lifted a supercilious brow. “She’s the first female ever to have shown an interest.”
“Hah! Might as well hang up your gloves, gov’nor—you’re a goner.”
Harry cast his eyes heavenwards. “If you must know, she’s never been to a race-meet before and was curious—there’s nothing more to it than that.”
“Ah-hah. So you says.” Dawlish cast a long, defeated look at the slight figure by Cribb’s box. “All I says is that you can justify it any ways you want—the conclusions still come out the same.”
With a doleful shake of his head, Dawlish retreated, muttering, back into the tack-room.
Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown. He glanced back at the woman, still chatting to his favourite stallion. If it wasn’t for the fact they would shortly be surrounded by crowds, he might be inclined to share his henchman’s pessimism. But the race-track, in full view of the multitudes, was surely safe enough.
“If we leave now,” he said, returning to her side, “we can stroll to the track in time for the first race.”
She smiled her acquiescence and laid her hand on his arm. “Is that horse you were talking of—Thistledown—running in it?”
Smiling down into her blue eyes, Harry shook his head. “No—she’s in the second.”
Lucinda found herself trapped in the clear green of his eyes; she studied them, trying to gauge what he was thinking. His lips twitched and he looked away. Blinking as they emerged into the bright sunshine, Lucinda asked, “Your aunt mentioned you managed a stud?”
His fascinating lips curved. “Yes—the Lester stud.” With ready facility, prompted by her questions, he expiated at length on the trials and successes of his enterprise. What he didn’t say but Lucinda inferred, it being the logical deduction to make from his descriptions, was that the stud was both a shining achievement and the very core of his life.
They reached the tents surrounding the track as the runners for the first race were being led to the barrier. All Lucinda could see was a sea of backs as everyone concentrated on the course.
“This way—you’ll see better from the stands.”
A man in a striped vest was guarding a roped arena before a large wooden stand. Lucinda noted that while he insisted on seeing passes from the other latecomers ahead of them, he merely grinned and nodded at Harry and let them by. Harry helped her up the steep steps by the side of the planks serving as seats—but before they could find places a horn blew.
“They’re off.” Harry’s words echoed from a hundred throats—about them, all the patrons craned forward.
Lucinda turned obediently and saw a line of horses thundering down the turf. From this distance, neither she nor anyone else could see all that much of the animals. It was the crowd that enthralled her—their rising excitement gripped her, making her breathe faster and concentrate on the race. When the winner flashed past the post, the jockey flourishing his whip high, she felt inordinately glad.
“Well raced.” Harry’s gaze was on the horses and riders as they slowed and turned back to the gates.
Lucinda grasped the moment to study him. He was intent on observation, green eyes keenly assessing, shrewdly calculating. For an instant, she saw him clearly, his features unguarded. He was a man who, despite all other distractions in his life, was totally devoted to his chosen path.
He turned his head at that moment. Their eyes met, their gazes locked. He was standing on the step below her so her eyes were almost level with his. For a moment, he said nothing, then his lips twisted wrily.
Lucinda suppressed a delicate shiver.
With a gesture, Harry indicated the crowded lawns before them. “If you truly want to experience a race-meet, then you have to promenade.”
Her own lips curving, Lucinda inclined her head. “Lead on, Mr Lester—I’m entirely in your hands.”
She saw his brow quirk but pretended ignorance. On his arm, she descended the steps and exited the private enclosure.
“The Jockey Club maintains the stand for the use of its members,” Harry informed her when she glanced back.
Which meant he was a well-known member. Even Lucinda had heard of the pre-eminence of the Jockey Club. “I see. The races are run under their auspices, I take it?”
“Correct.”
He led her on a slow perambulation through the milling crowds. Lucinda felt distinctly round-eyed—she wanted to see everything, understand the fascination that drew so many gentlemen to Newmarket.
The same fascination that drove Harry Lester.
He showed her the bookmakers, each surrounded by knots of punters eager to lay their bets. They paraded before the tents and pavilions; again and again they were stopped by some acquaintance of Harry’s, keen to exchange a few words. Lucinda was prepared to be on her guard, but she encountered nothing but polite deference in the glances thrown her way; all those who stopped to talk were disarmingly correct. Nevertheless, she felt no impulse to withdraw her hand from the security of her escort’s elbow, where he had tucked it, drawing her close. In the press of male bodies, it was unquestionably comforting to have Harry Lester by her side. There were, she discovered, some ladies present. “Some have a real interest in the sport—usually the older ones.” Relaxed, in his milieu, Harry glanced down at her. “Some of the younger ladies have a vested interest;
their families, like mine, have a long-standing connection with the turf.”
Mouthing an “oh”, Lucinda nodded. There were other ladies, too, whom he had not seen fit to comment upon, who,
she suspected, held dubious right to the title. The race-track, however, was an overwhelmingly male domain—every subcategory of the male population was certainly represented. Lucinda was quite sure she would have neither the courage nor the inclination to attend again—not unless Harry Lester was her escort.
“It’s nearly time for the next race. I must speak to Thistledown’s jockey.”
Lucinda nodded, conveying with a glance her intention of staying with him.
Harry threw her a brief smile then concentrated on forging a path to the mounting yard.
“She seems very lively, sir,” the jockey vouchsafed as he settled in the saddle. “But the competition’s stiff—Jonquil—that mare out of Herald—is a starter. And Caught by the Scruff, too. And some of them others are experienced racers—it’ll be a miracle if she wins, what with her fetlock just come good an’ all.”
Harry nodded. “Just let her go—let her set her own pace. We’ll consider this a trial, nothing more. Don’t cram her—and no whip.”
Lucinda left his side to pat the mare’s velvet muzzle; a huge, dark brown eye invited her understanding. Lucinda grinned. “Hopeless, aren’t they?” she crooned. “But you don’t want to listen to them—men are notoriously hopeless at judging women. They should never so presume.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry’s lips lift; he exchanged a glance with the jockey, who grinned. “You just go out there and win the race—then
