Page 17 of The Duke of Daring (The Untouchables)
“Faster!” Charles called from the rear of the vehicle as soon as they left the traffic of the city.
Andrew grinned, more than happy to oblige. He urged the horses to a greater speed, their hooves pounding the road on the way to Westbourne. The day was cool but dry. The feel of the brisk air against his face was exhilarating. It was moments like these that made his life palatable. Worthwhile, even.
The memory of the first time he’d ridden so fast that he’d nearly lost control assaulted him. Sometimes that happened when he drove—he’d relax and the old thoughts and dark emotions swelled inside him until he could feel the loss of his family anew. Especially the most agonizing—the last one to die, his beloved brother. After weeks of harrowing illness during which each one had been stricken and taken from him, Andrew hadn’t had any tears left to shed. So he’d climbed on his horse and ridden as fast as he could. He’d ridden as if he could overtake death and bring Bertie back. But he couldn’t.
Realizing his hold on the reins was far too tight, Andrew forced himself to release the tension burrowing through him. He shoved the bitter memories to the recesses of his soul, to where they festered and ate at him, but where he could ignore them for the most part.
He drove the team faster, aware that a corner was coming. He didn’t slow. He heard an intake of breath behind him. Beaumont probably. He didn’t like to go quite as fast as the rest of them. Thursby was a member of the Four Horse Club along with Andrew, while Charles was hoping to gain membership. That was, in fact, the purpose of their endeavor today. Charles was going to practice so that he might finally be invited to join.
Andrew took the corner without slowing. The barouche tilted, but the wheels never left the ground, and the horses were confident, eager even, under Andrew’s hand.
“Hell’s teeth, man!” Beaumont exclaimed. “Are you trying to kill us all?”
Thursby, a convivial gent nearly ten years older than Andrew’s twenty-nine years, laughed and looked back over his shoulder. “You’re in excellent hands with Dart.”
Andrew slowed the horses as they reached Westbourne. “It’s time for Charles to take his turn anyway.”
“Heaven help me,” Beaumont said. “He’s nowhere near as skilled as you.”
“There’s no call to be an arse,” Charles said. “I’ve become quite good.”
Andrew wasn’t certain he’d term Charles’s abilities as “quite good,” but they were more than adequate. The question was whether he’d be good enough for the Four Horse Club, and it would be up to him and Thursby to recommend him. So far, they hadn’t felt comfortable doing so. It was a select and prestigious group, and its members had to demonstrate superior skill.
Andrew pulled into the park and drew the team to a halt.
“I thought you might invite your new friend, Smitty,” Beaumont observed.
Andrew turned his head. “And where would s—he have sat?” Damn, he’d almost referred to her as a she.
“I heard he’s quite the sharpshooter,” Charles said to Andrew. “We should meet at Manton’s one day. I’ll wager you can hit more targets than him.”
A thought occurred to Andrew. If Miss Parnell came along with him to a few events such as a phaeton race or shooting practice, she could wager without the danger of the hells. There was still a risk that her identity would be exposed, but she was awfully good at her disguise. It was something to consider. He’d ask her about it at their next appointment or perhaps earlier if he managed to see her.
He hoped it was the latter. The desire to see her dressed as a woman had become a fascination. Last night, he’d dreamt of her without the sideburns. He envisioned her with dark blonde hair, rich and thick like honey. She possessed a trim waist with a supple curve to her hips. In the dream, he’d started to remove her clothing, but he’d awakened before he could see what was underneath.
“Are you ready to switch?” Charles asked, jolting Andrew from his reverie.
“Yes.” He leapt out of the barouche to check the horses while Charles moved to the driver’s seat. Thursby climbed to the backseat, which Charles had vacated. After surveying his team, Andrew took Thursby’s place beside Charles. “I think I shall attend Lady Colne’s ball tonight. Anyone else going?”
Charles turned his head and stared at him. “You’re going to a ball? Why?”
Beaumont sat forward, his fair brows drawn into a knot. “Yes, why?”
Thursby, the only married one among them, chuckled. “Perhaps Dart has decided it’s time to do his duty. We all get there eventually.” He’d wed just three years ago, so he spoke from experience.
Andrew shuddered. “Marriage is not my plan, gents, rest assured. It’s just been a while, and you know me, I like to do a little bit of everything.” In truth, he hoped to encounter Miss Parnell. His curiosity was quite simply getting the best of him.
“This is true,” Charles said, nodding. “How goes your plan for ballooning?”
Flying was Andrew’s newest scheme. That distant memory assailed him again. Bertie’s feeble voice telling Andrew not to worry, that he would soon get to fly—with the angels. Bertie had been obsessed with flying, saying he longed to be a bird and soar high above the trees. Andrew meant to do it for him.
“I’ve corresponded with Sadler, and we’re finalizing plans for his ascension next week.” James Sadler was the leading aeronaut in England, a brilliant fellow who was as much an inventor as a balloonist. He had an exhibition scheduled from Burlington House and had agreed to take Andrew with him for a fee, which Andrew had willingly paid. He looked up at the sky, clotted with gray-white clouds, and imagined the sensation of being up there, of looking down at everything in miniature detail.
“Damn me,” Beaumont said, whistling. “You couldn’t pay me to do that, and I certainly wouldn’t pay for the chance!”
“I don’t know. It might be fun.” Charles grinned at his passengers and rubbed his hands together. “Everyone ready?”
“Remember to focus on the corners,” Andrew said. “And watch your grip. My team is sensitive. They won’t like it if you’re too heavy-handed.”
