Levi’s mouth popped open.
“I hadn’t considered that,” he said, wrapping the reins around a metal post on the sleigh and stepping off the runners. “Why do you suppose that information would be omitted?”
“A fourth question, Your Grace?”
He slapped his hand over his chest. “I swear to allow you the next three.”
She inclined her head. “I can think of two reasons. Either the author wrote a falsehood and possessed no man to name, or the author wrote a truth and withheld that knowledge for personal gain.”
Despite his desire to ask which situation was true, Levi swallowed his question and said, “It is your turn. What would you like to know?”
Twisting her fingers together, she asked, “Why did you ask me to accompany you this afternoon?”
“We are friends, are we not?” he said, detangling her hands and helping her from the sleigh.
He didn’t release her when her feet touched the ground, enjoying—more than he wanted to admit—the feeling of her hand in his.
“You’ve previously established we are,” she replied, lowering her voice as Beaufort and Miss Fernsby-Webb approached and pulled her hand from his. “However, we’ve spent a great deal of time together recently. An outsider might confuse that attention as affection.”
“Have you?” The question spilled from his lips before he could stop himself.
“It is not your turn,” she admonished, her soft voice wrapping around him.
The corner of his mouth crooked. “Forgive me. What is your second query?”
“Do you believe our sleigh is fast enough to best Miss Webb and her fiancé in a race?” Miss Rowe’s voice echoed across the snowy grounds.
Roxburghe turned, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Is that a challenge, Miss Rowe?”
She jutted out her chin. “It is.”
“Excellent!” Roxburghe handed the reins to Miss Webb and slogged toward them. “Shall we set a wager?”
Miss Rowe nodded. “One pound?—”
“Ten,” Levi murmured, lingering closer to her than acceptable.
“Ten pounds,” she corrected, “for the first sleigh to make it to the top of the hill and back to this point.”
“Done.” Roxburghe stuck out his arm and grasped Levi’s hand, pumping it once. “Beaufort and Miss Fernsby-Webb will determine the winners.”
“Who,” Beaufort said, placing both hands on top of theirs, “we will race afterward.”
“Agreed.”
Each man offered an arm and escorted his corresponding lady back to their sleigh.
Reluctantly releasing Miss Rowe’s hand after he helped her back into the sleigh, Levi leaned forward under the pretext of retrieving the blanket. “Have you raced before?”
“Never,” she said, her eyes shining. “However, I imagine there is some strategy to winning.”
“There is.” Grasping the reins, he climbed on the sleigh behind her, centering her between both straps again, and placed his feet on the runners. “Whenever we turn, lean in the direction we are moving.”
“I have a confession to make, Your Grace.” She leaned back and tilted her head up, staring at him. “I don’t want to pay the Duke of Roxburghe ten pounds.”
Levi’s mouth settled into a grim line. “Neither do I.”
He maneuvered their sleigh in line with Roxburghe’s, and they waited for Beaufort and Miss Fernsby-Webb to move their vehicle to the side of the makeshift track. Standing up, Miss Fernsby-Webb accepted Beaufort’s monogrammed handkerchief and raised her hand above her head.
