Page 38 of Lessons for Marquesses
“But I cannot pay into a match.”
“I will front the money. In fact, if you lose, it is my loss. If you win, you may have all of it. Whatever I win will be on the bye bets.”
She bit her lip. “I do not believe my cousin, Lord Acomb, or my aunt will allow it. It is too scandalous for me to accept such a gift.”
“We will say I only provide you the chance to race. And I will speak to Lord Acomb directly and ask for your hand… in racing.”
So not a woman, Georgiana had to parse his allusion to marriage proposals. Her confusion gave way to an embarrassed grin. “That was a jest.”
“It was.” Two jests in one evening. Georgiana was dangerous.
“There is one stipulation,” he added. “Your mare was the best of the field but also the surliest. Any poor behavior on her part, knocking, biting, kicking, and she will be disqualified.”
“But if she leads the entire way?—”
“What if she slips on the start? What if she veers wide from an obstacle? What if she loses a heat? You expect twelve miles without a fault? Or if there are only two heats, there are still eight miles wherein you expect perfection.”
Annoyingly commendable, she took in his questions without offense.
“How many races has she run?” he asked.
She shrugged uncomfortably. “None.”
“How many horses has she lost to in her training?”
“None are faster. They are afraid of her.”
“Kimbrough’s horse will not be afraid.”
Again the simplicity of his plan, the ease at which it would be accomplished, was clear. She didn’t challenge him, didn’t spout defensive gibberish. She wanted to learn. Again commendable. And annoying.
Dropping back to the settee, the outline of her Titian breasts was once more in full view. “You are right. Her temperament is her downfall.”
She regarded her hands, not him, and so he was free to admire what he told himself he did not admire. Contortions of thought were required, concepts which demanded sobriety for success. Regardless that they were planted on his enemy, Nicholas wondered how her breasts would mold and spring and quiver in his hands.
He was a man. A very drunk man.
“I will speak to Lord Acomb,George.” He emphasized her name, hoping to bring his body back to heel. “If you are amenable, I will come to your home with Palliard and a few others from my string and we will teach your mare manners. How to overcome challenges she’s never faced. I’ll set the match for the first of July which allows us ten weeks.” The day Edmund had been murdered. Before then, Farendon would be his.
“Why July 1?”
“Would you prefer a different day?”
“No. It seems very specific, that is all.” She frowned at her clasped hands and came up with a quiet smile. “Mr. Wolf, I am quite struck by your generosity and would be honored to have your expert assistance.”
“Well.” He grinned.
A musical giggle escaped her. “Does my praise discomfit you?”
“Perhaps. But I’m sure I’ll become accustomed. I want nothing more than to be the hero who nurtures your potential.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
9 Years Prior
15 July 1754
Chedworth Estate
