Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
On the turf, Liam had battled many a formidable foe.
It was simply the nature of horse racing.
But none held a candle to Lady Saskia Calthorp when it came to formidability.
And as for the sport they were presently engaged in, it was one he’d never played, its rules murky and unknown to him.
Of course, they would be, for the rules of this game were entirely of Lady Saskia’s own making. Just when he thought he had her, she dug into inner reserves and located yet another weapon in her arsenal.
He could’ve admired her resourcefulness, if it didn’t frustrate him so bloody much.
He’d arrived tonight with but a single goal in mind—to have a word with the woman.
A few words, in fact.
He’d spotted her immediately, sitting alone at the same corner table as last night, bent over her journal, pencil moving across paper, a spoon held in her other hand, taking an indifferent bite every so often. It was as if her stomach couldn’t keep up with her brain.
At first, he thought he would attract her attention as he’d spent the first ten minutes exchanging greetings with every single person in the taproom.
A winning jockey was a popular man in any room.
Four years ago, after he’d started winning races, he’d been unprepared for the burst of popularity, but these days he was better able to manage the expectations of all those strangers.
Both male and female, they thought he could be their bosom friend…
or their confidant…or their lover… The list went on.
But, no, Lady Saskia hadn’t noticed his arrival, so retreated into her own world she’d been.
Who would she be tonight?
He couldn’t help wondering.
Last night, she’d been the bold Arabella.
Today, prim Lady Saskia.
Actually, the more apt question was: who was this woman, truly?
It seemed he wanted to know.
Except he wasn’t here to know her better. He had other business to attend, and it was best he got to it. “Rake mentioned you inquired about my upbringing.”
She nodded, her pencil poised to record his every word. “Is that where you would like to begin?”
He settled back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “My upbringing falls outside the scope of this memoir.”
A little frown turned her mouth down at the corners. “But readers will want to know about your early life. This is a memoir.”
He nodded, as if he were agreeing with her. “Of my racing career.”
“But people will want to know how it started.”
He held up his hands, as if helpless to the facts. “This is not a negotiable point.”
She let her pencil fall to the table and exhaled a frustrated sigh.
He seized his advantage. “Consider it one of those professional boundaries you mentioned.”
She shook her head. “An example of a professional boundary would be that we never—” Her mouth snapped shut, and a blush pinked the tips of her ears.
Liam knew what her next word would’ve been—and he didn’t feel inclined to let it pass unspoken. “Kiss?” he asked, all innocence.
She pressed her lips into a firm line.
“In which case,” he continued, reveling in the sweet torture he was doling out, “are you saying we definitely should not go upstairs and finish what we started last night?”
Her closed mouth muffled a strangled groan. Yet, for the split of a second, he might’ve detected something pass behind her eyes…
Temptation.
In a flash, it was gone, open irritation in its place.
Irritation at him or herself, he didn’t know.
Perhaps both.
Feelings could be two things at once.
Irritatingly.
“What say you, Arabella?”
Oh, he was pushing her.
Her brow gathered, and she appeared to snap to. “It’s only April and we’re to be in one another’s company through September, so we need to establish a few rules between us.”
“Rules?” He snorted. “Are rules different from professional boundaries?”
Her jaw tensed. “No more kissing.”
“So, one rule, then.”
No more kissing.
He found he didn’t like that rule.
“Are we agreed, Mr. Cassidy?”
“Liam,” he said reflexively.
They’d kissed.
She knew the feel of his cock.
She could bloody well call him Liam.
She shot to her feet. “I have an early return to London in the morning. I’ll take my leave of you now, Mr. Cassidy.”
How attractive she was in this moment, all determination and fire.
Lady Saskia Calthorp was more than a pretty lass.
She was beautiful. One could almost forget that fact in one’s dealings with her, because she required the entirety of one’s attention to keep up with the lightning-quick pace of her mind.
But when one took a moment to look at her, to really soak her in, one realized she was unquestionably lovely.
With a deliberate unfolding of his body, he rose and just noticed she’d forgotten something in her haste—her satchel. He grabbed it, but didn’t offer it to her straightaway.
Impatient, she held out her hand. “My satchel.”
She wasn’t asking; she was telling.
And Liam found he wasn’t finished torturing her yet. “What sort of big, strong man would that make me if I didn’t carry your bag up to your room for you?”
Her eyes narrowed.
His reference to her words from last night hit their mark.
She wanted to resist—but she couldn’t.
So, it was that Liam found himself following Lady Saskia’s brisk stride, annoyance charging her every step as they made their way across the taproom, up the stairs, and down the corridor. Once they reached number 3, she faced him and held out her hand expectantly. “My satchel.”
The nearly undetectable glint he’d detected in her eyes a few minutes ago yet stirred in his mind.
Temptation.
It was nothing new for him to be a temptation to a woman. Women were always that eager to jump into bed with him and see what sort of ride he had to offer.
