She should be grateful.
She could have no more contact with him.
Not safely, anyway.
That was the truth of the matter.
He was a dangerous man.
But more, she was the real danger.
A danger to herself when she was near him.
After everything.
Even though he was now a different man.
And yet certain things didn’t change about a person, did they?
Unless, of course, those things were never true about them in the first place.
An idea that refused to hold in her mind.
In fact, her mind soundly rejected it.
Strange possibilities were accumulating, one by one.
He’d believed she would marry his brother?
What other untruths did he believe of her?
Yet what did it matter? So much time had passed. They were no longer who they were then.
That wasn’t possibility; it was fact.
Whoever their past selves were then and whoever their present selves were now, the odds were those selves would never be reconciled.
And wasn’t that what she should want?
CHAPTER TEN
DONCASTER RACECOURSE, YORKSHIRE, TWO WEEKS LATER
This wasn’t a day one would characterize as a beautiful day at the races.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Cold, drizzly, and muddy, it was the worst sort of day for a race—or the best.
It depended on whom one asked.
Many a stalwart Thoroughbred wilted beneath a heavy, wet blanket of clouds. Years of training flew out the window simply because the horse was more temperamentally suited for sunshine and blue skies. They had no wish to soil their sensitive, well-bred hooves with muck.
Then there were the mudders—horses who took to and excelled in the slosh and slop.
Mudders thrived in the mess.
A metaphor for life, when one considered it, and perhaps that was why for the thousands of spectators lining Doncaster’s white railing and circulating about the grandstand and laying their wagers on the St. Leger Stakes at the betting post, this was the best sort of day for a horse race. One got to see what more than the best-bred and the best-trained these creatures were. On a day like today, a Thoroughbred colt or filly revealed their spirit.
