As always, the answer was in her eyes. His arms slid around her waist as he drew her close to him. He held her for a moment, his face buried in her neck. “I’m so glad you came with me,” he whispered, then ran his lips along her cheek and finally captured her mouth. Nicole could feel herself weaken, her legs growing limp as she clung to him.
“Clay!” someone shouted. “You have all night for that. Come and tend to your horses now.”
Clay lifted his head from Nicole’s. “All night,” he whispered, and ran his finger along her upper lip. He released her abruptly and walked toward a man who looked like a larger version of Wesley. The man slapped Cla
y on the back. “Can’t blame you, though. You think there’re any more beauties like her in England?”
“I got the last one, Travis,” Clay laughed.
“Just the same, someday I think I’ll go have a look for myself.”
Nicole stood watching the men walk away. She’d probably been introduced to Wes’s brother, but all the names and faces had run together.
“Nicole!” Ellen called. “I’ve saved you a place by me.”
Nicole hurried forward to watch the horse races.
It was three hours later when the men and women walked together back to the food that waited for them. Nicole was flushed with laughter and sunlight. She had not enjoyed herself so much since before the French Revolution. Her French cousins used to complain that the English were so somber, that they lived only for work and church, that they had no idea how to have fun. She looked about at the Americans around her and knew her cousins would enjoy these people. All morning they’d laughed and shouted. The women had been quite raucous, loudly delivering their opinions about a horse’s worth. And they weren’t always for their husbands’ steeds, either. Ellen had wagered against Horace several times, and now she was bragging that Horace was going to have to dig her a new flowerbed himself and order fifty new tulip bulbs from Holland.
Nicole had stood silently, an outsider, a spectator, until Travis had seen her frowning at one of Clay’s horses.
“Clay, I don’t think your wife likes your horse.”
Clay barely glanced at Nicole. “My women wager with me,” he said, with a meaningful look at Horace.
Nicole stared at Clay’s back as he adjusted the light saddle on the horse, while his jockey stood by. She knew about horses. The French loved racing as much as anyone on earth, and her grandfather’s horses had regularly beaten the king’s. She raised one eyebrow. So! His women bet with him, did they?
“He won’t win,” she said firmly. “His proportions aren’t right. His legs are too long for his chest depth. Horses like that are never good runners.”
Everyone within hearing distance stopped, mugs of beer and ale halfway to their lips.
“Come on, Clay, you going to let a challenge like that stand?” Travis laughed. “Sounds to me like she knows something.”
Clay barely paused in tightening the girth. “Care to put a little money on that?”
She stared at him. He knew she had no money. Ellen nudged her. “Promise him breakfast in bed for a week. A man’ll kill himself trying to win that.” Ellen’s voice carried across half the racetrack. She, like nearly everyone except Nicole, had had too much to drink.
“That sounds fair to me,” Clay grinned, and winked at Travis in thanks for starting the whole idea. Clay seemed to think the wagering was ended.
“And what do I get when the horse loses?” Nicole asked loudly.
“Maybe I’ll bring you breakfast in bed,” Clay said with a leer, and the men around him laughed in appreciation.
“I’d prefer a new winter cape,” Nicole said coolly, then turned away to go back to the track. “A red wool one,” she threw over her shoulder.
The women around her laughed, and Ellen asked if she was sure she wasn’t an American by birth.
When Clay’s horse lost by three lengths, he had to take a lot of ribbing. They asked if Nicole shouldn’t take care of the tobacco as well as the horses.
Now, as the women walked toward the house, they laughed together over their wins and losses. One pretty young woman had promised to shine her husband’s boots personally for a whole month. “But he didn’t say which side of them,” she laughed. “He’ll be the only man in Virginia whose socks can see themselves.”
Nicole looked at the mounds of food and realized she was ravenous. The stoneware plates stacked on one table were enormous, more platters than plates. Nicole helped herself to a little of everything.
“Think you can eat all that?” Clay teased from behind her.
“I may have to refill it,” she laughed. “Where do I sit?”
“With me if you can wait long enough.” He grabbed a plate and piled it much higher than Nicole’s, then took her arm and led her to a large oak tree. One of the Backes’s servants smiled and set large tankards of rum punch on the ground by the tree. Clay sat down on the grass, his plate in his lap, and began to eat. He looked up at Nicole, who still stood, her plate in her hand. “What’s wrong?”