Page 59 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
“Two miles, three furlongs,” commented Sidney, squinting into the sunlight.“Mostly flat, bit of a climb in one section.”
Eighteen horses stretched away from them, galloping up a slight incline towards the first bend.In the whirl of mud and clattering hooves, picking out Benedict’s black silks was nigh on impossible, though Tommy spotted Tuppence Tilly, the piebald mare, haring up the inside, a length ahead of the rest.He gripped the rail harder.
“Don’t fret.His Grace’ll be pacing himself.Young Tilly will weary over the last quarter.Just watch.Yer fella will come good in the last third.That Ganymede is the best stayer in the field.”
Tommy’s heart was in his mouth.He wished he had an ounce of Sidney’s confidence.Benedict hadn’t raced in years.What if he took a tumble?A rider had been trampled to death at Newmarket last year, his neck snapped under the weight of fifteen thoroughbreds stamping on it.As the riders disappeared behind a copse over the far side of the track, Tommy blew out a long breath, searching the sea of faces for Lord Lyndon.
The duke’s brother remained rooted to the same spot as if cast from stone.This close, Tommy could almost smell the venom.He prayed Benedict knew what he was doing.
A rallying cheer went up as the race came back into view.Cursing he wasn’t taller, Tommy craned around the shoulders and broad chest of the man to his left.
“Can you see him?”He pawed at Sidney’s arm as if trying to scale him.
“Yes, they’re neck and neck!Come on, lad!”Sidney’s fists clenched as tightly as Tommy’s.“Yer fella and the mare, out front by a couple of lengths.The field’s thinned out.Two riderless horses.A couple of fallers, too, by the looks of things.”
But not Benedict.Thank the Lord.As the racers pelted along the back straight, the air filled with thegalalopgalalopof hooves.They bore down towards the finish line, drumming louder still, the ground reverberating as if the very pit of the earth were rising.Benedict, black as night, sat up out of the saddle, his taut, muscular frame hunched over Ganymede’s flowing mane.Like a poised black comma, his mouth whispered in the horse’s ear, pressing them forwards, urging him on.
Tommy clutched Sidney’s arm, and his friend’s low chuckle was lost in the clamour of a thousand voices hollering.A whistle shrieked.A child screamed.Gloves, fans, pocket squares, and scarves waved madly.Feet stomped.
And Ganymede’s nose inched ahead.The piebald mare was tiring, her jockey standing out of his seat, too, the whip in his spur hand a dark, ugly blur of motion.
“Go on, my lad, go on,” bellowed Sidney.“Sock it to ’em!”And as Ganymede’s neck pulled clear, “Goonnn!”
Tommy could hardly bring himself to watch.He certainly forgot to breathe.A whole body length separated the two front runners—daylight flashed between them as Ganymede, with the scent of victory within his grasp, pulled away, unstoppable.The cheering crowd knew it, too, pushing Benedict onwards to the finish line.
And then, as soon as it had begun, it was all over.The fourteenth duke crossed the line, modest as ever.Not even raising a triumphant fist, simply easing up and cantering past the winning post like he was riding through another daisy-freckled pasture.Like he and Ganymede were out for a hack, racing through the countryside for the sheer thrill of being alive.
Sidney mopped sweat from his brow with a filthy, chequered pocket square.“Bloody brilliant,” he declared, then beamed his big, gaping grin.“I told yer he’d do it, Tommy, and he bloody did!”
Tommy hugged him.It was that or collapse in a dead faint.They’d taken it in turns to hold each other up over the years, and today was Tommy’s.“Yes!He bloody did, Sid, he bloody did!”
With his earthy bulk and strong arms, Sidney hugged him back before gently depositing him back on the ground.“I warn you now, Tommy.”He chuckled then dropped his voice.“If His Grace loves you as much as he loves that there horse, your bum’s in for a right pummelling tonight.”
Tommy barely managed an obscene gesture, never mind a witty riposte.He still felt as if he’d run the race himself on two wobbly legs.His heart shot through with pride as he searched the crowd for Lord Lyndon.Then searched again.
“He’s buggered off,” Sidney remarked.“If he’s bet as heavily with the other blacklegs as he’s bet on ours, he’ll be five hundred quid out of pocket by the end of the afternoon.He’ll be singing for his supper.”
He’d be singing something, that was for sure.There would be no stopping him now.Singing it loud and clear and making sure the wholetonheard his voice.
Chapter Twenty-Three
AT SEVEN O’CLOCKthat evening, the fourteenth Duke of Ashington alighted from his carriage outside the Earl of Horton’s sprawling townhouse.Gritting his teeth, he straightened his evening coat and stared up at the myriad of lights sparkling from the tall windows.
The afternoon had been nothing but a dress rehearsal, albeit a faultless one.This evening, the curtain would rise on the grand finale.
“Feeling rakish?”an amused voice enquired.
“Hardly.”
His beloved Tommy slouched against Rossingley’s carriage.“You certainly played the part well this afternoon,” Tommy continued.“It was a heart-stopping performance.Literally.”Though the gentlest of teasing smiles played at his lips, anxiety flitted across his gaze.Mirroring Benedict’s own soul.
“Thank you,” Benedict acknowledged.“I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I thoroughly enjoyed myself.But now?”He glanced back to the Earl of Horton’s solid red door.“Bloody terrified.”
Benedict’s joy from his spectacular romp to victory had long fled.Disquiet for the evening ahead manifested as a throbbing in his temples, twinned with a hard, cramping knot in his belly.However, the sight of Tommy, elegant in full evening dress and fondly smiling at him, lessened his afflictions somewhat.
Benedict would give anything to hold him.Alas, his gaze alone would have to be enough, if only for these few minutes.To gain strength from him.To declare his love.Because who knew how tonight would end?
“Do you know what terrifies me the most?”Glancing around, checking they were alone, Benedict took a step closer.“It’s about more than simply walking into that ballroom.”He lowered his voice.“It’s…it’s never feeling the rest of my whole life how I felt as I made love to you in my bed at the lodge.”Safe.Cherished.“I’m scared of my heart.How it stops and starts, simply at the very sight of you.And losing that sight forever.”
