yesterday.
Oh, what a tangle.
“What say we attend the races out at Lord Saunderton’s?” he was asking. “He and the earl intend to settle their bet this afternoon over the earl’s new Arabian and Saunderton’s roan, but I hear tell they’ve opened up the afternoon for all sorts of contests.”
“Horse races?” she managed. He wanted to take her to something as scandalous as a private horse race?
Hadn’t she heard her mother aver that those sort of events attracted the worst sort of triflers and rakes, pickpockets and sharpsters and all sorts of ladies of negligible reputations like Corinna Fornett…
Or Lottie Townsend.
His brows waggled. “They’re going to be running your favorite, Rathburn.”
“My—” Charlotte pressed her lips together. She had a favorite racehorse?
“And if that isn’t enough, they’ve got O’Brien and McConnell slated to box—but this time bet on McConnell. I know you fancy that O’Brien’s more handsome, but I hear tell McConnell’s in rare form of late, and I do say, O’Brien is due to lose.”
“O’Brien?” she repeated, a bit dazed. First a favorite racehorse, now a pugilist?
“Oh, then have your O’Brien,” he said, not even noticing her shock and confusion. “But don’t you remember the last time Saunderton had one of these races and you insisted on betting on that Scottish fellow, oh, what was his name—” He looked at her as if she was going to have it on the tip of her tongue.
She shook her head wanly.
“No matter, we were both rather foxed that afternoon,” he said, settling back in his seat. “You insisted that Scottish bloke was going to win and you bet all your money on him, only to see him take a facer two minutes in and land at your feet.” He laughed uproariously, then paused and looked at her as if he expected her to be just as gay about it. “Oh, you can’t still be vexed, ’tis a funny story. I don’t know who you were more in a temper at—me for letting you bet all your money or the poor delirious Scot for bleeding all over your new gown.”
Blood? She’d have to see blood? Oh, she didn’t care what Quince averred about this life being hers—she couldn’t imagine ever choosing to watch two men pummel each other, let alone get close enough to find herself in the midst of it.
“I’m sure there will be dice and quinze enough to delight even you,” he told her. “What do you say, Lottie? Shall we spend the day doing what we love?”
As scandalous as it all was, never mind the fact that she hadn’t the least notion how to play quinze, dice or bet on a horse, Sebastian had said the one thing that would have convinced her to dare the very gates of hell—which surely a race at Lord Saunderton’s was as close as one could get.
“We.”
Never mind Miss Burke’s Venetian breakfast. Forget his pending betrothal. His family’s expectations. Society’s scorn.
“We.”
The connotations of those two letters pressed together tangled up her common sense and let the wild beat of her heart be her answer.
“Yes. That sounds utterly delightful,” she told him, primly folding her hands in her lap, as if she’d just accepted a dance at Almack’s.
Sebastian laughed uproariously. “Delightful? That’s yet to be seen. We’ll see how delightful the day is if we come home with empty purses like we did the last time.” He continued chuckling. “Hope you’ve learned your lesson since then.”
“I assure you,” she told him, “I am quite a changed woman.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Don’t change too much, Lottie. I love you just the way you are, just the same as you were the day we met.”
The day we met. Those words brought Charlotte’s gaze up. How had they met? Since it was obvious she was no longer bosom bows with Hermione, they would have had to have met some other way.
“Lord Trent—”
“Gads, Lottie, you are formal today. Is this your way of sending me packing?”
“No! Never!” she gasped.
Oh, what a tangle.
“What say we attend the races out at Lord Saunderton’s?” he was asking. “He and the earl intend to settle their bet this afternoon over the earl’s new Arabian and Saunderton’s roan, but I hear tell they’ve opened up the afternoon for all sorts of contests.”
“Horse races?” she managed. He wanted to take her to something as scandalous as a private horse race?
Hadn’t she heard her mother aver that those sort of events attracted the worst sort of triflers and rakes, pickpockets and sharpsters and all sorts of ladies of negligible reputations like Corinna Fornett…
Or Lottie Townsend.
His brows waggled. “They’re going to be running your favorite, Rathburn.”
“My—” Charlotte pressed her lips together. She had a favorite racehorse?
“And if that isn’t enough, they’ve got O’Brien and McConnell slated to box—but this time bet on McConnell. I know you fancy that O’Brien’s more handsome, but I hear tell McConnell’s in rare form of late, and I do say, O’Brien is due to lose.”
“O’Brien?” she repeated, a bit dazed. First a favorite racehorse, now a pugilist?
“Oh, then have your O’Brien,” he said, not even noticing her shock and confusion. “But don’t you remember the last time Saunderton had one of these races and you insisted on betting on that Scottish fellow, oh, what was his name—” He looked at her as if she was going to have it on the tip of her tongue.
She shook her head wanly.
“No matter, we were both rather foxed that afternoon,” he said, settling back in his seat. “You insisted that Scottish bloke was going to win and you bet all your money on him, only to see him take a facer two minutes in and land at your feet.” He laughed uproariously, then paused and looked at her as if he expected her to be just as gay about it. “Oh, you can’t still be vexed, ’tis a funny story. I don’t know who you were more in a temper at—me for letting you bet all your money or the poor delirious Scot for bleeding all over your new gown.”
Blood? She’d have to see blood? Oh, she didn’t care what Quince averred about this life being hers—she couldn’t imagine ever choosing to watch two men pummel each other, let alone get close enough to find herself in the midst of it.
“I’m sure there will be dice and quinze enough to delight even you,” he told her. “What do you say, Lottie? Shall we spend the day doing what we love?”
As scandalous as it all was, never mind the fact that she hadn’t the least notion how to play quinze, dice or bet on a horse, Sebastian had said the one thing that would have convinced her to dare the very gates of hell—which surely a race at Lord Saunderton’s was as close as one could get.
“We.”
Never mind Miss Burke’s Venetian breakfast. Forget his pending betrothal. His family’s expectations. Society’s scorn.
“We.”
The connotations of those two letters pressed together tangled up her common sense and let the wild beat of her heart be her answer.
“Yes. That sounds utterly delightful,” she told him, primly folding her hands in her lap, as if she’d just accepted a dance at Almack’s.
Sebastian laughed uproariously. “Delightful? That’s yet to be seen. We’ll see how delightful the day is if we come home with empty purses like we did the last time.” He continued chuckling. “Hope you’ve learned your lesson since then.”
“I assure you,” she told him, “I am quite a changed woman.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Don’t change too much, Lottie. I love you just the way you are, just the same as you were the day we met.”
The day we met. Those words brought Charlotte’s gaze up. How had they met? Since it was obvious she was no longer bosom bows with Hermione, they would have had to have met some other way.
“Lord Trent—”
“Gads, Lottie, you are formal today. Is this your way of sending me packing?”
“No! Never!” she gasped.
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