Chapter 2
Nicholas Blackwell tensed his muscles, wholly focused on the small white flag held above the head of one of the stablehands at the starting line of Hensley Racecourse.
He breathed steadily, keeping his pounding heart in check, and stroked his horse Blackheart’s neck.
“You can beat these fools,” he murmured, his thighs bunching as the stablehand’s arm twitched.
Poised for action, he waited until the flag came down before urging Blackheart into motion. Movement blurred all around him, and hooves thudded on the grass as half a dozen horses lunged forward.
He bent low over Blackheart, tuning out anything that wasn’t important as he squeezed gently with his heels, encouraging the gelding to go faster.
No one streaked ahead of him, which meant that he was either in the lead or not far from it. Races weren’t short, though—at least, not ones like this. If he wanted to win—and earn a little blunt from his friends—he’d have to maintain the lead for four miles.
Blackheart’s strong body tightened and released continually beneath Nicholas, and he rode with an easy grace that came from years of regular practice. He’d learned to ride at his father’s side, and it was in these moments that he felt most connected to him.
Even though his father had died years ago, Nicholas knew he still watched over them.
To his left, a chestnut horse overtook him, its rider concentrating too hard to spare a glance for Nicholas.
Chisholm.
Unwilling to concede defeat so easily, Nicholas urged Blackheart on. Slowly, they regained ground on Chisholm and edged up the inside, pushing him out and retaking the lead.
Nicholas whooped, but it was swallowed up by the wind.
He and Blackheart clung to the lead. Even as they neared the finish and hooves thundered right behind them, they kept ahead of their competition, crossing the line at least a neck ahead of the next contender.
Nicholas stooped down to scratch Blackheart’s sweaty flank. “Good boy. You did well.”
He slowed Blackheart to a canter and then to a trot, allowing him to glide into a walk at his own pace so his muscles didn’t seize up. After such an intense effort, Nicholas needed to make sure he properly took care of Blackheart and showed him gratitude for the win.
He dismounted and stroked Blackheart’s neck, crooning his thanks.
“You got lucky,” Chisholm said, striding toward him, his bluff face red from a combination of the wind, sun, and exertion.
Nicholas snorted. “Luck has nothing to do with it. That, my friend, was pure skill.”
Chisholm shook his hand, then flashed a small bag of coins but didn’t hand it over. “Best two of three?”
Lucas Archibald rolled his eyes from behind Chisholm and tossed Nicholas his purse. “Pay up, Chisholm. Blackwell won fairly, and you know he won’t agree to another round.”
“I won’t,” Nicholas confirmed, taking hold of Blackheart’s reins and leading him toward the edge of the track. “Blackheart has worked enough today. He needs a nice brushing, some treats, and a rest.”
“You just don’t think you can win twice in a row,” Chisholm grumbled, but he handed over his bag regardless.
Nicholas pocketed both. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, gentleman.”
Smythe, an earl’s youngest son who’d been soundly trounced by almost everyone present, stalked over, his mouth pulled tight. Nicholas held out his hand, palm up, and Smythe deposited his coins on it.
“You mean, it’s a pleasure taking our coin,” Smythe said, a touch of resentment in his voice.
Archibald chuckled and clapped him on the back. “You need more practice, lad. Come and join Chisholm and me for another race. I’ll give you some pointers.”
Nicholas guided Blackheart off the course before anyone else tried to persuade him to race. Yes, it was tempting to lighten his friend’s pockets, but he prided himself on taking good care of Blackheart, and the horse had given his all today. He deserved attention and an apple or two.
They walked for a while, circling the rotunda to the stables and back again, giving Blackheart’s muscles the chance to cool gradually.
Once he was satisfied that Blackheart was cool, he led him to the stables, where a stablehand helped remove his tack. He took everything away for cleaning and storage while Nicholas rubbed down the horse, starting with gentle strokes before moving on to the brisk rhythm he knew Blackheart enjoyed.
He checked his hooves, called for a pail of water, and slipped a stablehand a coin in exchange for an apple and a peppermint stick. He fed Blackheart the apple first, waiting while the horse crunched happily through it, and then rewarded him with the peppermint stick.
That done, he escorted Blackheart to his stall and petted him until he was certain the horse had had enough, then he returned to watch the end of the race, arriving moments before Chisholm hurtled to the finish half a horse-length ahead of the second rider.
