Page 10 of Lessons for Marquesses
Another rider joined, his features above his square jaw obscured by his blue cocked hat. But what she could see of his face stirred familiarity.
The first man gleefully apprised the newly arrived man of their dilemma. “Philips, your deep experience of the fairer sex is required. Is this”—he pointed to Georgiana—"in fact, a female?”
A flush hot as a brush fire lit Georgiana’s cheeks. The man was familiar because he was her cousin, Anthony Philips. A distant cousin with a ready smirk from the time he had been breeched. Perhaps, earlier than that.
Anthony lifted his chin, his glittering blue eyes bloodshot. He sauntered his horse about and coming behind her, pressed a hand down Georgiana’s lower back. “Perhaps we should ascertain by more experiential methods. What say you, sweeting? Care for aride?”
In the rising pitch of ribald laughter, Anthony’s hand slid to her backside.
“Anthony it’s me,” she said between her teeth. "George.”
He merely hummed, too engrossed in squeezing her buttocks. Georgiana raised her riding crop.
A woman’s shout pierced the air. “Enough!”
The men twisted in their saddles to regard Charlotte in the middle of the road. “Gentlemen. If I may be so indulgent as to refer to you as such. Leave my niece alone and be on your way this instant or you will face my wrath.
“And you.” Charlotte jabbed at Anthony, who quickly snatched his hand away. “You with your hand upon her esteemed person. If you do not fear for my wrath, know that theEarl of Tindall and Lord Acomb will take umbrage at your abuse. And I never forget a face.”
Collecting her breath, Charlotte held out her hand. The men parted to allow Georgiana room to press Minion forward. “Come, Ana. Allow thesegentlemento pass.”
Georgiana heard Newmarket before she saw it. And like the numerous times her parents had taken her to race meetings, elation coursed through her limbs.
Minion broke into a canter, clearing the woods and delighting in the wide, breathtaking sweep of the heath where horses galloped and trotted every which way. There were the racecourses and men raising tents to sell refreshments and trinkets, provide shelter, provide anything the spectators wished.
Devil’s Dyke rose from the fen, an ancient earthwork miles long with a westward-facing ditch running below. It was idyllic now with its wild grasses and purple pasqueflowers, but hundreds of years before, that ditch had trapped many an Anglo-Saxon soldier in the attempt to capture East Anglia from the Danes.
Georgiana was the invader, a descendant, her father had said, of Penda, King of Mercia, ready to conquer. With her loyal, valiant Minion.
In the April breeze, she smelled the tangy richness of the marsh. It was said that the pasqueflower sprang to life on soil that had been soaked with blood, and maybe that was the slight metallic note that thrilled her. The scent of conquest.
Kitty called excitedly from the coach and Georgiana slowed Minion at the foot of a slope that led to High Street. Alongthe slope, horses dug into the earth, galloping and gaining endurance. At the summit, a smattering of elegant country homes lorded over the town. The quality called them cottages, owned for their racing interests, with princely stable yards, and the society they kept, for the house parties and balls that carried on until dawn.
One day she would have a home up there, and men like Anthony, with his smutty hand, would respect her.
Kitty rushed up in pink silk with a plethora of ruching, and Georgiana dismounted to walk with her and Charlotte. People spilled from the makeshift tents, the taverns, shops, and homes in a churning, chattering rainbow. Boys shouted advertisements. Vendors served up meat pies and pastries.
“Have you ever seen anything so wondrous?” Kitty enthused.
It was a carnival especially created for people like Georgiana. What was it like to be drunk on spirits? This had to be better, like standing on the precipice of delirious pleasure and jumping in headfirst.
“Let us go to the livery first and give Minion her rest,” Georgiana said.
Kitty gripped Georgiana’s sleeve as they passed a round house. “Look in there! Are those chickens fighting?”
Georgiana peered in the door. Men shouted feverishly at a cockfight.
“Dear,” Charlotte said. “Best not to look.”
Kitty paid a halfpenny for a broadside and scoured the events listed.
“There’s to be one, two, three assemblies,” she announced in awe. “Oh, Aunt Charlotte, you must take us. The first is tonight. Do you think there might be a duke attending? If I can say I danced with a duke, I shall die complete.”
Straitlaced Charlotte, surprisingly having never objected to Kitty calling heraunt, loosened her mouth into a faint smile. “Let us settle in our rooms first.”
“There’s to be an auction on the morrow,” Kitty said. “And match races every day.” Kitty stuffed the paper to her petticoat. “What are match races?”
“A two-horse challenge,” Georgiana said. A rich man’s pursuit and particular pleasure for the bettors where side bets could rise into the thousands.
