More specifically, he was now allowed into rooms with Imogen.
Shaw in tow, he found a place at the central balcony from which to watch the race. He searched the line for Little Wicked’s racing colors of purple and black and immediately found her. He didn’t know the names of the competitors lining up beside her and, frankly, he didn’t care. He only kept a tally of the salient facts. Little Wicked had placed second in the Derby yesterday—and every other race of the season. So, she was running the filly’s race today in the hope that she would win and qualify for the Race of the Century in September, where she would run against the four other winning three-year-old Thoroughbreds of the season.
The other owners didn’t agree with him running Little Wicked in every race, but the fact was the filly enjoyed it. Truly, she was a delightful horse—a thought that had never once occurred to him regarding any horse in all his life. Butdelightfulapplied to Little Wicked. Though she stood at sixteen hands and possessed all the power and muscle of every other Thoroughbred out there on the turf, she also held an intangible lightness of body and spirit.
The air went electric in the specific way it always did in the instant before the firing of the starting gun. Just when it felt as if the tension would surely break with the passage of a single more second, the pistol fired and the horses lurched into motion.
Two seconds later, the pistol fired again, signaling a false start.
The crowd groaned in unison, everyone understanding it was to bethatsort of race. Dev could tolerate one false start, and even two, but by the fifth or sixth, his nerves were ready to jump out of his skin. He couldn’t comprehend why the sport tolerated it. But then horse racing was a notoriously corrupt business, and false starts were part and parcel of the whole. A blackleg or a tout would pay off the starter to fire off a certain number of false starts. The idea was to rattle the jumpier of the horses, and since Thoroughbreds were a breed notorious for becoming unnerved easily, the ploy usually worked.
Except with Little Wicked.
A filly of even temperament, she serenely returned to her place at the starting line and did it all over again.
And again, it turned out after the next firing of the starting gun.
The third firing, however, was the charm, and the race was on as Little Wicked jumped to an early lead—and held it…through the first straight and turn…through the tricky turn at the infamous Tattenham Corner where she’d very nearly got tangled up with the Marquess of Ormonde’s Filthy Habit in yesterday’s Derby. But that wasn’t a problem today, for no other horse was within ten yards of her.
Usually, these races were the longest three minutes of Dev’s life. Today, those minutes flew past, for by the time Little Wicked crossed the finish line, she was half a furlong ahead of her nearest competitor.
“That a girl,” cheered Shaw beside him.
Dev’s fist clenched at his side, the only outward indicator of the depth of his satisfaction.
But a moment’s satisfaction was all he felt—never more than a moment.
The next instant, the craving formorehit him.
Now, Little Wicked was through to the Race of the Century, where no one would be able to deny him his place amongst the elite.
Shaw slipped away with a farewell nod as congratulations poured in from all around. These lords and ladies might’ve been second- and even third-best aristocrats, but they understood who was keeping their coupes of champagne full to overflowing. Dev was the man of the moment.
From the periphery of his vision, a pair of figures drew close. The same pair he’d kept track of from the moment they’d entered the stand.
Intentionally, he didn’t turn their direction until they’d stepped within a few feet of him. Even then, he somehow kept his attention trained on Viscount Landsdown, who had reappeared at his side, though he didn’t actually see the man or hear the words issuing from his mouth. At last, a masculine throat cleared.
ThenDev turned.
Before him stood the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. Where Imogen exuded dewy spring vibrancy with her clear willow-green eyes and hair streaked with sunlight, the earl lent the atmosphere an air of decay. He’d reached the age where the life a man had lived the previous fifty or so years caught up with him. From the broken blood vessels blossoming across his nose and the dry pallor of skin that spoke silently of decades of dissolution, the earl exuded a rot that emanated from the core of him.
Bridgewater was in no way worthy of the model of perfection at his side.
Dev could hardly stand it.
“Well done, old chap,” said the earl in his aloof Etonian accent that spoke of ancient privilege extending back centuries to William the Conqueror.
The rejoinder perched on Dev’s lips, however, went unspoken. The earl had hardly broken stride as he moved through the crowd that was already dispersing now that the race was finished.
As for Imogen, she hadn’t spared him a glance—as she hadn’t since the decision was made that she would become Bridgewater’s wife.
Hot fury streaked through Dev.
But it wasn’t the sort of fury that lashed out.
It knew how to bide its time.
In fact, that was one of his particular strengths—to take his fury and channel it into a single-minded goal.
