April 1802
THE STEADY DRIZZLE had turned to a downpour ten minutes
earlier and the lady clinging to Dermott Ramsay on the
high-lurching seat of his racing phaeton was not only
thoroughly drenched but furious. Which meant he'd have to
set her down at the next inn, practically ensuring Hilton
a win in their race to London. Damn Olivia anyway. He'd
not wanted to bring her along, but she'd coaxed with such
enticing fervor as they lay naked in her absent husband's
bed that morning, he'd found his better judgment overruled
by lust.
Again.
Damn.
He squinted into the driving rain, the road barely visible
through the deluge, but his Thoroughbreds were running
strongly despite the rough going, and if his racing
phaeton didn't snap an axle, by the grace of God and some
damned fine driving he would have won the race.
"Ram!" the countess screamed, her nails biting through the
fine wool of his coat as the carriage hit a pothole and
tilted crazily. "Put me down this instant!"
For a fleeting moment he was tempted to do just that, but
he was a gentleman for all his faults and couldn't indulge
his wishes and leave her in the middle of the muddy road.
He raised his voice enough to be heard against the
storm. "I'll set you down at The Swan in Chaldon."
"It's too far!"
While he agreed, it wasn't as though he had another
option. Forcing himself to a politesse he was far from
feeling with his chance of winning virtually destroyed, he
shouted, "Just ten minutes more and you'll be dry!"
"I should never have let you talk me into coming along!
Look at my bonnet and gown!" she cried. "And the state of
my . . ." Her voice died away, the glance he shother way
chill enough to silence even the overweening vanity of
London's most celebrated beauty.
The rest of the wet, miserable journey to Chaldon passed
in silence.
Bringing his matched pair to a plunging stop outside the
entrance to The Swan, the Earl of Bathurst tossed his
reins to an ostler and leaped to the ground. He was around
to the countess's side in a few racing strides, his arms
lifted to catch her. Carrying her inside, he bespoke a
room, set her down, paid the innkeeper a generous sum over
and above the required amount to assure his companion
would have every comfort, and bowed to the lady who had
cost him not only the race but a ten-thousand-guinea
wager. "I'll send my carriage for you in the morning."
Without waiting for a reply, he strode back outside.
Hilton had passed him, of course. He'd been close on his
heels since Red Hill. Dermott didn't need the ostler's
report to know he'd been bested. Softly cursing, he tossed
the man a guinea, vaulted back onto the phaeton seat, and
snatched up the reins.
It wasn't as though he'd not been behind in a race before,
he thought, taking heart from the instant response of his
powerful grays. Their will to win matched his, and his
Thoroughbreds and custom-made phaeton had garnered more
than their share of racing wagers in the past few
years. "Come on, sweethearts," he crooned, leaning forward
on the high-perched seat, knowing they recognized not only
his voice but his urgency. "Let's see if we can catch
them."
Their ears pricked forward, then twitched as though
signaling their acknowledgment, and their strides
lengthened.
A half hour later, Hilton's phaeton rose out of the gray
mist, the outline faint in the distance. Dermott's
nostrils flared as though catching the scented hint of
victory. He'd raised his grays from foals and knew them as
well as he knew his own family. Better, his mother would
complain on occasion. "Here we go now, darlings," he
murmured, letting the reins slide through his gloved
fingers, giving his racers their heads.
It was a slow, laborious undertaking with Hilton's horses
renowned for their speed. But Dermott's team slowly gained
ground, and when they were within passing range, Hilton
did what any driver who wanted to win would do. He moved
squarely into the center of the road.
Boldness was required now, perhaps a rash tempting of
providence as well with the possibility of an approaching
carriage ever present. Not to mention the threat of a
hidden pothole lying in wait to snap a horse's leg, or the
critical question of passing space. But long celebrated
for his audacity, the young Earl of Bathurst had been
recklessly testing the limits of self-destruction for over
a decade.
He began easing his grays to the left, the surface
quagmire looking a modicum better on that side.
Hilton moved left as well.
The earl countered by directing his team to the right.
After a quick glance over his shoulder, the Duke of Hilton
immediately blocked Dermott's attempt to pass on the
right, and a continuing shift from left to right and back
again ensued for the next several milesโat tearing speeds.
Dermott watched Hilton's Yorkshire chestnuts for signs of
fatigue, aware of Hilton's rough hands, his habit of
hauling on the reins playing havoc with his horses' mouths
and confidence. He could see Hilton's team jostle against
each other several times, their momentary distress
evident. And then suddenly Dermott saw his chance, the
shoulder of the road ahead widening for perhaps a hundred
yards. With boldness he swung his team over, forcing them
into the meager space.
At times like this, nerve alone prevailed. Either Hilton
or Dermott would have to give way. Dermott's grays
valiantly obeyed his command, plunging forward as if they
had the open downs before them instead of an impossibly
narrow passage.
When the duke realized Dermott's intent, he held his
ground, although his gloved hands nervously tightened on
the reins and his mouth narrowed into a grim line.
"Get out of the way!" Exhilaration resonated in Dermott's
cry, and a madcap triumph that overlooked all but the
thrill of winning. The grays responded with a surge of
power, mud flying from their pounding hooves, their
courage and heart surmounting the foul weather and wicked
footing.
The phaeton wheels inched closer and closer as Dermott
began drawing even with the duke, disaster only a
hairbreadth away now, the possibility of slipping sideways
in the treacherous mire not only real but likely. It was a
moment when a prudent man might contemplate whether such a
race was worth one's life.
A second passed, two, then three, the racing horses neck
and neck, the phaeton wheels slicing through the soft
roadbed, the drivers so close, they could have touched
whips.
The vehicles careened over the crest of a hill and the
dangerous, infamous Danner curve suddenly loomed.
Death faced them head-on.
Hilton hauled on his reins.
Dermott smiled and shot past.
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