Beauty in Breeches(6)

‘Win?’ His lips curved in mockery. ‘Do you seriously think you can beat me?’

‘I stand as good a chance as anyone else.’

‘I see. Then the answer is, no, I do not have an aversion to a race between us.’

Common sense told Julius not to encourage her, and yet, confronted by her challenge, he was intrigued and was unable to resist the temptation. He was compelled to take her on, merely to see how well she could ride. He stared at her profile as she turned her head slightly, tracing with his gaze the beautiful lines of her face, the curved brush of her lustrous dark eyelashes. Yes, Miss Fanshaw was quite extraordinarily lovely. She had an untamed quality running in dangerous undercurrents just below the surface and a wild freedom of spirit that found its counterpart in his own hot-blooded, temperamental nature.

‘The place and the distance will be of your choosing and we shall meet at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He turned to George. ‘Arrange it, will you, George? Who will you place your bets on?’

George laughed. ‘Now there’s a challenge in itself. Were it anyone else, Julius, I would certainly back you, but be warned. My cousin has a special affinity with the equine species, preferring them to people. She would rather throw a saddle over a horse than attend a ball. She’ll do anything for a dare and is a demon on a horse. Her own is no dainty mare, but a brute of an animal—a gelding. On such an impressive mount she stands to win.’

Beatrice threw Lord Chadwick a challenging look. ‘Perhaps Lord Chadwick considers it most improper for a young lady to ride a gelding.’

An eyebrow jutted upwards. ‘Young lady? My dear Miss Fanshaw, you are the most controversial and exciting woman I have ever met in my life; I suspect that your vitality is such that you are a menace to everyone you meet. It does not surprise me in the least that you ride a gelding.’ A roguish grin tugged at his lips. ‘If you told me you rode an elephant, I would believe you. As it is I shall take my chance.’

The wager had attracted a good deal of attention and others began to place their bets.

‘I’ll back you, Chadwick,’ someone shouted. ‘Fifty guineas you win.’

Julius turned and grinned as interest in the race began to mount. ‘See what is happening, Miss Fanshaw. You have fallen among desperate gamblers.’

‘I already knew that before I accepted your challenge,’ she uttered, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. He gave her a cold look, but chose not to comment on her provocative remark.

‘Seventy-five guineas,’ another voice shouted.

‘A hundred.’

‘My diamond necklace,’ a lady from the back of the crowd piped up.

And so it went on until the stakes reached heady proportions. But neither participant was listening as they continued to watch each other warily. Beatrice’s gaze was ensnared by the glittering sheen of the amber eyes.

‘And us, Miss Fanshaw?’ Julius murmured. ‘What will we forfeit?’

There was a deathly hush. From beneath the gazebo Lady Standish watched what was happening in appalled, stony silence, unable to believe her niece’s shocking behaviour. The look in her eyes was as potent as a spoken curse.

‘I say the winner names the forfeit,’ Beatrice suggested.

Julius nodded. ‘I think you have planned this, Miss Fanshaw.’

Beatrice raised her chin a notch. ‘You don’t have to agree to race against me, Lord Chadwick. Indeed, I don’t know why I entertained such a notion.’

He looked at her directly and she felt her breath come a little short. ‘Oh, I think you do,’ he said quietly. ‘I think you know exactly what you want and you will stop at nothing to get it. I read people well, Miss Fanshaw, and I think you have the ability to be absolutely single minded. You know very well why you entertained this notion.’

Her smile was one of thin sarcasm. ‘You do a lot of thinking, Lord Chadwick.’

‘All the time.’

‘If I am as you say, then indirectly it is your doing.’

‘I am sorry to find that after all these years you still carry a grudge. And now all I need to do is discover what forfeit you will ask of me, and the only way I can do that is to race against you—unless you will indulge me and tell me now.’

She tossed her head haughtily. To forgo propriety and do what one wished was quite liberating. ‘No, not before the end of the race.’

‘Very well. Until after the race.’

