In the Arms of a Marquess(48)

“Many thanks for your concern over our health as well,” Lord Styles said with a laugh, and pushed into a canter. Ben glanced back, tipped his hat, and followed apace.

Priscilla Nathans made a rumbling sound in her throat. “That man is positively mouth-watering.”

“Lady Nathans,” Lady Gosworth admonished.

The baroness cast her an intolerant look.

The cherubic countess tipped up her chin. “Lord Gosworth says that now that we have been here to Fellsbourne, we must receive Lord Doreé in town.”

“I know where I would like to receive him,” Lady Nathans murmured.

“It is a shame he is not accepted into so many houses in society,” one of the other wives nearby commented. “I daresay dozens of mamas would like to marry their daughters to a rich, handsome marquess.”

“But one simply cannot endure the notion of all that Oriental blood in one’s grandchildren,” another said with a shake of her head.

“My butler says his valet goes about in a turban. And I have heard that some lords tried to block his preferment to the title despite his parents’ marriage and his enormous fortune.”

“And I have heard that dusky men have enormous—”

“Prissy Nathans, control your tongue,” Lady Gosworth hissed. “There is an unmarried lady present.”

Tavy’s eyes widened. Lady Gosworth stared back.

“Well.” The diminutive countess seemed to recollect herself. “He is not all that exotic.” She swiveled to the lady riding behind. “After all, Doreé is a French name, or it was at one time.”

The other nodded. “But I understand his given name is not Benjamin, as one would expect.”

“Oh, really?”

“Apparently it is Benji—” Her brow wrinkled. “Oh, I knew I would not remember it. It is very foreign sounding. Hindustani, no doubt.”

“Benjirou is a Japanese name.”

Four sets of female eyes snapped to Tavy.

“His nurse was Japanese.” She filled the silence. “The family quite adored her. Her son saved his life when they were children, and Lady Doreé named him in her honor. They are an extraordinary family.”

“I daresay.” Lady Gosworth looked as though she had swallowed a fish whole. “Quite extraordinary.”

“Benjirou means ‘son of two tongues.’ Naturally.” Neck prickling with heat, Tavy pressed her heels into her mount’s sides and caught up with her friend.

Constance’s cheeks were nearly as red as her habit, her eyes overbright.

“Constance, are you unwell?”

“Oh.” She dashed the back of a kid glove across her cheek. “I only wish those men would not be such fools. Look there, they will break their necks careening across that field, and all for foolish pride.”

“Pride?” Tavy murmured, training her gaze to the distance. Upon the gradual slope toward the river several horses galloped close. Far afield, the other riders watched. Tavy stared at Lord Styles’s white stallion, neck and neck with Ben’s mount. “Perhaps it is rather competition.”

Constance turned toward her. “Perhaps on Walker’s side. He has always wanted what the Doreé men have.” She seemed to study Tavy’s face. Her gaze lowered. “Except, perhaps, some things.”

Someone shouted from the other group. Marcus held the lead, his mount’s tail streaming as he covered the field in giant strides.

But something was wrong. The riders upon the edge of the field broke toward the racers, but far behind. St. John waved his hat in frantic gestures. Another shout. The reins of Marcus’s horse flickered about its neck, his hands gripped in its flowing mane. He sat far forward on the animal, reached to its head, then jolted back, barely keeping the saddle.

Tavy’s breath caught. “He has lost the reins.”

“No.” Constance said. “They have broken.”

“It has bolted.” Tavy kneed her mount and it leapt forward. But Marcus and the others were nearly a quarter mile away, a drama unfolding against the green so swiftly she could not hope to catch it in time.

“No.” Constance’s voice sounded hollow as she came up beside Tavy. “Ben, don’t.”

Tavy’s heart climbed into her throat. Far ahead, the black horse flew, tearing up sod as its paces stretched across the field, closing the lengths to the maddened animal. Ben made straight for his quarry’s path to head it off. It was a fool’s gamble. A wall of hedges rose directly in the sights of Marcus’s horse, but the beast showed no sign of slowing in order to scale it.

“He will kill himself,” Constance uttered. “He will—” She snapped her crop against her horse’s flank and shot off. Tavy dug her heels into the gelding’s flanks. Ben’s horse neared the frightened beast. Then everyone seemed to be shouting. A woman screamed. The black horse surged forward. Marcus’s mount broke to the side and came to a sudden halt.

Abruptly, it ended.

Tavy could see nothing through the haze of tears. She swiped a hand across her eyes.

Dismounted, Marcus leaned into Ben’s horse, brow upon his arm, Ben beside him. The errant animal stood apart, sides heaving, its lathered neck hanging and broken reins trailing to the grass. Riders surrounded them and gentlemen dismounted. Everyone seemed to speak at once. Tavy dropped from the saddle, pressed the reins into someone’s hands, and moved forward as fast as her heavy skirts allowed.