Secrets of a Scandalous Bride Read online

  Rowland lowered his eyes.

  “Why are you letting Pymm have her, man?” Michael whispered.

  He refused to answer.

  His brother made an annoyed sound.

  Fury grew to epic proportions in his veins. “What? You think she’ll find a happy future with someone formed from the muck of the Thames? Someone very likely to end up back there, the way things are going, damnation. You want her to share in the illegitimacy of my mother’s Irish name, and sleep every night with a bastard who has seen and done nearly every atrocity invented by the bloody humanity you’re so fond of, Brother? Is that what you would have for Miss Elizabeth Ashburton, the innocent daughter of a gentleman?” He felt the warm muzzle of his mare searching his palm. “Leave it, Michael. You know nothing of the matter.”

  “Let me guess. You think she’d be happier living in pampered splendor and so you deny yourself? You have changed.” He shook his head. “The one time your selfishness should make an appearance, and instead you insist on being noble.”

  “Noble,” he sneered. “I don’t know the meaning of the word, Michael.” He refused to add to the misery by revealing the real reason Elizabeth would be forced into marriage. Pymm’s murderous blackmail was not a secret that was his to tell. And none of that made a bit of bloody difference.

  Michael sighed. “I have one last piece of unsolicited advice for you.”

  “More?” he replied, incredulous. “God, no. Stop while I let you still stand.”

  Michael ignored him. “I suggest you picture Pymm on his wedding night as he debauches Elizabeth Ashburton’s innocence. She’ll be forced to lie under a man she thinks killed her father—whether he did or not.”

  A tiny sliver of ice cracked loose from Rowland’s frozen heart. “Get the hell out of my sight,” he growled. He was a whisper away from grabbing his bullwhip and thrashing that knowing look off of Michael’s face. Damned idiot.

  At least the damned idiot knew when he’d exhausted his welcome.

  Rowland spent the rest of the evening plotting out the ride tomorrow. It would be the greatest long shot. Still. When Vespers was on her game…He looked up to find his youngest stable hand bearing a small tray.

  What in hell?

  “From Miss Ashburton, Master. She said to tell you that it was prepared by her own hand. She also said…”

  “Spill it, Bobby.”

  “…that I was to make sure you ate it so you’ll have a little strength,” he said quietly. “Said she made just what you like.”

  He stared down at one boiled egg, two pieces of bread, an apple, and a small pot of tea. Finally. She listened after all. He hesitated for a long moment before he ate and drank without a drop of remorse for the first time in his miserable life. He hadn’t eaten in over a day and this wouldn’t make a difference in his weight tomorrow other than to give him some small amount of strength, something the last meal she had forced down his gullet had done.

  After, Rowland put away the drawing of the racecourse and bedded down in the corner of Vespers’s stall. He’d be damned before he’d let anyone else watch over her. Bloody Tattersall and his underhanded maneuver. He yawned so widely, his jaw cracked.

  The edge of dawn dashed across the evening sky, chasing night away with its gold-and rose-tinted chariots. Elizabeth dressed in haste, grabbing the most important item—the black wig.

  This was complete and utter madness. But for the first time in weeks she felt free of all the bindings of her wretched life—and certain she was right. She could do this. She knew she could. Her father would be proud of her. That, in and of itself, was enough.

  And really, it was the only way. She had so little to lose. She had tried patience and demure living, and it had gotten her nowhere. It felt so good to act, and it felt even better to help someone.

  It was amazing how easy it had been to get Michael and all of Manning’s men in the stable to do her bidding. All those hours in the kitchen had stood her well. The men would have dug a pathway to China if she had asked.

  And Michael. For some odd reason, he seemed even more eager than she. After she had escaped Pymm’s cloying words and touches throughout the royal ball, Michael had spent an hour with her discussing strategy, the other horses, riders, and above all, when to make the final push. She tried to take comfort in the knowledge that Michael and Mr. Lefroy would not allow this if they didn’t think she had an excellent chance of success. Each told her to trust Vespers, the most talented mare they’d ever seen. She was to stay far on the outside, avoid any hint of danger.

