start. The start was a critical moment in any race—a dangerous moment—but Eve had taken up a position off Goblin’s left shoulder. She could pace Dolan’s stallion from there without being at risk for getting kicked or— inadvertently or otherwise—thwacked by the riding crop Goblin’s jockey held in his right hand.
Kesmore put his flask away and kept his voice down. “One hesitates to point out the obvious, Deene, but by every Jockey Club rule book in the known world, a female jockey’s ride will be disqualified.”
“One comprehends this.”
Lady Louisa’s horse shifted, as if Eve’s sister might not have been aware of this fact.
“Then why in blazes,” Kesmore went on in a rasped whisper, “would you put your wife at risk for injury or worse, much less scandal, if no matter how well she rides, the results cannot inure to your benefit?”
“Yes,” Louisa echoed, her tone truculent. “Why in blazes?”
The horses cleared the first fence almost as a unit, clipping along at a terrific pace.
“On this course, on that horse, my wife is as safe as Lady Louisa is perched on that pretty, docile mare. And as for the rest of it, I know exactly what hangs in the balance. There will be some talk, of course, but weathering a bit of gossip is almost a Windham marital tradition.”
He fell silent, lest he part with a few other things he knew.
For example, because he knew his horse and jockey so well, Deene saw Eve subtly check William as they approached the shadowed jump. The horse did not slow, but rather focused his attention more carefully on the upcoming obstacle. They cleared it a half stride behind Goblin—who’d chipped, taking a short, ungainly stride for his takeoff—and landed in perfect rhythm.
“Whatever else is true,” Kesmore said quietly, “that is one hell of a rider on your colt.”
One hell of a rider, indeed, and one hell of a colt. Aware of Dolan approaching on his showy mount, Deene did not share what else he knew of that rider, which included the fact that in all the weeks of their marriage, she had not been burdened with the female indisposition even once.
Three strides away from the start, Eve had known she wasn’t on some flighty two-year-old. William knew his job, relished his job, and intended to see to the matter of trouncing Goblin without a great deal of interference from Eve.
She had been tempted to use the first fence to disabuse the colt of his arrogant notions, to use a safe, easy fence to insist on a little submission from three-quarter ton of muscle and speed—except William’s pacing was perfect, his takeoff flawless, and his landing so light Eve merely murmured some encouragement to him.
Where an argument might have started, she instead complimented the horse, and so when she had to point out to him that a fence lay in the upcoming shadows, he was attentive to her aids and cleared the thing in the same perfect rhythm.
Goblin’s jockey hadn’t fared quite as well, the big gray being more intent on maintaining the lead than listening to his rider. Because of their bickering, they took off too close to the jump again, while Eve kept William a few feet off Goblin’s shoulder and snugged herself down to the colt’s back. The brush fence was coming up, and brush had been known to reach up and pluck an unwary rider from the saddle merely by getting tangled between boots, stirrup leathers, horse, and rider.
“Lady Kesmore, Kesmore.” Dolan spoke from the back of his golden gelding. “Deene. Your colt is giving a good account of himself.”
Deene nodded, not trusting himself to speak to a man who would stoop to drugging either horse or jockey, much less both.
The crowd roared as the horses, neck and neck, thundered up to the water… the goddamned water, with the goddamned mud that scared Evie so.
“Holy Christ.” Dolan’s oath underscored Deene’s own prayers. Whether William had taken the initiative or Eve had cued the horse, the colt soared high over the water, jumping bank to bank in a mighty, heaving leap, landing clear on the other side but losing ground to the other horse merely by spending so much time in the air.
“Your colt is a formidable jumper,” Dolan said, frowning. “Though perhaps not in the hands of the most prudent rider.”
“Good boy.” Eve didn’t risk patting William again, but the horse flicked his ears as if listening for her voice. Their decision at the water had been justified when Goblin had landed closer to the far bank and had to scramble for footing. The instant’s loss of forward momentum by the gray had William surging forward, claiming the lead. The horse would have widened the gap even farther, except Eve countermanded his wishes. Too much of the race lay ahead to be using up reserves of speed that would be needed for the long straightaway at the end, and much could happen between one jump and the next.
“I hate this fence.”
Deene didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Dolan nodded. “It sits up there on that small rise, an oasis amid boggy ground, tempting the unwary to overjump, and all manner of mayhem can ensue when the horses are running this closely.”
As Eve and William galloped headlong toward the fourteenth fence, Deene was aware of resentment that, of all the thousands of people gathered around the racecourse that morning, he and Dolan were sharing a particular bond exclusive to the two of them. Maybe it was what he’d sought—some acknowledgement of their familial connection—but watching Eve put herself on the line, jump after jump, it was hard not to hate Georgie’s father.
“God help them.” Kesmore went on to swear viciously as Eve’s horse cleared the big oxer only to land in bad footing.
Deene was already spurring Beast forward, when Dolan’s hand shot out and grabbed the reins. Deene brought his crop down hard on Dolan’s wrist and was prepared to use it on Kesmore’s restraining hand as well when Lady Louisa spoke.
“You can’t do a thing to help, Deene. Not now.”
The fence Deene had dreaded, the fourteenth, was coming up quickly. For no other reason than that Goblin had dropped back almost even with William’s quarters, Eve gave her horse the suggestion of a check on the reins.
William cleared the jump in excellent style, knees under his chin, back rounded in perfect form, and all going swimmingly—until the landing.
With the clarity of one in the midst of a pitched battle, Eve realized as the horse’s shoulder slipped from beneath her that the top of the oxer had not been quite level, and rain had drained off to puddle closer to one back corner of the jump—the corner nearest where William landed. In the soft footing, the colt slipped, and when he slipped, Eve’s world nearly came to an end.
This horror had befallen her seven years ago, a horse galloping along one moment, and in the next instant, heading for a disaster that could be fatal to horse and rider both.
As William pitched forward and fought for balance, instinct screamed at Eve to yank up on the reins, to try to haul the horse to his feet on main strength, to defy gravity itself.
She defied instinct; she defied every primitive imperative of self-preservation and relied instead on hard-won wisdom and experience. As William thrashed to keep his feet under him, Eve’s arms shot forward, giving the colt as much slack in the reins as she could without actually dropping the leather from her grip.
He used the leeway she created to throw the great weight of his head and neck up, and in one tremendous surge, got himself organized and moving forward again. The magnitude of his effort was so great, Eve was nearly unseated as leap followed bound followed leap, until stride by stride, they reunited their efforts and took off after the gray, who’d already opened up a gap of several yards.
“Bloody game pair you’ve got there,” Dolan muttered. “Begging the lady’s pardon for my language.”
Deene said nothing. How Eve had managed to avoid disaster eluded him. Sheer grit, luck, skill… or her husband’s unceasing prayers. One more fence, and it would come down to a grueling test of stamina—a test where Dolan’s more experienced jockey and bigger horse might hold all the advantages.
