She hoped someone—anyone—here would slip up, as long as it wasn’t—

She turned her attention back to the racetrack. Footsteps crunched as a man and woman picked their way down the track to where a finishing post had been erected on the swale beside the outermost edge of the course. Holly nearly raised a hand to wave at the woman. Tall and trim, she moved with a familiar stride that held both a dancer’s grace and a nimble, almost impatient quickness. That, and the curls flashing golden in the sun from beneath a feathered hunt cap, had tricked Holly into believing for an instant that it was Lady Sabrina proceeding down the track. Further scrutiny revealed a gray tarnish to those curls, and a waistline that, though still slender, showed the thickening that comes to women of later years.

“That’s the duchess,” said a woman in a tall, flowered bonnet who had drifted beside Holly. Holly nodded. The Duke and Duchess of Masterfield had not attended Ivy’s wedding, but she would have known the woman anywhere because of her striking resemblance to her daughter. “The gentleman with her is Her Grace’s brother, Lord Shelby,” her neighbor added.

The duchess carried a bright red flag that fluttered gaily at her side. Two chairs sat directly beside the post, and after stomping bits of turf from their boots, the pair, talking and laughing, took their seats.

“Who?” As Holly waited for Willow’s answer, she continued studying the track. The curves were wide and generous, the straights smooth and level. As Lord Drayton had indicated, this was a demonstration course, not one to set rider or animal at risk.

Willow’s urgent whisper sent Holly’s glance sidewise through the crowd. The second-oldest Ashworth sibling stood at the edge of the elm tree’s shadow, managing to appear solitary despite being surrounded by people. Even among his family, Bryce Ashworth stood out as different, his hair a darker shade of blond, his features too blunt to be called handsome, and his gaze too piercing to be considered affable.

When Holly had met him at the wedding, something about his somber manner had captured her interest, even her sympathy—although why she couldn’t quite say. She pondered Willow’s reaction to the man. “Do you have a reason to dislike the fellow? Has he offended you?”

“Willow, you are being unkind.” Ivy clucked her tongue in admonishment. “The scars on his hands are the result of a boyhood accident. And while I’ll admit his is a severe countenance, I’m certain he means no harm to anyone. Least of all to you.”

The comment filled Holly with perplexity. Just the fact that Willow thought of him as Colin, not Lord Drayton, spoke of how differently he behaved with her than with Holly. Except for those rare moments when he let down his guard, as he had seemed to very briefly, moments ago.

A note on a horn stifled conversations and sent the spectators vying for places along the fence. A gate opened and six men entered the course, all in knee-high boots, lambskin breeches, and smartly tailored riding coats.

He was among them, standing nearly a head above the rest. He went to the side of the horse he had pointed out to her—Cordelier—a magnificent bay with dramatic ebony points, not like those that had pulled his phaeton yesterday, but taller, sleeker, and with the distinctive Ashworth star above his eyes. Like the colt Holly had seen in Victoria’s mews, except that this horse was clearly more mature and more powerful about the flanks and shoulders.

Nimbly Lord Drayton set his foot in the stirrup, his thigh muscles rippling beneath his form-fitting breeches, and with no visible effort he swung up into the saddle. Holly had been used to Colin Ashworth the scholar and scientist, an observant man attuned to the minutest of details. As she watched him now from a distance, he became, not the scientist, or the acquaintance who perplexed her, but a figure that commanded attention, that exuded power and confidence. For the first time she found herself glimpsing the essence of the man and all his finer qualities—his breeding, his nobility, his authority. It was none of it blatant, but implied in the relaxed set of his shoulders, each deft flick of his hand, each calm word he spoke to his horse.

Gripping the rail, she leaned out, absorbed in the potency of his nobleman’s profile—the intelligent brow, the determined nose, the square and obdurate chin.

Ivy’s warning brought her back to her senses. She blinked, and was taken aback to recognize another of the riders, just now approaching the mount that stood beside the earl’s.

Willow shaded her eyes with her hand. “I believe it is. Why, I wouldn’t have thought it. He was so retiring when we met him last autumn. I’d think him too timid for racing.”

Lady Sabrina strode through the gate and stood on the swale a few feet beyond the horses. How splendid she looked, as confident and commanding as her eldest brother, with her bright curls tamed at her nape and her feathered cap tipped to a rakish angle. The breeze gently flapped the neat little tails of her riding jacket and filled her skirts, affording fleeting glimpses of red-trimmed boots.

She raised a blue flag over her head. Taut energy rippled through the air. The crowd stilled. The horses stood frozen but for the eager quivering of their flanks. Holly held her breath, excitement building inside her. On either side of her, Ivy and Willow stood at rigid attention. A whistle blew, and Lady Sabrina snapped the flag down to her side.

The horses thundered past, the noise and the momentum stealing Holly’s breath. She forgot all else as the race absorbed the whole of her attention. The line of Thoroughbreds spanned the track until they reached the far corner. Then they stretched out into a single-file line, all vying for the innermost position.

They came around, passing Holly and her sisters again in a blur. She leaned forward and tried to make out Lord Drayton among the knot of riders, then saw his hair flash gold in a shaft of sunlight. Around her, people waved hands in the air and cheered their favorites on; caught up in the enthusiasm, she found herself calling out Lord Drayton’s name, and that of his stallion.

They rounded the far curve again, and as they neared the straight Lord Drayton edged his horse to the outside and began putting several horse lengths between him and the other riders. But then another came on close behind him, then alongside. The horses’ flanks brushed, and even from here she saw Lord Drayton’s triumphant grin fade beneath a sudden apprehension.

