disregard for the expression on Harry Lester’s face, allowed him to lead her back to the stands.
He secured seats in the third row, almost opposite the post. Lucinda leaned forward, eagerly scanning the horses trotting towards the barrier. She waved when Thistledown appeared.
Harry, watching her, laughed.
“She’ll win—you’ll see.” With smug confidence, Lucinda sat back.
But when the horn sounded and the barrier was dropped, she leant forward again, eyes keenly searching the thundering charge for Harry’s colours of green and gold. So intent was she that she didn’t even notice she rose to her feet, in company with all the other spectators, as the horses rounded the bend. As they entered the straight, a gap appeared in their ranks—Thistledown shot through.
“There she is!” Lucinda grabbed Harry’s arm. Only deeply entrenched decorum kept her from jigging up and down. “She’s winning!”
Harry was too riveted to answer.
But Thistledown was indeed showing the field a clean pair of heels. Halfway down the straight, her stride lengthened even more—she appeared to be flying when she flashed past the post.
“She won! She won!” Lucinda grasped both Harry’s arms and all but danced. “I told you she would!”
Rather more accustomed to the delights of victory, Harry looked down at her face, wreathed in smiles and lit by the same joy he still felt every time one of his horses came home first. He knew he was smiling, as delighted as she if rather more circumspect in showing it.
Lucinda turned back to locate Thistledown, now being led from the course. “Can we go and see her now?”
“Indeed we can.” Harry took her hand and tucked it tightly in his arm. “You promised to meet her in the winner’s circle, remember?”
Lucinda blinked as he steered her out of the crowded stand. “Is it permissible for ladies to enter the winner’s circle?”
“There’s no rule against it—in fact—” Harry slanted a glance at her “—I suspect the Head of the Committee will be delighted to see you.” When she shot him a suspicious glance, he laughed and urged her on. Once out of the enclosure and free of those members keen to press their congratulations, a path cleared before them, leading directly to the roped arena where Thistledown, shiny coat flickering but clearly untired by her dash, waited patiently.
As soon as Lucinda emerged from the crowd, the mare pushed her head forward, dragging on the reins to get to Lucinda’s side. Lucinda hurried forward, crooning her praises. Harry looked on indulgently.
“Well, Lester! Another trophy for your mantel—surprised it hasn’t collapsed.”
Harry turned as the President of the Jockey Club, present Head of the Race Committee, appeared at his elbow. In his hands, he held a gold-plated statuette in the shape of a lady.
“Remarkable run—truly remarkable.”
Shaking hands, Harry nodded. “Particularly as she’s just recovered from a strained fetlock—I wasn’t sure I’d race her.”
“Just as well you did.” The President’s eye was on the horse and the woman apparently chatting to the beast. “Nice conformation.”
Harry knew very well that Lord Norwich was not referring to the mare. “Indeed.” His tone was dry; Lord Norwich, who had known him from the cradle, lifted a brow at him.
Glancing at the statuette, Harry confirmed that the lady was indeed decently garbed, then nodded at Lucinda. “It was Mrs Babbacombe who delivered the inspirational address prior to the race. Perhaps she should accept the award on my behalf?”
“Excellent idea!” Beaming, Lord Norwich strode forward.
Shielded by her brimming happiness, the aftermath of fulfilled excitement, Lucinda had succeeded in blithely ignoring the avid interest of the spectators. Lord Norwich, however, was impossible to ignore. But Harry strolled forward to stand by their side, quieting her uncertainties.
Lord Norwich gave a short speech, praising the mare and Harry’s stables, then gallantly presented the statuette—to her.
Surprised, Lucinda looked at Harry—he smiled and nodded.
Determined to rise to the occasion, she graciously thanked his lordship.
“Quite, quite.” His lordship was quite taken. “Need to see more game fillies at the track, what?”
Lucinda blinked at him.
Harry reached for her elbow and drew her to his side. He nodded at his strapper. “Take her back to the stables.”
With a last lingering look for Lucinda, Thistledown was led away. Lord Norwich and the rest of the crowd turned away, already intent on the next race.
Still conscious of the fading thrill, Lucinda looked around, then cast a glance upwards.
Harry smiled. “And you have my heartfelt thanks, too, my dear. For whatever magic you wove.”
Lucinda met his eyes—and stopped breathing. “There was no magic.” She felt his fingers on hers; she watched as he raised her hand and brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. A long shiver traced its path down her spine, leaving an odd warmth in its wake. With an effort she veiled her eyes, breaking his spell. Catching her breath, she made a bid for her usual confidence; she raised the statuette and presented it to him, defiantly meeting his eyes.
He took it in his other hand, his gaze steady on hers.
Time lost its meaning; they stood, largely forgotten, in the centre of the winner’s circle. Men crowded about, jostling each other but not touching them. They stood close, so close the small ruffle on Lucinda’s bodice brushed the long lapel of Harry’s coat. He sensed its flutter as her breathing grew more rapid but he was lost in her eyes, in a world of misty blue. He watched them widen, darken. Her lips softened, parted. Her bodice made contact with his coat.
His head had begun its slow descent when sanity awoke—and frantically hauled on his reins.
Great heavens! They were in the winner’s circle at Newmarket!
Shaken to the depths of his soul, Harry dragged in a quick breath. He tore his gaze from her face, from the consternation that was filling her eyes, and the soft blush that had started to tinge her cheeks, and looked about them. No one, thank heaven, had seen.
His heart pounding, he took a firm grip of her elbow—and took refuge in action. “If you’ve seen enough of the racing, I should get you back to Em’s—she’ll be wondering where you are.”
Lucinda nodded—the faintly bored drawl left her no choice. She felt—she didn’t know what—shaken, certainly, but regretful, and resentful, too. But she couldn’t argue with his wish to be gone from here.
But they still had the gamut of well-wishers to run—they were stopped constantly, more than one gentleman wishing to make an offer for the mare.
Harry faced the hurdles with what patience he could, conscious that all he wished to do was
