And when he made love to her, it did feel like the first time.
And even though they were utterly quiet, they both felt as though their passion shook the rafters.
Chapter Thirteen
Lit torches had been jammed into the ground in a circle around a makeshift but nevertheless surprisingly smooth oval track outlined by posts and a rope rail. Overhead, glowing lamps were strung from trees. The cheerfully jostling crowd could have been comprised of dangerous ruffians or the entire House of Lords (although some would claim the difference between those two groups was modest, at best); thanks to the flickering torchlight, everyone seemed made of amber light and shadows and flashing teeth and the whites of eyes. And it seemed indeed it would have been the ideal fertile ground for pickpockets and other scoundrels, except from the fact that everyone looked and sounded sohappy. Not a sinister expression in the bunch. Laughter, back slaps, and good-natured insults rang in the misty air.
Mr. Delacorte had led them through the park from a secluded entrance, exchanging greetings with other shadowy people whose silhouettes he apparently recognized on the way: “Ho there, Lumpy! Funny seeing you here! Ha ha!” “Greasy Joe, my good man!” and “Nice night to loseyour shirt, eh, Frederick? Ha ha! My money’s on Brightwall!”
Finally he brought them to a spot near what he said would be the starting line, and he and Magnus flanked Dot and Alexandra, who were both jouncing on their toes with excitement.
“Ohhh, here come the donkeys!” Dot breathed.
Alexandra felt an absurd thrill akin to the first time she’d seen Princess Charlotte from a distance.
Shillelagh pranced to the starting line, tossed her pretty head, and defecated.
“Look! Now she’s lighter! Maybe she’ll go faster,” Dot said.
“I’m not certain that’s how it works, Dot.” But now Mr. Delacorte looked a little worried.
Everyone except Magnus had placed a wager—two pence for Dot on Shillelagh, half a crown on Shillelagh for Alexandra, and Delacorte, who was socially exuberant but always fiscally thrifty, a crown on Brightwall.
Suddenly a gasp soughed through the crowd.
“Oh look! There he is! Here he comes!” Dot breathed.
Brightwall the donkey was a handsome, chestnut-colored barrel of a beast. He bared his gigantic square teeth at the crowd and stomped hooves like small anvils. His tail lashed the air, and he threw his mighty little head back and brayed, to the cheer of bystanders.
“What did I tell you?” Delacorte said proudly.
“That animal looks like a small, vicious cannon,” Magnus marveled.
“Your mother looks like a small, vicious cannon,” the jockey called to Magnus.
“She probably did,” Magnus rejoindered.
“Oy, sorry mate!” The jockey touched his cap.
Magnus touched his hat.
Alexandra laughed, exhilarated. A little more wildness suffused her with every lungful of chill, misty, smoky night air, every second amplifying her awareness of the huge man who hovered near her, a man who had once wanted her in his bed more than he’d wanted his next breath. During the carriage ride, while Mr. Delacorte had regaled them with tales of donkey races past, Alexandra almost felt as though she could hold up her hand and feel the rays of darkly absorbed intensity shimmering off Magnus, all of it directed at her.
She had indeed tested her power over him tonight by suggesting she would go to a donkey race with or without him. He seemed to have ceded her a win. She was beginning to wonder if there would be a cost.
She didn’t know why the notion of a cost would fill her with sizzling anticipation.
The donkeys’ long ears fluttered and pivoted this way and that in response to the excited crowd, and they tossed their heads and stomped and danced on their little hooves and switched their tails and shook their round little rumps, showing off. They seemed to love the excitement.
All the while their jockeys, slight young men wearing rolled trousers and rolled shirtsleeveswith caps jammed on their heads, were cheerfully insulting each other.
“Brightwall’s a bastard! Brightwall’s a bastard!” Someone in the crowd started a chant, pumping his fist in the air.
Delacorte shot Magnus an uneasy look.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” Magnus reassured.
Brightwall the donkey stomped his feet. “HEEE HAWWW!” he bellowed.