An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

He showed her the bookmakers, each surrounded by knots of punters eager to lay their bets. They paraded before the tents and pavilions; again and again they were stopped by some acquaintance of Harry’s, keen to exchange a few words. Lucinda was prepared to be on her guard, but she encountered nothing but polite deference in the glances thrown her way; all those who stopped to talk were disarmingly correct. Nevertheless, she felt no impulse to withdraw her hand from the security of her escort’s elbow, where he had tucked it, drawing her close. In the press of male bodies, it was unquestionably comforting to have Harry Lester by her side. There were, she discovered, some ladies present. “Some have a real interest in the sport—usually the older ones.” Relaxed, in his milieu, Harry glanced down at her. “Some of the younger ladies have a vested interest; their families, like mine, have a long-standing connection with the turf.”

Mouthing an “oh,” Lucinda nodded. There were other ladies, too, whom he had not seen fit to comment upon, who, she suspected, held dubious right to the title. The race-track, however, was an overwhelmingly male domain—every sub-category of the male population was certainly represented. Lucinda was quite sure she would have neither the courage nor the inclination to attend again—not unless Harry Lester was her escort.

“It’s nearly time for the next race. I must speak to Thistledown’s jockey.”

Lucinda nodded, conveying with a glance her intention of staying with him.

Harry threw her a brief smile then concentrated on forging a path to the mounting yard.

“She seems very lively, sir,” the jockey vouchsafed as he settled in the saddle. “But the competition’s stiff—Jonquil—that mare out of Herald—is a starter. And Caught by the Scruff, too. And some of them others are experienced racers—it’ll be a miracle if she wins, what with her fetlock just come good an’ all.”

Harry nodded. “Just let her go—let her set her own pace. We’ll consider this a trial, nothing more. Don’t cram her—and no whip.”

Lucinda left his side to pat the mare’s velvet muzzle; a huge, dark brown eye invited her understanding. Lucinda grinned. “Hopeless, aren’t they?” she crooned. “But you don’t want to listen to them—men are notoriously hopeless at judging women. They should never so presume.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry’s lips lift; he exchanged a glance with the jockey, who grinned. “You just go out there and win the race—then see how they react. I’ll see you in the winner’s circle.”

With a last pat for the mare, she turned and, with divine disregard for the expression on Harry Lester’s face, allowed him to lead her back to the stands.

He secured seats in the third row, almost opposite the post. Lucinda leaned forward, eagerly scanning the horses trotting towards the barrier. She waved when Thistledown appeared.

Harry, watching her, laughed.

“She’ll win—you’ll see.” With smug confidence, Lucinda sat back.

But when the horn sounded and the barrier was dropped, she leant forward again, eyes keenly searching the thundering charge for Harry’s colours of green and gold. So intent was she that she didn’t even notice she rose to her feet, in company with all the other spectators, as the horses rounded the bend. As they entered the straight, a gap appeared in their ranks—Thistledown shot through.

“There she is!” Lucinda grabbed Harry’s arm. Only deeply entrenched decorum kept her from jigging up and down. “She’s winning!”

Harry was too riveted to answer.

But Thistledown was indeed showing the field a clean pair of heels. Halfway down the straight, her stride lengthened even more—she appeared to be flying when she flashed past the post.

“She won! She won!” Lucinda grasped both Harry’s arms and all but danced. “I told you she would!”

Rather more accustomed to the delights of victory, Harry looked down at her face, wreathed in smiles and lit by the same joy he still felt every time one of his horses came home first. He knew he was smiling, as delighted as she if rather more circumspect in showing it.

Lucinda turned back to locate Thistledown, now being led from the course. “Can we go and see her now?”

“Indeed we can.” Harry took her hand and tucked it tightly in his arm. “You promised to meet her in the winner’s circle, remember?”

Lucinda blinked as he steered her out of the crowded stand. “Is it permissible for ladies to enter the winner’s circle?”

“There’s no rule against it—in fact—” Harry slanted a glance at her “—I suspect the Head of the Committee will be delighted to see you.” When she shot him a suspicious glance, he laughed and urged her on. Once out of the enclosure and free of those members keen to press their congratulations, a path cleared before them, leading directly to the roped arena where Thistledown, shiny coat flickering but clearly untired by her dash, waited patiently.

As soon as Lucinda emerged from the crowd, the mare pushed her head forward, dragging on the reins to get to Lucinda’s side. Lucinda hurried forward, crooning her praises. Harry looked on indulgently.

“Well, Lester! Another trophy for your mantel—surprised it hasn’t collapsed.”

Harry turned as the President of the Jockey Club, present Head of the Race Committee, appeared at his elbow. In his hands, he held a gold-plated statuette in the shape of a lady.

“Remarkable run—truly remarkable.”

Shaking hands, Harry nodded. “Particularly as she’s just recovered from a strained fetlock—I wasn’t sure I’d race her.”

“Just as well you did.” The President’s eye was on the horse and the woman apparently chatting to the beast. “Nice conformation.”

Harry knew very well that Lord Norwich was not referring to the mare. “Indeed.” His tone was dry; Lord Norwich, who had known him from the cradle, lifted a brow at him.

Glancing at the statuette, Harry confirmed that the lady was indeed decently garbed, then nodded at Lucinda. “It was Mrs Babbacombe who delivered the inspirational address prior to the race. Perhaps she should accept the award on my behalf?”