There were loud guffaws from the crowd. ‘Careful, Julius,’ Roderick Caruthers shouted. ‘Be careful what you commit yourself to. You are a gentleman, remember, and gentlemen never renege on their word.’

He grinned. ‘I’d better win, then.’

‘And should I win, you will give me your word to honour the forfeit?’ Beatrice asked, holding his gaze. ‘I do.’

Her expression was innocent, but her eyes were hard to read. She raised her brows slightly, and said, ‘I intend to hold you to that.’

‘So the wager is made—but your forfeit? I think I have guessed, which wasn’t too difficult considering the circumstances. Though it is immaterial since you cannot win.’ Julius’s grin broadened and he looked at her knowingly, holding up one hand. ‘Don’t tell me. Larkhill.’

Beatrice gave him a level look. ‘Oh, no. Believe me, Lord Chadwick, nothing I could ask from you would be as fine or as grand as Larkhill.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I am intrigued. Tell me.’

‘Like I said, not until after the race—although if your horse is as splendid as you would have everyone believe, then I might well be tempted to take it from you.’

‘Oh, no, lady—my horse is an exception. I have waited too long to get a horse by its sire—a winner of some top races—and I am not about to lose him now. But why are we discussing this? I shall win.’

Beatrice smiled almost sweetly. ‘Then you have nothing to worry about, have you, Lord Chadwick?’

‘You must be confident, to accept my challenge.’

‘I would not be doing this if I wasn’t confident that I could beat you.’

Beatrice would make sure that Lord Chadwick could not refuse the forfeit she would ask of him if she won the race, even while telling herself that what she was doing was foolish. Her eyes held his and she knew he would read her absolute determination to go ahead with this wager—foolish or not.

‘Cousin Beatrice is no docile, ordinary young lady,’ George laughingly told Lord Chadwick. ‘She is a mannerless hoyden—a dark horse if ever there was is how I would describe her.’ He paused with a small private smile and a playful wink at Beatrice. ‘Dark horse, maybe, but she is also clever and cunning and always dangerous.’

‘Really,’ Julius uttered quietly. ‘A woman after my own heart.’

Beatrice was so close, she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes. ‘Oh, no, Lord Chadwick,’ she countered coldly. ‘You can keep your heart. That is the last thing I want from you.’

He regarded her long and hard before replying. ‘I shall. My heart has always been in my own safe keeping, and there it will remain. Safe. But you intrigue me, Miss Fanshaw. Already I am wondering what I have let myself in for. And I was beginning to imagine you would become unseated at the first hurdle.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ George told him. ‘Beatrice has the best pair of hands I’ve ever seen. She knows horses—could whisper a horse out of a field. But should you win, Julius, what forfeit will you ask of her?’

Lord Chadwick looked at George as he considered his question, but his penetrating gaze returned to Beatrice.

Curious as to what his reply would be, Beatrice waited expectantly. The glow in her face now faded. She straightened her back.

At length he said, ‘As to that, I have not yet decided. But I will, and she may not like it when I have.’ He bowed his head ever so slightly. ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Fanshaw. I look forward to our race.’



Beatrice had not imagined confronting Lord Chadwick would require such an effort. On reaching the house her stomach was still tied in knots and her heart had yet to find its customary rhythm. Nervousness was not a reaction to which she was normally susceptible. There was no place in her scheme of things for faint heartedness, and this afternoon she had taken the first step to reclaiming Larkhill. Recalling how Lord Chadwick had looked at her with open admiration, her lips quirked. In the circumstances, it was a definitely heartening thought.

She was about to cross the hall to the stairs when a voice rang out, halting her.

‘A word, Beatrice.’

She turned to face her aunt, her brow furrowed with a twinge of premonition. She got the familiar feeling that trouble was afoot, and as she noted her aunt’s sharp look, that piercing glance told her plainly that some kind of storm was brewing. It was plain that Lady Standish was both appalled and incensed over her niece’s conduct.