Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)
Patricia Rice
Chapter 1
Honora Hoyt stood on her boot toes on a low stone wall to see the race track above the heads of the Marquess of Belden’s elegant party. When a tipsy Lord Harrow stepped in front of her as if she did not exist, she accidentally on purpose toppled his ridiculously tall top hat with her heavy umbrella. The day had turned out quite warm and bright, and she’d regretted the accessory until now.
“Oops, so sorry,” she murmured, catching the fallen chapeau. “I’ll hold it for you, shall I?” Relentlessly, she tucked the curly-brimmed beaver behind the back of her fur-trimmed pelisse, where he couldn’t reach without a tussle. A gentleman did not tussle with Lord Belden’s very proper niece.
The fat toad glared, but the horses were starting to line up on the grassy track, and he returned his attention to the betting. The Christmas festival hadn’t been part of their original schedule, but the bored aristocrats in Belden’s party had been delighted to join in the local celebrations, and even more delighted that it involved horse racing as well as trading.
A city girl this past decade or more, Honora had little interest in rural pastimes and would have preferred a warm fire and a good book. The scent of mince pies and warm mulled cider, however, along with the fiddlers playing in the distance, added a lovely cheer to the day. Although it appeared many of the locals, as well as the gentlemen, were sipping a more potent brew than cider.
She stood on her toes again as a gunshot signaled the horses had broken from the starting line. She’d heard Harrow make a large wager on the favorite, and spitefully, she hoped he lost. Sometimes, her uncle’s business associates were quite tiresome.
Harrow roared in dismay, along with the rest of the drunken crowd, as a small bay mare broke ahead of the pack, eating up the muddy turf with impossibly powerful strides.
“The jockey is a woman,” Honora exclaimed in wonder, to no one in particular. It wasn’t as if anyone in the noble party had an interest in listening to a twenty-seven-year-old spinster of unimposing stature and no prospects.
But the fact that she was normally of quiet nature caused her uncle, Harrow, and a few others to study the bay’s rider closer. Harrow cursed most volubly. The favorite, a stallion, was falling behind.
Honora was oddly pleased that the horse in the lead had a woman rider. Generally, she didn’t approve of breaks in tradition, but generally, she didn’t attend horse races either. She was simply surprised at seeing a woman in breeches. Perhaps female jockeys were common, and she hadn’t known it. She knew London society would censure the disgrace, but this was rural Ireland, a different culture entirely, one that had only just emerged from violent rebellion. As long as she was living dangerously, she might as well enjoy the decadently entertaining sight.
As she strained to watch the horses approaching, she noted a gentleman farther down the wall, wearing a rather festive green tweed coat. He lifted his rakish cap hat at her, but he didn’t stand up to follow the race as others had. Instead, he kept people from blocking his view by the simple expedient of swinging a walking stick the size of a small cudgel in front of him. She could swear he winked at her before returning his attention to the race. Oddly, her pulse beat a little faster. Did she know him?
“Damme if I lose to a woman!” Harrow roared as the horses galloped toward the finish line where Belden’s party stood.
Before Honoria understood what he meant to do, the drunken gentleman snatched a loose stone from the wall and flung it at the pretty mare racing ahead of the pack.
The horse shied. The crowd gasped. The jockey held tight, but it was too late. Off-stride, the mare’s hoof hit one of the mud holes in the turf track. The horse fell, and Honora screamed as the jockey flew over her mount’s head.
Men rushed to grab the mare. The rest of the race continued without it. Oblivious to the mayhem he’d caused, Harrow hollered his satisfaction as the stallion crossed the line to win by a nose.
Wanting to weep, Honora considered beating the wretch over the head with his own hat, but her uncle would disapprove. She respected the marquess far too much to behave in a wayward fashion. Instead, she flung Harrow’s expensive beaver in the mud, and with furious satisfaction, used it as a stepping stone to leap from her perch. Picking her way toward the fallen jockey, she left the hat to be trampled by Belden’s party as they pushed past her. As usual, she was left behind.
“May I?” The gentleman with the cudgel held up his elbow to assist. He leaned heavily on his stick, and his demeanor was grim as she accepted the offer of his arm.
“You saw what he did?” she whispered in horror. And then, the stick and the thick golden-brown hair spilling from beneath his cap registered. “Mr. Burke! Oh dear, we’re a pretty pair again.”
There had been a time. . . when she had been so very green, clenching her cup of ratafia and fighting back tears in some fading ballroom. Tall gentlemen in their colorful frock coats and embroidered vests had passed by her without acknowledging her existence, bowing to the smiling, slender, graceful young ladies who swung gaily through the lively dances. Honora had tripped over her own feet the last time anyone had taken pity on her and asked for a dance.
She’d been absurdly, almost tearfully grateful when a young gentleman in an out-of-fashion coat limped up to ask, “May I?” gesturing at the seat beside her.