The Officer and the Proper Lady

‘Do you have a suggestion for us to place a bet,’ she persisted, her brown eyes just hinting at a smile at last.

‘You can’t do better than to put it on Carlow, ladies,’ Will Grey said before he could answer. ‘Chiltern Lad in the third race.’

‘You are riding? Then of course.’ Julia dug into her reticule. ‘Will you put it on for me, Captain?’ She handed over a half sovereign and beamed at Will, the long Pomona green ribbons on her bonnet fluttering in the light breeze.

‘May I beg a token for the race?’ Hal asked, the words out before he could stop them. Miss Marriott’s eyes widened in de lighted horror.

‘A token?’

‘The major means a favour, like a knight had on his lance. His lady’s handkerchief,’ her friend said, giggling.

He might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. ‘One of those green ribbons?’ Hal suggested.

‘Very well.’ The tip of her tongue just brushed her lower lip in fleeting un certainty. Hal swallowed, hard. ‘Miss Marriott, can you find one of the long ones attached to the crown? I think they are only lightly tacked on.’

Amid much giggling on Felicity’s part, a ribbon was detached. Julia held it out.

‘You must tie it around my arm, I believe, ma’am,’ Hal said. Anything to have her touch him.

She was blushing now, delightfully, her cheeks pink as she stepped forward and tied the long ribbon around his right biceps leaving streamers floating in the breeze. ‘You will ride in uniform, Major?’ Julia asked as she stepped back.

‘Yes. Without my sword and shako and in lighter boots. I will not need to disturb your handiwork.’ He touched the knot and she blushed more deeply. As though I had touched her, he thought. What was the matter with him? How long was this infatuation going to last?

‘Good luck then. Felicity, we should get back.’

Hal watched her retreating back, the ruched hem of the Pomona green gown flirting away over the deeper hue of the grass, the dainty white parasol twirling as she fidgeted with the handle. It seemed he had no will power as

far as Julia Tresilian was concerned, whether he was drunk or sober.

‘When are you going to ask her?’ Will enquired. ‘You might as well carry a placard, the pair of you. She blushes, you are tongue-tied—’

‘Never, damn it! And don’t suggest such a thing when anyone else can hear either.’ He swung round and glared at his friend, his hand tightening instinctively on his sword hilt.

‘Hey!’ Will took a step back wards, hands raised in a fencer’s gesture of surrender. ‘I won’t say another word. I’ll just go and get this money on.’

Aware he had revealed far more than he wanted, Hal strode back to Chiltern Lad. Horses, at least, were straight for ward. Unlike emotions.

The baron knew just where to place his barouche, Julia realized. They had only a distant view of the start, but by standing up in the carriage they could see clearly the main part of the track running across a broad meadow, looping around a spinny of trees and then finishing with a short straight right in front of them. The men, perched on the driver’s box and the footman’s stand at the back, had an even better view.

The baron had placed money for both Mrs Tresilian and Julia, answering their protests with the airy explanation that it was no fun at all watching races when you had no interest in the outcome.

His choices were placed first and second in the first race and nowhere in the second, but the excitement of jumping up and down and cheering on your favourite in a most un lady like manner infected even her mama, much to Julia’s amusement.

But she had an unpleasantly hollow feeling of guilt in her stomach when she contemplated the next race. She really should not have allowed Captain Grey to place a bet for her, and she most certainly should not have given Hal her ribbon. Her first instinct when she and Felicity had virtually run into him was to turn and walk away, to put an end to this by cutting him dead.

But she had found that she could not, whatever her mother had decreed, whatever her commonsense was telling her. She needed to be near him. It was extraordinarily fast of her to have given him her favour, and Mama would be horrified if she found out. But her heart was still pounding from seeing him so unexpectedly and the day, already enjoyable, had become vibrant with excitement.

‘May I see the list of runners?’ she asked, and the baron did his best to point out which was which in the jostling, distant, mass of horses.

‘That’s yours, Miss Tresilian, the grey. And yours, ma’am, the black to the right.’

Chiltern Lad, bay, three years old. Owned and ridden by Major the Hon. Hal Carlow, the list read. Julia put her thumb firmly over the entry and scanned the distant horses for a bay with a rider in a blue jacket. There he is. Good luck, Hal.

The starting pistol fired and they were off, bunched into a tight knot at first and then, as the field opened out, she could make out individual horses.

‘Come on, Black Knight,’ Mrs Tresilian called in a ladylike voice that would hardly reach outside the carriage.

‘Saturn!’ the baron was bellowing, jumping up and down on the box.