Chapter 12
Giles cradled his swollen arm to his thundering chest and stepped one foot back onto the dirt to squint down the track. Rain matted his hair, his clothes. The crowd tried to swarm him at once.
“Back away,” he growled. “I’ll answer your questions after the race.”
He did not know whether their acquiescence was a testament to how much they revered him, or to their equal desire not to miss a single moment of whatever might happen next. His pulse raced with excitement and fear.
Giles had shown up this morning with the sole goal of winning a race, but now his heart was in his throat as he watched Felicity take his place. He wanted to win, but not at the expense of her safety. Yet she was fearless on the track.
They’d lost valuable time with the crash, the inspection, the bickering as to which one of them belonged behind the reins, but she was already closing the lost distance and was coming up fast on the curricle in second-to-last place.
The rain was coming down harder, but he blinked it away. Giles rarely watched a race from the sides. It was excitement and chaos and loud and crazy and almost as much fun as being the one up in the driver’s seat, racing for his life.
His heart swelled with pride as Felicity neatly passed the other carriage with a wide, safe berth.
He screamed his encouragement, his heart racing more wildly than the horses tearing down the track.
It would take a miracle to make it first to the finish line, but already this race would be the talk of the town for months to come: Giles Langford, Curricle King, had handed the reins to an unknown lad when that insufferable Silas Wiltchurch had run him from the road.
And the unknown lad was catching up with the competition.
Lord Felix, indeed. Master of his carriage and keeper of his heart.
When she passed a second curricle, he let out a war whoop that was drowned by the equally hysterical reactions of the deafening crowd. His legs and fingers shook.
She was doing it.She was doing it.
Giles bounced on his toes despite the jarring pain to his arm. He was thrilled and terrified, lightly panicked and insanely proud.
Felicity wasn’t mere competition. She was a master at the helm, an avenging goddess, an unstoppable force.
The nearer she drew to the finish line, the closer she came to Silas Wiltchurch. Giles didn’t trust that blackguard as far as he could throw him.
But he’d trust Felicity with his life.
It had been past time for her to take the reins and finally do asshewished. Whatever that might be, he wouldn’t stand in her way. He’d support her, come what may. That was what partners did.
Despite the rain and the accident and the spectators and the clouds of dust, she looked as calm and competent as ever. Her body was relaxed at the reins, and her face was smiling. The sight filled his chest with warmth.
Giles knew exactly what it felt like to fly high in a perch, overtaking competitor after competitor to the roar of an adoring audience.
He hadn’t known it would bring him the same joy to watch Felicity experience that same rush. To share that sense of being one with God and nature, with curricle and horses, with the crowd.
No wonder she’d begged for the opportunity to take Baby down this track. Felicity was born for this. A natural.
She passed a third carriage, leaving only two more between her and the finish line.
Ice snaked through Giles’s chest.
The finish line meant winning, but it also meant losing Felicity. She had commandeered his heart and taken him on the ride of a lifetime. Their partnership had always been temporary. This was the end.
Unless he did something about it.
They were meant for each other. He knew it; she must suspect the same. There was only one thing to do. His pulse jumped.
Ask her to marry him.
He had never quit anything just because there’d been a high chance of failure. He was in this race to win it.