  She refused to consider for a moment what Rowland would do to them all after the fact. It was too terrifying. And she was depending on success to soften his ire.

  Now if she could just count on Sarah to play her part in the charade. It would be the last time she would ask anything of her.

  Rowland struggled to grasp onto consciousness. What in hell was wrong with him? He cracked open his peepers and just beyond him, a shaft of sunlight filtered through the stall door, piercing the darkness and illuminating the dust motes hanging in the air.

  “Morning, Master.” Lefroy’s groggy voice filled his brain.

  Using all his effort, he turned his head slightly. Something was very wrong. It was too bright, and his head felt like three stone. Lefroy lay sprawled against the other side of the stall.

  He had the notion that there was something very important on which he needed to focus. Something vital. His mouth tasted dry and bitter. “What in hell,” he grunted.

  “Laudanum,” Lefroy said, lying back down with a small groan.

  And then the truth rushed to his mind like a furious tempest. Good God. It was Ladies Day at Royal Ascot—the Gold Cup race. He swung to his feet, swaying terribly. His head swam. “Where the bloody hell is everyone?” he rasped. “What time is it?”

  “About eleven—at a guess, sir. They’re at the course.”

  With the vilest curse imaginable he wrenched his body forward. “Old man, you are relieved. Without notice. Hell, where’s my bloody whip? I’ll thrash you until you regret the day you first saw my face.”

  “I already do, sir,” Lefroy replied with a wan smile. “Most days, that is.”

  God, his head was as muzzy as a gin addict’s, his balance completely off. What had Lefroy said before? “Laudanum,” he whispered to himself.

  “I think she put it in your tea last night.”

  His mind was ratcheting back into some semblance of order. Only one person…a thousand thoughts cascaded into place. The bloody little fool. She’d break her neck.

  He staggered to the edge of the stall and called to the nearest hand. His orders were so coarse and his tone so black, the devil himself would have jumped to attention.

  It took less than a half hour for Rowland to ride the six miles from Windsor to the course at Ascot. His head traveled a mere quarter mile behind him. It took nearly half as long again to negotiate the crowd of fashionable fribble crowding the royal enclosure. Wasp-waisted gentlemen strolled in formal wear with ladies draped on their arms. The bloody females tried to outdo one another with ridiculous hats and gowns of every hue and shape.

  The stands were full to bursting with more than ten score of spectators determined to see who would take home the prestigious prize.

  He grabbed a gentleman’s arm without preamble. “The Gold Cup,” he sputtered, out of breath, “has it gone?”

  The gentleman pulled away from him with a dark glare. “I would thank you to not—”

  “Bloody, sodding hell. Has it gone?” he shouted.

  The female on his arm looked him over with a giggle. “It’s about to begin, Mr. Manning. Look…” She pointed toward the starting stand, where a dozen or more horses jockeyed for position.

  He began to cut through the crowd using all his remaining strength. His eyes scanned the lineup, searching among the riders for the dark blue and gold colors of his livery. He found Vespers first, her form a half a hand taller than the rest of the field.
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  As he zigzagged past the last stragglers in the throng, he finally allowed himself to see what he had known he would find.

  His gut fell to his feet. The most hideous black wig, now cut short, peeked out from under the traditional jockey cap. The imbecile. She was going to be killed.

  He shouted but instinctively knew it was too late. The flag dropped. The crush of race horses sprang forward en masse. Cursing a blue streak, he dashed to the starting stand, his eyes never wavering from the woman whose neck he would break if she didn’t manage to do it on her own in the next few minutes.

  Clenching his fists, he reached the two men he would later torture privately with his own hands.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in a venomous spew.

  The Duke of Helston and the Earl of Wallace turned their heads in unison and had the good sense to take a step away from him.

  “You didn’t forget that pistol, did you?” the earl said with a hint of fear to his ducal partner in crime.

  “I wouldn’t waste your time worrying,” Helston replied with false assurance. “Manning doesn’t have that damned murderous whip in hand.”