Chisholm slowed his horse and dismounted gracefully. The second place rider tossed him a purse, but it seemed no one else had been cocksure enough to bet against him.
Nicholas leaned on one of the square viewing towers and crossed his arms over his chest as the men led their horses from the race track and toward the stables. He straightened and intercepted them once they got closer.
“I hear you’re getting married soon,” Chisholm called to Lucas, who walked alongside him.
Lucas nodded. “My parents finally managed to convince me it’s time to give up my life of bachelorhood.”
“Is she pretty?” Smythe asked, a slight sneer curling his lip.
Lucas cocked his head. “Pretty enough. She seems like a sweet woman too.”
Smythe’s sneer deepened, as if being sweet wasn’t a trait worth having. Perhaps, in his mind, it wasn’t. Nicholas had always valued nice people, although he did enjoy a bit of sass and a quick wit too.
Apparently catching Smythe’s expression, Lucas grinned. “Just give it a few years, my boy, and you’ll be joining me. We can only hold out for so long.”
Smythe scoffed. “The lot of you will wed before I do. Chisholm must be due for a wife.” He looked sidelong at Nicholas. “Blackwell too.”
Nicholas ignored the instinctive pang in his chest and forced himself to chuckle. “Theo has married and produced an heir, so there’s no reason for me to do so as well. I am surplus to requirements.”
“We’ll see how long that attitude lasts,” Lucas countered. “Just wait until your mother unleashes the full force of her matchmaking prowess upon you.”
Little did they know, his mother was the reason Nicholas would likely never marry. Not that he could ever admit as much to his friends, since that would mean confessing why, which would uncover their secret and result in him possibly being disowned.
They reached the stables, and he stood back and watched as the men either began seeing to their horses or passed them off to stablehands.
He glanced down at his bare ring finger and grimaced.
His parents hadn’t meant to cause problems for him when they’d lied and claimed he was born a year after Theo when they were, in fact, twins.
They’d simply meant to ensure that there was no in-fighting between them as to who was the rightful heir to the viscounty.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t at the time realized that Theo and Nicholas weren’t just twins but identical twins. By the time they’d grown enough for that to become clear, the lie had already been circulated through society and there was no taking it back.
His father had been more relaxed on the matter than their mother. As they’d gotten older, he’d encouraged the brothers to do as they pleased and not to worry about who might discover the deception.
Sadly, he was dead now, and their mother had always had an entirely different attitude. She would pitch a fit if they were ever seen together—or drew attention to themselves—in such a way that her lie would be revealed.
An extravagant society wedding would be exactly the sort of affair she’d lose her mind over because, were he to wed, his brother couldn’t be absent without creating rumors of an estrangement, and all it would take was for one person to realize their likeness to each other before rumors would run rampant.
Honestly, he thought the dowager viscountess had blown the entire thing out of proportion in her mind, but she was a vulnerable older lady without a husband, and her standing in society was all she had.
He couldn’t take that from her.
“Blackwell.”
Nicholas jerked, caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?”
Chisholm had approached while he wasn’t paying attention, and a smirk now played at the corners of his lips. “Archibald and I are going to the Regent for a drink. Would you care to join us?”
“I’m needed at home,” Nicholas lied.
Chisholm heaved a sigh. “Come on, old chap. One drink won’t hurt. Surely your mother can wait another hour.”
His mother. Once again, she was the reason he couldn’t do something he might enjoy.
“I’m afraid I really can’t,” he said regretfully.
He was supposed to steer clear of the Regent when he and Theo were both in London unless he was certain that Theo was elsewhere. Otherwise there was too much chance of them being confined in close quarters with other people who might guess at their true relation to each other.
He knew Theo had been going to the House of Lords earlier, but there was no saying how long the session had lasted.
They could have finished by now, in which case, Theo was reasonably likely to stop by their club for a drink on the way home.
He often needed that decompression time before rejoining his family.
Chisholm relented. “Suit yourself.”
They walked together to where Nicholas’s carriage was waiting. As they drew near, Nicholas noticed that the driver had stretched out on the nearby grass and was basking in the sun like a cat.
“Sir!” he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. “I didn’t see you coming.”
Nicholas laughed. “It’s a good day for it.”
The driver colored. “Indeed, sir.”