*
By the timeshe’d reached Hyde Park sitting properly astride her thoroughbred, Aisha—which meant alive and well in Arabic—instead of in a sidesaddle, her heartbeat raced from excitement. She’d also chosen not to appear in public in the trappings of feminine mourning. Instead, she’d delved into William’s closet. That foray had led to her donning an old pair of his breeches from some years back in a tan color as well as a loose-fitting lawn shirt. Paired with well-scuffed boots she’d borrowed from one of the stable lads, there was no doubt in her mind that she’d create the scandal of the year.
Her lips curved with a wicked grin. Oh, this was just the sort of fun she’d lacked over the weeks! She’d managed to sneak out of the house on the pretense of taking a walk while the rest of the household attended to the last of the packing. William had indicated that he would imminently visit with Cousin Andrew to discuss the possibility of taking Caroline with them.
All the better. With the men occupied and quite possibly arguing over her adamantly stubborn sister’s immediate future, Isobel could do what she pleased without having her disgrace discovered prematurely.
I don’t care what anyone says. I’ll live how I wish or die trying.If she wasn’t good enough for the people around her, she’d at least come up to her own marks and be proud. This is who I am. A pox on everyone else.
She led Aisha along the road. As she crept closer to the start of the racecourse, a small knot of people had formed on either side of the gate. Isobel grinned. This was what she loved, the thrill of indulging in scandal to the entertainment of others. How did she think she could have given such a thing up for a man?
“Miss Storme!” Lord Alder’s grin was wide when he caught sight of her. There was no doubt in her mind that the black charger he sat atop held banked strength. Hyde Park wasn’t the sort of place where such a horse could be given his head, and he was a massive equine besides. But she had faith in William’s thoroughbred. Though what her brother needed such a horse for, she couldn’t say. “I didn’t know if you truly meant to show up this afternoon.” Appreciation lit his gaze as he drew it up and down her frame. “And in such dress.”
“Of course I did.” She glanced down at herself and her dark brown hair in a thick braid fell over her left shoulder. “This is vastly more comfortable than navigating a horse in skirts.”
“I should have argued for higher stakes in this wager,” he said in a lowered voice. “Perhaps the chance to pay court to you.”
Heat went through her cheeks. “We can talk about that once the race is over.” Though it was quite flattering to have a man show interest in her, it rang entirely too false. Lord Alder didn’t possess magnificent, fiery hair like a certain doctor, nor did he have the sort of anchoring spirit she needed to stay grounded.
Then she pushed all thoughts of Royce from her mind. He’d made his choice. So had she. It was time to move into the future without him.
“Are you ready to begin, Miss Storme?”
“Oh, absolutely.” For too long she’d waited for her life to start, for her to take up a new adventure and find a new way forward. Isobel leaned down and stroked her horse’s neck. “I know you can do this, girl.”
The horse flicked her ears in reply and danced impatiently beneath her.
Isobel frowned. Knots of concern pulled in her belly. She’d only ridden Aisha a couple of times since the horse had come into William’s possession. The true personality of the animal hadn’t come to light yet. Would that prove a folly during the race? Then she glanced at Lord Alder and smiled. “The question really is: are you ready?”
“I am.” He nodded and gathered his reins more tightly in his hand as his black horse danced. “I’ve long awaited the day you’d take notice of me.”
Perhaps we’re all wishing someone of consequence will pay us attention because our lives are lacking something vital.
And wasn’t that a sad commentary on life?
“Then I hope you’ll impress me, Lord Alder.” She guided her horse forward through the gate and to the point where they would begin. As the peer drew his mount alongside hers, she gazed over some of the assembled crowds. When she spied bright red hair beneath a top hat, her heart squeezed and excitement tumbled down her spine, but upon further inspection, it wasn’t Royce. It was, however, his brother Trey. He shot her a fierce scowl, but she gave him a merry wave. Let him go find his brother and tell him that she was doing just fine without him.
“So do I,” her racing partner said, and the sound of his voice pulled her wandering thoughts back to the task at hand. “You’re rather a paragon, Miss Storme. An unachievable goal, a rare and unconventional diamond many men would die to possess.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed at his praise. Why couldn’t Royce see the situation like that? “How sweet of you to say, Lord Alder, but perhaps we should concentrate on the race?”
“Of course.” He nudged his mount a few inches closer to hers. “On my mark.” When she nodded, he said, “Three, two, one. Go!”
Isobel dug her bootheels into Aisha sides. “Come on, girl!” She leaned forward over the horse’s neck and held the reins tight as her heartbeat surged.
For a few minutes, her horse and Lord Alder’s remained neck and neck. He tossed her a victorious grin, but that only motivated her to encourage her to try all the harder to gain the lead.
Then, on a bend as they raced along a portion of the Serpentine, Lord Alder took the lead. He laughed with good-natured glee, which earned him a scowl from Isobel.
“Give me all you have, girl,” she whispered to her horse and leaned even further over the equine’s neck, rising in her stirrups as she did so. She was a lighter rider and her horse not as heavy as her opponent; surely that would give her the advantage.
They swept down the bridle path at reckless speeds, scattering unwary riders and pedestrians in their wake. A few men followed after them on horseback or with curricles, for no doubt this scheme had wagers hanging on it.
Isobel blocked out everything from her mind as she put the whole of her attention onto beating Lord Alder. The rhythmic pound of hooves thundered in her ears. Sweat plastered the shirt to her back despite the camisole she wore beneath it. Her heartbeat swished through her veins with every curve and straightaway in their path.
All too soon they made the transfer to the last stretch of the race. The light, annoying rain that had seen them off at the beginning of the race changed into more steady precipitation. The bridle path, already pock-marked with hoof prints and ruts, gave up the ghost into mud and puddles, but still they raced.
Water ran into Isobel’s face and soaked her braid. It made the back of the reddish-brown thoroughbred slick and smooth. The pungent scents of sweat and horseflesh and mud wafted to her nose. With her chest tight with anticipation and exhilaration she once more stood in the stirrups. The goal was nearly in sight.