Page 71 of His Stolen Duchess
“Is this what I have to deal with now?” Lysander growled. “I was under the impression that I was taking you out for a pleasant afternoon, only to get ambushed by the two people closest to me. I hate to think what my enemies have in store for me.”
Georgina smiled as Lysander spoke, especially on seeing the slight curve at the corner of his mouth as he suppressed a smile. He was clearly enjoying the ribbing.
“Someone has to bring some light into this man’s life,” Thomas said, gesturing at Lysander. “Goodness knows he needs it.”
“I bring something to his life, but perhaps it is more chaos than light,” Georgina admitted.
“Whatever it is, it is clearly working,” Thomas said. “Now, I have done what I set out to do and formally met your lovely wife, so I will bid you good day. Perhaps I shall see you at the winner’s enclosure later this afternoon.”
“I look forward to it,” Lysander said dryly.
Georgina waited until Thomas was gone before she spoke again. “I didn’t mean to say anything out of turn. I hope you know that?—”
“Pay it no mind. I have thicker skin than most, and only Thomas knows how to get under it. That is his way of interacting with people, and I am heartened that you connected with him. No matter what he says, I know he is my friend. If it were someone else attacking me, he would turn on a penny and attack them back. You need not worry about anything you said.”
Georgina smiled again. Now that she thought about it, she could also detect some changes in Lysander since they’d wed. They were subtle and slight, and hard to define or quantify, but he was more open. He was easier to be around.
“Ah, this is the race I’ve been waiting for,” Lysander said. “Number seven.”
Georgina took up her small pair of binoculars and examined the starting line. The horses and jockeys were all in the starting enclosure, but the numbers on the horses were all visible. Each also had varied colors of cloth covering some of their bodies under and around the saddles.
“They all have names, don’t they?” Georgina asked.
“Our horse isAfternoon Teatime.”
Georgina smiled again. Not just at the funny name given to the horse, but at Lysander for calling the beastour horse.He had taken to calling thingstheirsinstead ofhis, even though they were rightly his possessions, and she didn’t want to lay claim to them just because they were married.
The connection was quite pleasant. It made Georgina feel they were joined by more than just an arrangement, and that they were a unit, not simply two individuals who happened to be married.
The enclosures at the start line opened, and the horses shot out. Georgina had no idea how long the race was or what jumps they were required to leap or avoid, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was Lysander’s excitement and animation, and she couldn’t help but join him in his merriment.
When Lysander stood up and cheered on the horse, so did Georgina.
“Come on, Afternoon Teatime!” she screamed.
Lysander was a little more reserved but still cheered his horse home. “Come on! That’s it!”
The finish line was directly in front of them. They both shouted and clapped excitedly as the horses crossed the finish line. Georgina stuck her hands up in the air in celebration, then turned to Lysander when she realized she hadn’t seen which horse had won.
“Second place,” he confirmed. “Nearly first, but a good result all the same. He’s a young horse, so he will only improve from here.”
Georgina’s smile faltered. She looked past Lysander to a small tent at the far end of the racecourse and spotted Lady Eastbeck staring back at her, not moving from her spot in the tent.
“Come,” Lysander said, taking her hand. “We will go down to congratulate everyone who made the result possible.”
Georgina’s eyes shifted back to Lysander as he spoke to her, then looked at the ground as she was led from the private box.
When she looked back at the tent, Lady Eastbeck was no longer there.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Smoke clung to his flesh like a second, suffocating skin.
The air was thick with the iron tang of blood and gunpowder, screams and gunfire indistinguishable in the gray murk.
A boy barely old enough to shave stared at him with death in his eyes. Lysander gripped his shoulders only to step into nothing, and fell into the icy black water.
The cold struck him like a cannonball, the weight of his soaked uniform dragging him down, down?—