Holly’s knuckles whitened against the rail, her nails digging into the wood. Willow pressed against her side. Ivy’s lips moved stiffly in urgent, silent prayer.

As they pounded into the eastern curve, Colin tightened his knees, pulled back slightly on the reins, and pressed one heel snug against Cordelier’s flank. The stallion slowed almost imperceptibly, but enough. At the same time, Cordelier eased to the right, giving Geoff and his mount enough room to make it around the bend without both horses’ legs tangling. Colin held his breath and kept firm, trusting Cordelier to keep his pace even.

From the corner of his eyes he saw Geoffrey blow out a breath of relief, the fear in his eyes fading. It had been close. But it hadn’t been all Geoff’s fault, not entirely.

As they’d come down the front straight for the second time, Colin had spotted Holly Sutherland, a blur of red curls framing her face, her impossibly green eyes pinned on him as if to guide his every move, as if she alone could deliver him unharmed to the finishing post. He’d even heard her shouting his name.

Damn it, he knew better than to allow a distraction from the crowd to break his concentration. He held his gaze directly in front of him now as he gave Cordelier his head and let the stallion glide past the finishing post. His mother and uncle dropped their flags, proclaiming him the winner. Only then did he glance over his shoulder to see Geoffrey coming several paces behind him to take second. The rest of the pack swiftly followed.

Slowing to a walk, Colin rode Cordelier around the track once more, then dismounted and handed him off to a groom. His guests spilled through the gates, their shouted congratulations humming in his ears. He waited for Geoffrey to climb down from his mare and strode to his brother’s side.

“Good race, though. You did well. I’m proud of the work you’ve done with that horse. She’s bound to have a distinguished career on the turf.”

The boy scowled. “You don’t need to dip it in honey. God, I hate it when you do that.” He pivoted and strode off, and soon disappeared among the laughing, delighted spectators.

“He doesn’t like it when you make excuses for him,” a voice said at his shoulder. He turned to see Sabrina smiling shrewdly up at him, the feather in her velvet cap shivering in the breeze.

“You see,” she interrupted, “he doesn’t realize that if your horses had collided, the fault would have been yours as much as his. Perhaps more so.”

Before Colin could react, she placed a hand on his upper arm and leaned closer to whisper, “I watched you as you came out of the east curve. Something in the crowd caught your attention, or you would have anticipated Geoff’s move as the most logical response to your sprint for the lead.” She leaned away, a teasing smile bringing beauty to an angular face that often appeared too sharp. “I wonder what that something was. Or whom?”

The smile in place, she sauntered off, gathering a circle of guests around her as she led the way to the refreshment tables. Stuart Bentley was among them, and offered Sabrina his arm.

Colin felt as though a fist were pressing on his breastbone. His sister was right, on both counts. Geoff couldn’t stomach excuses, or compliments for that matter, because in his short life he’d been afforded so few of either. Their father didn’t believe in indulging his children or encouraging them with praise . . . or forgiving their faults.

“Geoffrey, surely you aren’t going to take that from your sister, a mere girl? Never mind that she can outride you, outrun you, and outsmart you.”

“Geoffrey, don’t you wish to prove to your brothers that you are no less capable for being so much younger? Unless, of course, you are less capable.”

“Geoffrey, everyone knows you’re powerless to stand up to your siblings, but must you always make such a mewling, cowardly display of your disappointments?”

Thaddeus had Geoffrey convinced he’d never measure up to what a duke’s son should be—whatever the blazes that was. How to undo the damage? How to persuade a young man of his worth, when his own father professed to find nothing of value in him?

The track had all but cleared. Colin’s mother and Sabrina, with Bentley close at their heels, were urging their guests to fill their plates and enjoy countless cups of punch. He noticed Bentley try to offer Sabrina a cup he had filled for her, but either she didn’t notice or she ignored the gesture as she gathered acquaintances around her. Bentley poured the contents into the grass, handed the cup to a passing servant, and dragged his heels as he strolled away. Colin couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him, but if Bentley had only asked, Colin would have told him that Sabrina was far from ready to settle her affections on a new suitor, especially on one more than a dozen years her senior.

When Colin exited through the gate, he was surprised to find all three Sutherlands waiting for him on the lawn. Ivy gave him a quick hug and proclaimed her relief that both he and Geoffrey had emerged unscathed. Miss Willow congratulated him on his win, but she seemed preoccupied, her gaze darting to the elm tree. She nudged Ivy.

The pair walked off, leaving Colin alone with Holly for a second time. Her eyes flickered—with unease? Shyness? A warning prickled his nape. His preoccupation with this woman had nearly resulted in a racecourse calamity.

“I’ll go along in a moment. Thank you. It’s just that . . . for having won the race, you don’t look at all happy, Lord Drayton. And I wondered . . .”

“That is, I believe this to be one of the subtleties of racing I have yet to understand. How is it your horses failed to maintain a proper distance between them?”

The same way he couldn’t seem to keep a proper distance from her. Aloud he said, “They take their cues from their riders. As soon as I realized the danger, I signaled for Cordelier to ease away.”

She laid her hand on his triceps and together they walked toward the company milling beneath the elm. “Your rapport is remarkable. I assume you must have begun training him at a very early age, to establish such a strong bond.”

She stopped suddenly and swung about to face him with a beaming smile. “You’ve quite convinced me, then. My sisters and I must have a colt. Oh, not one fresh from its mother’s side, but young and malleable enough to be hand-raised as a champion.”

At those words, he gave an inner flinch. What could Miss Sutherland know about extraordinary colts? Without stopping to consider the consequences, he reached out and grasped her chin, tilting her face to his.