Vanquished

Chapter Twelve

Delilah was a bundle of nerves on the morning of the race. They had traveled to Elsenham the day before with Francesca and her parents, who had kindly offered them a ride in their coach, as it had a bit more room than the curricle her father had brought from the country. Delilah hadn’t been quite as anxious during the first leg of their journey, and had slept well at the inn, but while it had dawned bright and sunny, with nary a cloud in the blue sky, it was the anticipation of the contest ahead that made her fists clench in her lap as they rode over the countryside toward Newmarket.

Viscount Mulberry and his wife were seated on one side of the coach, with the baron, Delilah, and Francesca on the other, and the heat from the close confines was almost stifling.

She tried not to imagine what it would be like to see Conor again, for it had been three days since he’d left her room, his parting words making her heart ache every time she thought of it. Two days before, when she had arrived to visit Francesca and inspect the dresses they had ordered for the race, Delilah had held the black and white checkered, gingham dress and promptly burst into tears. Naturally, she had to tell Francesca the reason for her upset, being that she feared she was falling in love with the Irishman, even though she had done her best to fight against the attraction.

“I should have known better than to imagine that I could keep my heart disinterested after engaging in such… carnal activity.” She had shrugged despondently. “I don’t know what I was thinking to allow him such liberties knowing that he would not ever entertain the idea of anything more.”

Francesca had taken her hand in hers. “It’s because you were caught up in the heat of the moment. You allowed your emotions to control your good sense.” She had paused to offer a watery smile. “You aren’t the only one who made a terrible error in judgment. I know that Adam and I aren’t meant to be together, and yet, I couldn’t stop myself—”

“Oh, Frannie.” Delilah hugged her and together they had wept for unrequited love.

Delilah looked at her friend now, who was wearing a similar gingham in red and white checks that the modiste had insisted would go better with Francesca’s delicate coloring. “You need this,” the seamstress had withdrawn the contrasting shade and held it up to Delilah. “With your raven hair, you shall look resplendent in this.”

They shared a nervous glance, for Adam would also be competing in the race, but it wasn’t until Lady Mulberry breathed, “Oh, my,” that they turned to glance out the window.

Delilah’s mouth fell open at the sight of all the carriages in the field. There had to be hundreds lined up. And the crowd surrounding the track was even more impressive.

“How are we even to view the race, Mama?” Francesca asked.

Delilah was curious about that as well. Everyone was standing, except for a notable podium that had been constructed especially for the Prince Regent and members of the royal family who wished to attend.

“Not to fret, my girl,” the viscount assured his daughter. “I have made arrangements ahead of time for our comfort and ease of viewing.”

The driver found a spot and when the brake was set, they piled out. Delilah was grateful for the fresh air, for a slight breeze was blowing, but not enough that she feared she would lose her bonnet.

As the viscount, his wife, and Delilah’s father led the way, Francesca and Delilah lagged behind. Francesca’s face was etched with concern, and she clutched Delilah’s arm anxiously. “I’m not sure I can even watch the race and fear that Adam—”

She swallowed visibly and Delilah could only nod her head in agreement, for she was thinking the same. “All will be well. There is only one turn in the Round Course, unlike the tight, circular tracks that the Romans used, which was much more dangerous when it came to flipping the lighter weight chariots. Also, since this track is only used once a year in July to host the Newmarket Town Plate, I can’t imagine that it would be terribly treacherous.”

Francesca squeezed her hand. “I do hope you’re right, Del.”

Me too, she added silently. But since she wished to get both her mind, and Francesca’s worries off the impending doom, she said, “At least we get to look forward to tomorrow evening’s festivities at the park. I daresay I shall enjoy some festive firework displays.”

“Oh, yes!” Francesca’s blue eyes brightened, and Delilah could see some of the color starting to return to her face as she began to chatter about what she was most looking forward to. “I understand the pagoda is going to be magnificent all lit up, and with the recreation of naval battles, it is sure to be splendid, indeed!”

It wasn’t until they drew closer to the track itself that Delilah saw that a tent had been set up with ropes around it near the front of the track. “The prince may get the best seat in the house,” Francesca’s father remarked. “But a few of us took it upon ourselves to ensure our patronage in financing the construction of the chariots was not in vain.”

As Delilah walked forward, she noticed that a row of horses stood a short distance away with their attached chariots. A handful of men stood around them in various, colored tunics, to represent their teams and the original spirit of the Roman tradition in green, blue, red, and white—and that was when she spied Conor. Of course, he was in green, likely in part to represent his home country. His dark head turned, and he locked gazes with her at the exact same moment, and instantly her heart picked up its pace. It was as if he could sense her presence without even knowing she was there.

After a brief conversation with his fellow comrades, he walked toward her.

Francesca grasped her hand and whispered something to her, but Delilah only had eyes for the handsome Irishman. He moved with such a carefree grace; his mouth continuously tilted upward in that smug grin. But it was his eyes, those hypnotic green orbs that had held her captive from the first moment she’d met him. Had it truly only been a handful of days that she’d even known of his existence? It seemed as if a lifetime had passed.

He paused before them, and he greeted Francesca first. Delilah noticed that a few of the ladies around them were fluttering their fans and whispering behind them, likely jealous that they were gaining his notice and not them.

“Miss Rollins.”

His deep timbre slid over her skin and warmed her more than the sun. “Mr.…er…my lord,” she corrected.

He grinned, sweeping his gaze over her attire. “Ye’re looking lovely today.”

“Thank you,” she said somewhat breathlessly.

He gestured to the track. “Aren’t ye going to wish me well?”

“May destiny shine down upon you,” she returned sweetly.

“Hmm.” His gaze shuttered. “Something tells me that’s not entirely meant for good luck.”

She shrugged. “Take it however you will.” She sobered. “You know how I feel about this entire spectacle.”

“Aye. That I do,” he murmured. Before she could say anything further, he took her hand and pulled her forward.

“What are you doing? Have you gone mad?” she gasped, her face heating as he dragged her behind him. She glanced back to see her father frowning lightly, while Francesca’s mouth had nearly hit the ground in her surprise.

He stopped abruptly, far enough from everyone so they wouldn’t be overheard and half concealed by one of the chariots. “Yes. I’m mad. For ye.” He bent down and captured her mouth in a crushing kiss that took her by surprise even as it made her groan with need.