The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

“Just sometimes.” Jessie abruptly got up and dusted herself off. James saw that the wool pants were very tight across her butt. He frowned. Jessie saw that frown and said, defensive as a banker with his hand caught in the till, “I just stopped by for a few minutes to see Oslow. I’m not here spying or anything. Oslow said Sober John covered Sweet Susie.”

“Yes. It went well.”

“I would like to buy Sober John.”

“You don’t have enough money, Jessie. You won’t ever have enough money.”

“When I own my own racing stable I will. I’m going to be the most famous and richest racehorse owner in America.”

Oslow stood up, too. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised, Miss Jessie, no, I wouldn’t. You be good now, girl. Remind me to tell you about Grimalkin the cat.” Oslow walked away, whistling.

“How long have you been conferring with Oslow?”

“I’ve known Oslow since I was born. He’s a friend, and he knows everything about every horse all the way back to the Byerly Turk, the Darley Arabian, and the Godolphin Arabian. Did you know that Sober John goes tail-male all the way back to the Godolphin Arabian?”

“I know. I’ve never seen you here before. How often do you come to see him?”

She scuffed her boots in the dirt.

“Jessie, I’m not accusing you of spying or putting poison in one of the horse’s oats.”

“I’d put poison in your oats before I’d ever hurt a horse. All right, I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl. When Mr. Boomer lived here, he always gave me a glass of claret watered down with lemonade.”

“God, that sounds gruesome.”

“It was, but he tried to please me. He didn’t know anything about children. Poor Mr. Bankes, he didn’t make a good criminal. He was too nice.”

“He was a sniveling coward, pleading on his knees that no one challenge him to a duel. He preferred jail to facing any of the men he’d cheated.”

“He wasn’t a sniveling coward to me.”

“You didn’t have anything to steal. Now, enough of that. I assume you didn’t break anything from your fall?”

“No, I was just a bit sore. Papa had the ceiling repaired yesterday. The damned wood was rotted through right where I put my knee.”

“I don’t suppose that taught you anything?”

He used his obnoxious drawling English accent again, knowing it enraged her. Her jaw twitched, her shoulder actually jerked, but she kept her head down. “Yes,” she said, then finally looked up at him. “I learned that I’ve got to scout out my terrain before I venture into it.”

He laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Would you like to come to the house for a glass of claret?”

She looked suddenly like a child who’d been offered an unexpected treat. He drew back from that glowing smile. “With lemonade in it, naturally.”

Jessie Warfield was back, in spades. She looked away from him, toward the overgrown rose garden. “I must go home, but thank you for your kind offer. The garden is a mess, James. You should have someone fix it.”

She didn’t wait for him to say anything to that, just turned and strode away, those long legs of hers eating up the graveled drive until she got to Rialto, the damned horse who’d beaten Tinpin. He watched her stroke Rialto’s muzzle, check the saddle girth, then swing herself gracefully onto his back. She pulled her hat over her eyes, lightly kicked Rialto in his muscled sides, and rode down the drive. She never looked back. One long tail of red hair had escaped her hat and hung down her back.

He would swear he’d smelled cucumbers. He wondered if she carried them around in her coat pockets; they certainly bagged out enough.

4

GLENDA WARFIELD STARED at James Wyndham’s crotch. She knew it didn’t matter if a man wasn’t looking at her, as James wasn’t now. He would look at her soon enough, even if he was in the deepest conversation with someone else, as James was now, speaking with Allen Belmonde, that dark-haired, swarthy man whose crotch she’d never stared at because he frightened her with those dark, lightless eyes of his. She couldn’t stand his weak, fluttery little wife, Alice, who, strangely enough, seemed to adore Jessie, always praising her independence, nauseating Glenda in the process.

She stared at James. If she just kept staring long enough, he would eventually turn around and she’d see a leap of lust in his eyes and pain as well because he’d quickly realize there was nothing to be done to assuage his lust.

But James didn’t turn around for the longest time. He turned around finally when his brother-in-law, Giff Poppleton, greeted him. He met Glenda’s eyes briefly, nodded, but then he listened to something Giff said, and laughed.

Glenda wasn’t pleased. She was eighteen, quite pretty, her breasts milky white and full. Men loved to look at her breasts; she’d known that since they’d blossomed two years before. The stable lads were in a constant state of male turmoil whenever she came around, which was often since she had hit sixteen and was more than eager to test her power on anything male.