  “I always knew peers were dicked in the nob. But…you are both beyond every expectation, allowing her to ride. I—oh, for godsakes, please tell me she isn’t carrying a whip.” He was paralyzed with fear as he watched her battling in the rear of the pack.

  “Of course not,” Michael said. “What do you take us for? Lefroy and I told her everything she needed to know.”

  “What about the part about my locking her in a stall, and feeding her hay and water for the rest of her life?”

  He felt a dig in his ribs and half turned to see the Dowager Duchess of Helston. “I can’t see anything. Lift me up, Mr. Manning.”

  “Ata,” the duke groaned. “You’re supposed to be in the stands distracting General Pymm with Sarah, Wymith, and Grace.”

  “He refuses to be distracted. And I refuse to be anywhere near John Brown while he sits beside that—that—”

  “Now, Ata,” the earl said. “He doesn’t care a whit about the Countess of Home. I keep telling you that you mustn’t let Mr. Brown see an inch of your anger. He’s testing you. He’s—”

  “Oh, bloody hell, shut up,” Rowland shouted. “Oh God—”

  A thousand people gasped as they watched Vespers stumble, and then right herself, in the famous long, climbing section of the course.

  “She’s lost a stirrup…” he breathed. “She’s going to fall. She’s going to finish last, and dead.”

  “Look, she’s retrieved it,” Michael replied. “Stop mother henning. She’s closing with the pack.”

  The tight loop of the track loomed. It was the one place the tall mare had to hang back. The only section she had a prayer of making up ground was in the long, straight stretch at the end. But apparently that witch, Elizabeth Ashburton, had not a clue. His eyes bugging out, he watched her surge toward the dangerous inside. Miraculously, Vespers raised her tail and unleashed her hindquarters, squeezing between the rail and a small chestnut who had begun to flag. Vespers overtook half the field in the maneuver.

  A roar of approval echoed from the massive stand. There was less than a mile left.

  Rowland tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and could not move. He couldn’t hear another bloody thing as he watched. All he could see was a stand of raised whips flaying the air.

  He clenched something and realized someone had slipped a small spyglass into his hand. He raised it to his eye, his hand fluttering like a damned flag. And in that moment he spied the terrified expression of the woman he could not live without.

  Oh God.

  Chapter 11

  “She’s making headway.” His brother’s voice was filled with awe.

  Ata giggled with glee and jumped up and down like a girl of six and ten.

  “I’ll say,” the Duke of Helston added, without his usual blasé drawl. “And in fine form.”

  “Except that wig,” Michael said with a crazy shout of laughter.

  Half a mile. And then he foresaw catastrophe. She was three from the lead now, neck and neck with Tattersall’s gray gelding, and easing slightly ahead. In a flash, Tatt’s jockey raised his whip and brought it down on Vespers’s rump.

  The mare kicked out, allowing the gray to surge forward. Worse, Elizabeth’s balance was lost. Rowland’s eyes nearly peeled out of his head. He was witnessing death.

  His own.

  Her breath caught, her mouth as dry as the desert and filled with its grit. She held on to Vespers’s mane with a death grip and she willed herself to stay on. Her legs felt numb as she clamped them as hard as she could around Vespers’s barrel while she tried to regather a proper seat. “Steady,” she gasped more to herself than to the mare. Inch by inch she righted herself even though it cost her in speed.

  It was almost impossible to see past the flying hooves of the small pack in front of her. Two, maybe three horses stood between her and the final stretch. In the large dip of the course she kept to the outside, knowing she could not chance another encounter with a jockey’s whip. If she was to have a chance, she would have to stay clear of others and let Vespers do the work.

  At that moment the jockey who’d had the audacity to whip the mare turned and grinned at her.

  Elizabeth’s fury nearly blinded her. “Come on, girl,” she gritted out. The horse responded like an arrow let loose from a bow with the wind behind it.

  Her hands rocked with the ground-churning motions of the mare as Vespers bore down on two horses and passed them at the start of the straight stretch.

