“You’re not beating anyone with anything. You’re going home to sleep this off.”
Baron Chisholme swaggered over. “Trouble in paradise, lovers?”
Kenwick lunged for him but tripped and fell, hitting his head on the carriage wheel.
“Uh-oh.” Chisholme laughed nastily. “I win by default.”
“I’ll race in his place,” Dane said grimly, motioning for Dudley to help Kenwick off the racing green.
“Look lively, then. I haven’t got all day.” Chisholme retreated to his curricle and swung into the seat. His friends surrounded him, laughing and jostling one another.
“Dane, the Pink Ladies are here!” Dudley shouted, gesturing toward the far end of the field where Dane could see a line of grim-faced ladies in matching pink sashes marching toward him. When he saw Sandrine in their midst, his heart soared. She hadn’t left London with her mother!
He should have wanted her to leave, to be safely back in Squalton, but he couldn’t bring himself to want that anymore. She was meant to be here with him. He would keep her safe.
She approached him with concern written across her face. “Are you going to race?” she asked.
“Kenwick’s too inebriated. I can’t allow him to race. It’s for Lady Roslyn’s honor. I overheard you defending her today. I’m doing the same, in my own way.”
“But what if... what if the traces break? What if you’re thrown from the curricle like a shot from a pistol?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve raced this course hundreds of times. It’s dangerous, but I’m the best there is. Tell her, Dudley.”
“He’s the best. He’s the king. No one mightier.”
“You’re waiting to find out if you’ll become duke. You have responsibilities now.”
“Sandrine.” He skimmed her cheek with the back of his hand. “This is who I am. I’m a wild, risk-taking rake. But I promise you that I’ll win this race, and then we’ll celebrate my victory.” He bent closer to her, inhaling the delicate scent of lavender and rose that clung to her skin. “We’ll celebrate with another item on the wicked list,” he whispered.
Her cheeks flushed. “Dane, we have to talk.”
“First I race.”
Dudley took Sandrine by the arm and ushered her to the sidelines where she joined Lady Roslyn, Miss Maple, Miss McGovern, and Miss Hodwell. Lady Roslyn blew him a kiss.
His matched set of grays pawed the ground, ready to fly.
His focus sharpened as he swung into the curricle seat, gathering up the reins. The horses eyed each other nervously, the whites of their eyes showing.
Dudley and Somersby inspected the fastenings and the wheels one last time. Somersby patted the side of the carriage. “All good. Give him hell!”
“For the Thunderbolts!” Dudley roared.
Dane could already feel the wheels flying over the turf, his body jostling, teeth knocking together, the thrill of victory in sight.
“On your marks, gentlemen,” one of the baron’s friends shouted. “And... go!”
The curricles set off in a cloud of dust. Sandrine’s heart thudded in time with the horses’ hooves as she watched.
“I fear Lord Dane’s not accustomed to Kenwick’s curricle,” Francesca exclaimed.
“It’s a new chariot, Francesca,” Dudley said. “Nobody’s accustomed to driving it.”
“‘The smoking chariots, rapid as they bound, now seem to touch the sky, and now the ground,’” quoted Somersby. “That’s from Homer. I always liked that description. Touching the sky.”
“Faster, Dane!” Dudley shouted. “Ride fast, ride hard, ride far!”
“Your motto?” Sandrine asked.