Chapter 24 #2
Saskia reached for her field-glass. She’d heard Doncaster described as a broad, galloping flat track similar to Newmarket, and she saw that was true, even though Doncaster was pear-shaped rather than straight.
At one mile and six furlongs, Doncaster was also the longest track of the racing season.
A horse had to have both speed and stamina to win it.
Below, the array of horses held themselves impressively with their rainbow of shiny silks.
But unlike the races she’d attended earlier in the season, she now had a true sense of those horses since she’d started riding Peony.
Each would have differing personalities, but each would also be possessed of explosive power and speed.
Of course, she’d never experienced explosive power and speed during her tame riding lessons, but she now knew the feel of a horse in movement.
At last, she located Liam and Morningstar, as they shouldered their way through the tetchy scrum, angling for the railing.
And just as she had at the One Thousand Guineas and the Derby, Lady Midnight was staking her starting position to the outside of the field.
The starter hadn’t even yet lifted the gun into the air, and already every muscle in Saskia’s body had gone rigid with tension.
She could only breathe in small sips of air.
Then—too soon…at last—the starter lifted the gun, and the familiar anticipatory hush fell over the crowd.
Saskia’s field-glass was all but glued to her face with one hand, her other clenched in her lap, her nails digging half-moons into her palms. Though he was hundreds of yards away and nearly a speck through the lens of her field-glass, this was the first time she’d seen Liam in two weeks.
As she’d expected, he was intense and focused, clear of intent.
Now, thanks to Gemma, Saskia had another word for him—adamant.
Liam was an adamant creature on the turf—ferocious in his adamancy, but not cruel.
Never far from her mind, their last minutes together pushed to the front of her mind. It hadn’t been her place to say to him what she had. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. He needed to understand that his ferocity without cruelty was his strength—and what separated him from his father.
Liam was his own man.
She’d needed to say that to him.
She could only hope he’d heard it.
Now, as anticipation threatened to snap the air in two, the gun fired and the horses were off.
The crowd roared to life, and Saskia was on her feet right alongside everyone.
She couldn’t sit primly and properly in her seat while Liam was out there on the turf waging battle, for no mistake that was what he was doing.
Only now that she’d learned to ride did she fully appreciate what Liam could do on a horse at a flat-out gallop.
The way he went bouyant in his seat…his hands holding the reins steadily, but somehow also lightly…
his attuning with Morningstar, who muscled through the initial pack and carved out space for himself as he hit his stride.
Watching this, Saskia experienced a wild whirl of emotions as she willed them to the lead—amazement, hope, anxiety, pride, and something else, too…
An unexpected feeling that sparked through her—desire.
A near overwhelming desire for Liam—a desire that he win…
a desire that he remain safe…and, too, desire for him, the all-too-attractive man that he was in his talent and his ferocity and his adamancy.
That talented, ferocious man who was adamant for her.
Her loins, they burned—
No.
That sounded like a syphilitic affliction.
They ached—
Better…but not quite.
They craved.
Yes.
They craved…him.
A craving of the loins.
How very sensual was the heat of competition.
She’d never noticed until now.
As Morningstar entered the final stretch, neck and neck with Lady Midnight, each horse making a strong case for the win, Saskia saw it—Morningstar was slowing. She blinked, at first believing her eyes were deceiving her, but, no, Morningstar was definitely slowing down.
Something was wrong.
Morningstar had been level with Lady Midnight for much of the race, but now, stride by stride, he was steadily dropping back, no longer competing for the lead, or even second or third.
From the periphery of her vision, she noticed Rakesley and Gemma rush away along with Lord Branwell and Lady Artemis, and Gabriel and Celia, too.
Saskia couldn’t move, a fear taken root inside her that if she took her eyes off Liam for even an instant, something dreadful would occur.
“Morningstar appears to be limping,” observed Lady Beatrix.
Saskia hadn’t wanted to say it—or even believe it—but she saw it, too.
As if it were occurring from a great distance, rather than all around her, the crowd erupted into a celebratory roar.
“Lady Midnight just won.”
That was Viveca’s voice, but Saskia had no care.
The entirety of her being was concentrated on Liam as he, at last, dismounted and led Morningstar to the outside of the course and away from the fray of the surging crowd.
As if in silent pantomime, Rakesley, Gemma, Lady Artemis, and Lord Branwell joined him along with Rakesley’s head groom, Wilson, and a few lads who stood guard and provided ample space for Morningstar to be examined before he took another step.
“Is Morningstar all right?” Viveca again.
“He’s in the best possible hands,” said Lady Beatrix, even as worry threaded through her voice.
“What’s the time?” asked Viveca of a sudden.
“Half three,” came a reply.
“Right on schedule.”
Saskia tore her gaze from the track. She could no longer see Liam for all the bodies now crowding the racecourse. “Is it your afternoon sickness, sister?”
“What afternoon sickness?” asked Lady Beatrix.
Blaze answered his sister. “Every day from four to six in the evening, my wife’s stomach gives its contents the old heave-ho.”
It couldn’t be denied that Viveca had gone a pale shade of green. “And then I’m right as rain until four o’clock the next day.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” exclaimed Lady Beatrix. “You’ll be returning to the Grange now, I suppose?”
“Aye.”
“You’ll be in good hands there, as taking in sickly animals is their specialty,” said Mr. Deverill with a charming wink.
“You say you’ll feel better by six o’clock?” asked Lady Beatrix.
“As regular as clockwork.”
“Then you’ll be able to attend Sir Abstrupus’s soirée.”
“I’ve been wondering,” said Viveca. “What’s a Sir Abstrupus, anyway?”
That got a dry laugh from Lady Beatrix. “A rascally baronet who passed his ninetieth year sometime between ten and twenty years ago.”
“Sounds like a gent after me own heart,” said Blaze.
Soon, Saskia found herself following the flow and leaving Doncaster with Viveca and Blaze.
She was under no further obligations as went this day.
She’d kept her word to Liam by watching his final race.
She hadn’t seen him win, but the loss wasn’t down to him.
Further, he’d come through all right with no injuries.
That was what she’d actually come to see.
As for Sir Abstrupus’s soirée later, she was bound by no promises there. The late-night celebratory carousing was a part of the racing world that held no interest for her. She was the owner of a circulating library, which recently released a guide to fly fishing in Scotland. She was no carouser.
No, she was a writer, a solitary pursuit if there ever was one. What business had she attending raucous revels that only ended with the rising of the next day’s sun?
So, now, she would offer her support to Viveca, as a loving sister should do, then, when it was time to depart for Sir Abstrupus’s soirée, she would make her excuses and take a light evening meal in her room and write and read as she pleased.
That was the life of Lady Saskia Calthorp.
No all-night bacchanals for her.
Even if Liam was there.
Perhaps, even, especially then.