  This was her last chance. Elizabeth’s heart was in her dry throat as she urged Vespers forward. As she closed the gap between Vespers and Tattersall’s gray in front of her, Rowland’s face flashed in her mind. “Do it for him, girl…Please.” It was as if the mare understood her, and they rocketed forward.

  Elizabeth was still urging Vespers on when she discerned that the roar in her ears was not from galloping horses but rather from the crowd’s cheers. She dared to glance to the rear and saw the other horses far behind her. The race had ended a full furlong ago.

  At least Vespers was smart enough to know it, for Elizabeth was frozen. The mare slowed to a trot, her sides heaving, and then came to a standstill as someone caught her reins.

  Elizabeth looked down, nearly blind. His gaze met hers. Gone was the usual blank mask he wore. Pure, wild fury overflowed his luminous eyes. As others reached them in the middle of the track, it was his hands that gripped her waist and tried to lift her off.

  But she was stuck like a burr in shaggy fur, and couldn’t move. “Release your legs,” he said an octave lower and harsher than the excited voices circling them.

  Legs? She had legs? And then she couldn’t stop the trembling.

  “Make way,” he barked behind him. She felt him disengaging her boot from the stirrup, and then in one awkward, wrenching movement he pried her from the saddle and placed her on the ground. The track rose up to meet her and he grabbed her about the waist again before she fell. Her legs did not seem to be able to support her. They felt boneless, useless.

  “I’ll get her out of here, Manning,” a low voice said, that sounded remarkably like the Duke of Helston.

  Elizabeth finally managed a croak of sound. “Did Vespers…did we win?”

  “Of course you won,” Michael shouted, his laughter nearly overcoming him.

  A blaze of voices rang with congratulations and awe. But there was only one she wanted to hear. The only one who would not speak to her—Rowland.

  Instead, he transferred her body to the Duke of Helston. “Take her away from here. Don’t let Pymm find her.”

  What should have been the greatest moment in her scandal-riddled life was fast becoming one of her bleakest as the Duke of Helston’s strong arms carried her far from the grandstand, Michael in front of her, hiding her from the curious onlookers. She struggled to see Rowland leading Vespers toward the winner’s green
. His back was stiff until the mare nudged her nose under his arm, seeking his praise.

  A carriage waited for Elizabeth, and the two lords bundled her inside.

  The petite form of the dowager duchess awaited her.

  “You’re to go to the Horse-Shoe Cloisters just inside Windsor’s gates,” Michael urged Ata. “The driver knows, and everything’s been arranged.”

  When the door closed the deluge of emotion Elizabeth had held tightly within flooded her eyes, threatening to streak down her dirt-caked face.

  They were waiting for him when he reached the winner’s green. The corpulent form of the Prince Regent stood slightly in front of General Pymm and the Duke of Wellington. The latter looked like he’d be far more at his ease in a battlefield than milling about this fancy crowd.

  “Hear, hear, Manning!” the prince crowed. “Well done, man. Knew you could do it. Although”—and here the prince leaned forward conspiratorially—“I’d cut Pymm a wide berth if I were you. He bet on the wrong man—or woman, if I have the right of it.” The prince winked.

  The Duke of Wellington shook his hand without a word, his usual serious expression gracing the hawk-like face.

  “Give him the trophy, Pymm. That’s it, dear boy. You never were a good loser—thank God, for England.”

  A small bouquet of flowers was tucked under Vespers’s saddle flap and General Pymm drew close to hand Rowland the Gold Cup, inscribed with the previous winners of the most prestigious race in England’s history. A false smile plastered Pymm’s face, while beads of perspiration lined his brow and ruined the row of blond curls there.

  “Good show, Manning,” he said loudly. “Congratulations.”

  There was little surprise as the general closed the gap and lowered his voice. “Sorry to inform I won’t require those cavalry horses after all, Manning. Too bad, isn’t it? I should have known a bastard like you wouldn’t be able to understand such simple terms.”

  “What’s that, Pymm?” The prince stepped forward.

  “Just inviting Mr. Manning to my wedding, Your Majesty.”