problem was, Hart really did want that horse and he knew his father revelled in taking away anything he wanted. They had played this game before. And he was certain they would play it again. His brain told him to walk away, but he wouldn’t give in. If he let the man win, he’d hate himself.
Mr Tattersall’s voice broke his concentration. ‘For the last time, gentlemen, the price is sixteen hundred and fifty guineas.’
Men around them began to lay bets as to who would win the horse—the Marquess of Blackwood or his son. Hart stuck his hand into his pocket and rubbed his lucky guinea.
Julian leaned over. ‘Do not do it.’
‘Fifty,’ a voice that sounded very much like his own came out of Hart’s mouth. He closed his eyes and cursed his impetuous nature.
Julian let out an audible groan as voices around them grew louder. Hart was able to block out what they were saying. It was probably due to the fact he was calling his father every curse he knew in his head.
He looked at Mr Tattersall, who was trying to appear unaffected by the numbers being bid for this horse that was worth approximately half as much.
‘Thank you, my lord. Seventeen hundred guineas are offered. Will anyone advance?’ There was a pause. He looked at Hart’s father for an indication to counter.
Nausea and a sense of stupidity assailed him. He refused to look at the man whose blood he shared—a man upon whom he had wished death many a time. It was an absolute certainty he wore a smug smile. Had he finished toying with his son? Did he even realise the potential of the colt? Hart closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the smell of manure. He laughed to himself at the appropriateness of being around so much shit.
‘Seventeen hundred guineas are offered for this outstanding animal. Are there any other offers, gentlemen?’
It was the longest pause in Hart’s life. He stopped himself from squeezing his eyes shut. It was best to feign a look of quiet amusement.
The hammer fell.
What he wanted to do was let out the world’s longest breath. What he actually did was tip his hat to his father and smile. Let the man think Hart had enjoyed the game. He wasn’t about to show him how much it upset him. Families were worthless.
Within moments his father and Lord Palmer had disappeared into the crowd. If only that would be the last time he laid eyes on the man. Unfortunately, Hart knew he wasn’t that lucky. Why couldn’t his father have died instead of his mother? What further torture did that man have to inflict on him to fulfil his purpose in life? No, Katrina was wrong. Death just proved there was no sense in caring for anyone but yourself.
The gentlemen around them offered their congratulations. Did they honestly believe he was happy to spend a small fortune for that horse? The worst part was, no matter the outcome, his father would have bested him either way.
Julian pulled the collar up on his coat. ‘Now, tell me you won’t be residing under my roof in the near future—along with that horse of yours.’
‘Residing? No. Although I could use some of that fine French brandy you have. The one locked away in your study.’ He began strolling past men exchanging money over bets on the outcome of his actions.
Julian followed directly behind. ‘How do you know about that bottle?’
‘I found it a month ago when you left me alone in there.’
His friend pulled Hart to a stop. ‘You searched my study?’
‘I had no other way to occupy myself. You were gone for quite a long time.’
‘You mean when Reynolds informed me my wife had delivered our child?’
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘I was seeing Augusta for the first time. Of course I was gone a long time.’
Why did it always seem that Julian couldn’t quite grasp how absurd he was at times? Hart had seen the baby. There was nothing interesting about her, aside from the fact she was the smallest human he had even seen. He waved his hand carelessly. ‘I still have no understanding why you wanted to witness the birth in the first place.’
Julian pinched his brow. ‘I wanted to be certain my wife survived. I was not happy she had me wait in my study with you.’
Did they really need to discuss childbirth? Weren’t his father’s actions today punishment enough? ‘In any event, I could use that brandy right about now.’
‘Very well, I suppose this afternoon warrants it.’
‘This afternoon warrants the entire bottle.’
Sitting in Katrina’s carriage and hearing how desperately she needed to get home to nurse Augusta, was making Sarah wonder if a bottle of brandy was hidden close by for cold nights. As it stood, she was learning more than she wanted to know about how one nursed a baby.
Who knew if you went for too long between feedings, your breasts would become swollen and tender? Just the thought had Sarah crossing her arms over her chest to ease the imaginary pain. When had their leisurely day of shopping taken such a miserable turn? While she was happy for her friend at becoming a mother, she missed the days when their discussions had been primarily about men, fashion and American politics—and their shopping trips had lasted for hours.
‘Are we almost there?’ Katrina winced.
Sarah peered out of the window. They had turned off Piccadilly...that much was certain. ‘I haven’t any notion of the street, however we can’t be far.’
‘If we don’t arrive home soon, they’re bound to leak.’
‘Leak?’ Sarah did not want to know how. ‘That shouldn’t be possible.’
‘Well, it is!’
‘I realise that! I am simply stating my opinion.’
‘Your opinion isn’t helping. What should I do? The footmen are bound to notice.’ Suddenly she let out a low groan.
Oh, lud! ‘It’s too late, isn’t it?’
Katrina didn’t need to answer. The dark stain spreading across her beautiful blue spencer said it all. ‘What now?’ she pleaded, her cheeks turning scarlet.
The carriage jerked to a halt. They looked at each other with wide eyes. Just as the door began to open, Sarah shoved her white cotton bag containing her new beautiful pink silk slippers against Katrina’s chest.
Sarah had eyed those lovely slippers through the shop window for weeks. She really didn’t need another pair—her dressing room contained more shoes than any woman should own—but this pair was so beautiful—so perfect. They were in the Grecian style, with square toes and open tops that laced together with delicate pink satin ribbons. Her favourite part was the wider deeper pink silk ribbons that tied around her ankle.
She had waited