But he liked being a temptation to this woman.
Especially so.
Instead of loosening, his hand tightened around the worn leather handle of the satchel—though it shouldn’t—and he angled slightly into her space, so close he could catch her scent of June roses…hear the hitch of breath in her throat.
His breath might’ve done the same.
On his honor, his intention had been to set the satchel on the floor beside her feet.
But of a sudden, the space between and around them transformed into an intimate space, as if it were only they two in the world.
In this intimate space, how easily intentions could shift.
His mouth could find the sensitive skin along the elegant curve of her neck…
feel the alive throb of her pulse beneath his lips…
the whisper of her breath in his ear…a soft feminine gasp when the tip of his tongue traced the line of her clavicle…
sending a cascade of goosebumps rippling across her skin…
All this could happen in this intimate space.
None of it could happen.
Gently, he released the satchel and straightened, breaking that intimate little space. Confusion shone in expressive silvery-blue eyes—and something else, too. Was that…regret?
Without another word exchanged between them, he offered her a shallow bow, pivoted on his heel, and didn’t stop until he was stepping outside onto the inn’s forecourt, waiting for a lad to bring his horse Homer around.
Only now was he able to draw a proper breath.
That the air hitting his lungs was brisk and crisp fit the moment.
Stirred up was the only way to characterize this feeling.
Lady Saskia Calthorp was a lady to stir one up. For it wasn’t only that he was a temptation to her; she was a temptation to him. Something about her got into his head…got into his blood…and stirred him.
But this stirred-up feeling that had to do with her wasn’t only about her.
His upbringing.
His warning hadn’t satisfied her.
She would pursue the information further, he knew it.
Hers was the sort of mind that would.
And when she went digging, what would she find?
She already knew he had a twin sister, Gemma, who was married to the Duke of Rakesley.
Oh, the scandal that elopement had provoked, given Gemma had been Rake’s jockey.
But all that had occurred five years ago, and the gossip had long since died down, especially considering Rake and Gemma had already produced an heir along with one more besides.
A little more digging on Lady Saskia’s part would turn up a few more facts: Liam’s mam was Irish, hailing from County Cork. Her name was Maeve, and she’d been beautiful with indigo blue eyes and wild red curls.
And when Lady Saskia discovered those facts, the next facts would become obvious: that while the beautiful Maeve had served as the cook for the Earl of Bolton, she’d given birth to twins—the illegitimate offspring of the earl.
Then she’d passed away over five years ago, and her twins had disappeared.
Those were facts that could be uncovered with some determined digging.
But other facts awaited discovery, too.
Facts of Liam and Gemma’s upbringing that belonged solely to them. No one had a right to those facts. No one had the right to know of their blood connection to the Earl of Bolton. No one had the right to know of their unusual upbringing beneath his roof.
No one had the right to know of his and Gemma’s flight after Maeve’s death.
For years, Liam had believed their bid for independence a success. Then several months later, one night after a race, Liam had been enjoying a pint of ale with a hundred of his closest friends when he’d turned and found himself face to face with the earl.
“Liam,” he’d said, “a word?”
One thing Liam had never liked about himself was his close resemblance to Bolton. Sure, he had the red from his mam’s hair, but as far as looks and height went, he and the earl bore enough similarity that the discerning eye would’ve found no trouble taking them for father and son.
As Bolton had a determined set to his jaw, and Liam couldn’t trust himself to speak in front of others—what in the bloody hell was Bolton doing here?—they found a quiet table in a corner.
Bolton spoke first. “Quite a career you’re putting together.”
Liam waited.
“I’m proud of you.”
He’d snorted, still unable to trust himself to speak. Unable to trust himself not to say, “You have no right to be proud of me.”
Bolton didn’t seem to notice the words not spoken. “I’m dying,” he said, blunt.
Liam let the words glance off him. This was the sort of rot Bolton would say. He was manipulative in that way, always needing to control everyone he considered his, and Liam had worked too hard to extract himself from this man’s poisonous web only to be pulled back into it.
He’d shot to his feet. “We’re done here.”
But Bolton wasn’t finished. “There is something you need to know. Something about your mam and me.”
Liam had hesitated for the sliver of a second. Mam. She was Liam’s weakness—and Bolton knew it.
Right.
Without another word exchanged, he’d left the tavern without a backward glance. Perhaps Bolton had been telling the truth…or he hadn’t. Liam could live without knowing.
Today, with Lady Saskia asking about his upbringing, he’d again experienced that sensation of sand shifting beneath his feet.
It was the old way of thinking that wanted to tug at him, leaving him strangely susceptible to the earl’s pull.
As if in speaking of Bolton, he would conjure the man into this very room.
No, better to keep Bolton locked away.
He needed to be careful.
He wanted nothing to do with Bolton—and he suspected he wanted too much to do with Lady Saskia.