Beauty in Breeches(9)

The groom knew of her aversion to the side saddle and that she preferred the masculine way of riding astride, so Major had been tacked up appropriately. No one was surprised to see Beatrice wearing her breeches, for it was a familiar sight.

As spry as a young athlete, she swung herself up on to Major’s back as George rode towards her.

‘Is it all arranged?’ she asked him as they rode together out of the stable yard, her horse so fresh and eager that she had to hold him in check.

‘I have planned the route to your satisfaction, I hope.’ Of an understanding nature, George glanced sideways at her, his brow creased with a worried frown. ‘I’m sorry Astrid cannot watch the race. I know how much she wanted to, but I’m afraid Mama is incensed by your acceptance of Lord Chadwick’s wager and has forbidden her to attend.’

Unmoved, Beatrice looked straight ahead. With his shock of fair hair and bright blue eyes, many were the times when she had thanked God for her fun-loving, easy-mannered, handsome cousin. He had been her friend for as long as she could remember, and she really didn’t know how she would have coped without him. She would never forget the lack of welcome at Standish House from Aunt Moira, and things had not improved. She had soon learned that her aunt’s love was reserved solely for her own children and that there was none for her.

‘I am sorry that Astrid cannot watch the race, George—I know how much she wanted to. I am also sorry about the way Aunt Moira feels about me, but I cannot change that.’ At these words George glanced at her. How typical of him to be concerned for her, she thought. She smiled to reassure him and said, ‘Don’t worry, George, I’ve grown used to it. As for the wager, it is done and too much is at stake for me to pull out now. Besides, I would not give Lord Chadwick the satisfaction. How much do you know about him?’

‘Not much, as it happens. I only met him myself when he arrived back in London—from India, I believe. He is very rich, but there was a time when his family were destitute. Equipped with a clever mind, through his own endeavours and gambling everything on a series of investments, which paid off for him again and again, he brought his family out of penury.’

‘If he used the same gambling methods he used on my father, then I do not care for them. It does him no credit,’ Beatrice retorted bitterly, at the same time grudgingly impressed by his success. ‘I suppose if he’s as rich as all that, then there’s little wonder people court his favour.’

‘They do, but his success has come at a price. Some years ago tragedy hit his family—I’m not sure of the details. Because of it and to guard his privacy, he spends most of his time abroad.’

‘I see. Tell me about the circuit.’

‘It will start and end at the gate in the lower meadow. You will both do a full circuit of Larkhill, riding over the common and open ground past the village, up to the woods and through the park, where you will pick up the trail back to the meadow. It’s punishing and steep in places. The full circuit will take an hour or more, but it shouldn’t be difficult since you have ridden it almost every day. The hardest part will be the steep ride up the woods.’

‘Have you familiarised Lord Chadwick with the route?’

‘Yes. He rode it earlier and he’s up for it if you are.’

‘Of course. I can trust Major to handle it.’

‘Lord Chadwick is already at the starting point—along with a hundred others from the house party who have come to watch and to collect their winnings.’

‘No doubt everyone is expecting him to win.’

‘Absolutely—although there are several who have laid bets on you.’

Beatrice looked sideways at her cousin. ‘Where is your bet placed, George? I trust you remember that I am family and that you owe your loyalty to me. Were you brave enough to risk your money on me?’

Kicking his horse into a gallop, he went ahead. ‘That is for me to know and for you to find out,’ he shouted laughingly over his shoulder.



The reception party was larger than Beatrice had anticipated. The entire meadow was filled with all types of people from house guests to grooms, footmen and stable hands and locals from the nearby village. The sun shone down on fashionable ladies beneath bobbing parasols, feathered hats and a colourful array of silk turbans. Curricles and chases were everywhere and those who wished to follow the race were on horseback. Everyone jockeyed for the best position, all animatedly discussing the forthcoming race.

Atop her spirited mount, Beatrice looked radiant, undeniably beautiful, as only she could do when there was something she wanted badly enough and had set her mind to getting it. She slanted an admiring look at her opponent as he approached leading his mount. He wore a tanned riding coat, a pair of buckskin breeches and highly polished brown boots.

