Page 51 of Never Beguile a Duke
Miss Wilmington snickered. “I suppose that is fair. I doubt you possess any hair ribbons.”
“Ribbons?” The Duke of Mansfield’s voice shot up a half octave. “We’re risking our lives for hair ribbons?”
“Did Miss Juliette not state the parameters of our wager?” Miss Wilmington asked, a slight wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.
Chortling, the Duke of Lennox sat on his sled. “Mansfield was occupied with a book. He didn’t know of the activity or the bet until he was disturbed by Mr. Braddock.”
The Duke of Mansfield’s dark eyebrows hovered near his hairline. “You possess ribbons with which to award the winner?”
“If I lose,” the Duke of Lennox held up a correcting finger, “I’ve volunteered a farthing in place of the hair adornment.”
“And if you win?” the Duke of Mansfield asked, folding his long legs onto his sled. “You’d look absurd wearing ribbons this evening.”
The Duke of Lennox wrapped his arms around Miss Braddock’s waist and nuzzled the back of her neck. “I intend to bestow them upon my lovely fiancée.”
“Then, I shall offer a farthing as well. I will not allow a monetary debt to be paid by Miss Wilmington.”
A wave of uncertainty flowed up from Miss Juliette.
“Your Graces,” Winifred said, praying they wouldn’t repeat her words to the Duke of Beaufort, “as Miss Juliette is forbidden from gambling, ribbons can be the only prize for today’s race. However, should the farthings’ use be limited to hair adornments, that should be an acceptable substitution.”
Leaning back, Miss Juliette whispered, “Do you think Father will be angry?”
“Only if we lose.” Winifred grinned and tightened her hold on the steering rope. “Are you ready to slide down the hill again?”
Her head moving in a blur, Miss Juliette nodded and spun around again. Facing the front of the sled, she squished down, folding herself almost flat against the sled.
“Am I low enough?” she asked, tucking a wayward section of her skirt beneath her legs.
“You’re perfect.” Winifred noticed that Misses Wilmington and Braddock adopted similar positions.
When the Duke of Lennox yelled to start, Winifred dug her hands into the snow, pushed them off the top of the hill, and leaned forward, covering Miss Juliette with her body. The reduction of the wind resistance gave them an extra burst of speed, ripping a squeal from Miss Juliette, whose hand grabbed hold of Winifred’s.
Despite the internal instruction not to, Winifred lifted her head and glanced to the left to check the location of the other sleds. Miss Wilmington’s idea regarding the benefit of the Duke of Mansfield’s added weight proved correct as they’d passed Miss Braddock’s sled and were rapidly bearing down on Winifred and Miss Juliette.
Had the finish line been further out, they would have lost the race. However, the nose of their sled sailed past the fence post seconds before Miss Braddock and the Duke of Mansfield, who declared Miss Juliette the sole winner as she was the only one to cross the finish line first.
Cold and hungry, they returned to the house. After depositing the sleds in the stable, the group split, with Miss Juliette and Winifred heading upstairs for an update on Mrs. Webb, and the remaining four retreating to the dining room in search of sustenance.
“Has my father returned?” Miss Juliette asked, stopping Mrs. Aylett on the staircase.
“He has not.” Mrs. Aylett’s gaze shifted to the front door as though she expected him to enter at the very moment. “However, I’ve been given instructions to proceed with tonight’s meal even if he doesn’t appear this evening.”
“Why wouldn’t he reappear?” Frowning, Winifred climbed the steps. “Have you heard news of a difficulty?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Mrs. Aylett’s mouth. “I’ve not received any communication from His Grace. However, when Doctor Barnes arrived, he warned of an approaching storm. If they don’t return soon, they’ll need to wait it out in town.”
“The doctor arrived?” Winifred’s head whipped toward the top of the staircase. “What was his diagnosis?”
“He’s currently seeing to your mother,” Mrs. Aylett replied, flattening herself against the wall as Winifred raced up the remaining steps.
She burst into the bedchamber, shoving the door open with enough force that the metal handle slipped from her fingers. The door swung wide, completing a half-arc and crashing into the adjoining wall.
“Winifred!” her mother chastised, flicking her eyes—the only mobile portion of her head—toward the entrance, then returning them to the man examining her scalp. “Please forgive my daughter’s excitable nature, Doctor Barnes.”
“The loss of a parent is quite unsettling,” he replied, straightening and removing his gloves. “However, in your case, neither of your daughters will experience that sorrow yet.”
His dark eyes slid to Miss Venning. “The credit for this patient’s recovery should fall to you. Without your assistance, I doubt Mrs. Webb would have survived the night.”
