to pay.” He stepped back into the corridor. “Out, now,” he demanded.
“I’m coming,” she said with a girlish huff of annoyance. “I was not trying to seduce you. I didn’t even know you were about.”
“Try telling that to your father if he were to find us.” He stood back, his arms folded across his chest. “Which way are you going? I will go in the opposite direction.”
Before she could answer they both heard the sound of footsteps. They were too far from the door to hide in his room. Apparently noting the same thing, Lord Jess took her arm and urged her to fall into step beside him.
“Since I was coming up to the house anyway.” Jess made it sound as though they were in the middle of a conversation as the footman rounded the corner. The footman stepped to the wall so they could pass. As was the habit of the gentlemen of the ton, Lord Jess completely ignored his presence and kept on with his totally fabricated conversation. “Your father asked me to find you and make sure you were not late for the race.”
Chapter Thirty-two
“WHERE ARE LORD Jessup and Beatrice?” Cecilia looked about from her saddle but could find neither one of them in the small circle of well-wishers or among those making their way across the lawn.
“Jess went back to the house.” Destry sat stiffly, Cecilia noticed, and did not even turn his head to look for them as she had.
Their friends had laughed themselves silly at the sight of the marquis riding sidesaddle, and the wagers were now heavily in her favor.
“Is it not odd that our biggest supporters are not here? What will the others say?”
“Nothing, if we do not make an issue of it,” Destry insisted.
“I am not making an issue of it.”
Michael Garrett came up to them. “I would suggest that you start the race before the horses grow too restless. I am sure Jess and Beatrice will be along presently.”
“Yes, we will,” Destry said.
Destry was eager to begin so Cecilia decided not to wait any longer.
“Lord Crenshaw? Where is he?” Cecilia asked.
Destry ignored the question as Mr. Garrett held up his hand for attention. “I trust all wagers have been made,” he announced. “The course will take Miss Brent and the marquis two miles cross-country. They will span the ford, but there will be no jumps. Then they will cross back over the river at the bridge nearest the main gate, returning up the drive, and circle the house. The racecourse ends to your left. The yellow ribbon is the finish line. I will fire the starting pistol on the count of three!”
The small crowd cheered and in an amazingly loud voice Mr. Garrett counted, “One, two, three.” He pulled the trigger and they were off.
Cecilia’s horse needed no urging, and she concentrated on the race ahead of her without one more worry for her sister.
“YOU ARE QUIET.” Beatrice was not happy. Jess might be a fool but even a fool could see that. He knew from Callan, who knew from Darwell, that Miss Beatrice had slept well enough.
That was a plus. On the minus side, she had spent the whole of yesterday “preparing for her talk” on the art at Havenhall, a talk she could have easily given without preparation at all. She had not been at dinner last night and Cecilia had excused herself early as well.
“I have nothing to say to you, Lord Jess.”
Beatrice did not spare him a glance but continued over the grass, watching her step as though there were rabbit holes at every turn.
“I understand that.” Indeed, he had avoided her so as not to witness the distress he had caused. For all his faults, he had never spoken to a woman as cruelly as he had spoken to Beatrice. But then he had never felt his life a waste before he had met her and realized how little he had to offer any woman of worth. He might not be able to change that, but he could do one thing to make her happier in this moment. “Beatrice, I want to apologize.”
“It is forgotten, my lord.” Her tone said the opposite.
“I have not forgotten it. And I want to apologize.”
“For what, my lord?” She raised her eyebrows. Those dark-swept brows were a very effective weapon. But she gave him, however unintentionally, the opening he wanted.
“For our conversation the night of the ball, and for hurting you with words that were nothing but lies.”
“Our conversation?”