Julius also wore a look of unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her perched atop a raw-boned gelding, a giant of a horse, a glossy chestnut, its coat gleaming almost red. She presented a slender figure and it seemed incomprehensible that she could control the great beast. She met his gaze squarely, her face bright with invitation and challenge.

‘Good morning,’ he greeted politely. ‘It’s a good turnout. All it’s short of to make it a fair are the acrobats and tents. Are you still up for this, Miss Fanshaw—or perhaps you would prefer pistols at twenty paces?’ he teased as he leapt on to his mount with the physical prowess of an athlete.

Beatrice lifted her head, intending to treat him with cool formality, but he looked so relaxed atop his powerful horse and his smile was so disarming that she almost smiled. Confident, her expression open and her green eyes direct, she said, ‘Of course I am up to it, Lord Chadwick—we can try pistols at twenty paces if I lose, which I have no intention of doing.’

‘Then if a duel to the death is to follow, you’d better win if you value your life.’

She laughed lightly. ‘Not only am I a competent horsewoman, I am also a crack shot, so whichever method we use, you stand to lose.’

His horse drew Beatrice’s eye. It was a beautiful dappled grey gelding, its coat as smooth as silk. With sharp features, bright, intelligent eyes and a perfectly arched neck, it really was a beautiful animal, with powerful legs and shoulders. Her opponent was watching her closely and he saw her eyes gleam with appreciation.

‘He is a splendid animal, is he not, Miss Fanshaw?’

‘He certainly is,’ she agreed longingly. ‘As I told you yesterday, had I not already decided on the forfeit, I would be more than happy to take that horse from you.’

‘Never. I will never part with him,’ he laughingly declared.

They rode towards the open gate to the meadow where George was waiting to get the race under way. It was a bright day, but not too hot. The haymakers in the field next to the meadow leaned on their scythes and watched them pass side by side, doffing their caps as they saw the noble bearing of the Marquess, their hearts warming at the sight of their own Miss Fanshaw.

Julius slanted her a look. ‘It’s still not too late to pull out.’

Without looking at him, Beatrice beamed upon the crowd. ‘Of course I’m not going to pull out. Indeed, I couldn’t disappoint so many earnest cavaliers who have placed their bets on me.’

‘Don’t let that put you off. They’ll get their money back.’

Now she did look at him. ‘That’s not the point. I am honour bound to take your wager. Besides I can think of nothing that would please me more than to beat you.’ She shot him a suspicious, mischievous glance. ‘Unless you have cold feet, my lord, and you would like to pull out?’

Julius trapped her gaze in his. ‘Not a bit of it. I’m looking forward to it, though the course has many pitfalls.’

Beatrice took in the hard planes of his face, the subtle aggression in the line of his jaw, and the clear intent that stared at her from the depths of his amber eyes. A slight trembling sensation skittered over her skin. Ignoring it, she smiled. ‘I dare say there will be many distractions along the way, but I am familiar with every one of them.’

‘Then the fight is on. I promise you a hard race,’ Julius called over his shoulder as he trotted ahead.

Maybe so, Beatrice thought, eyeing his back through narrowed eyes. But with everything to play for, she would win.

At the drop of George’s handkerchief and with the roar of the crowd, the two horses lunged forwards. The two riders were galloping at full speed, crouched low over the horses’ necks. Neck and neck they left the meadow and thundered across the common to open spaces and up the steep track towards the woods. One glance as they cleared a fence assured Julius that Beatrice Fanshaw was indeed a skilled horsewoman.

Both horses held their paces well up the long, punishing slope, then raced across the rough ground at the edge of the woods, where the undergrowth was home to badgers and foxes. Her head down to avoid low branches that might sweep her out of the saddle, Beatrice kept a careful lookout for loose rocks, dangerous, treacherous roots and slippery puddles which the sun was unable to reach and dry out. Major fell behind Lord Chadwick’s horse. Both horses were blowing foam as they crested the hill. The track now lead down to circle Larkhill.