She should point her feet in a different direction.
But she couldn’t.
She wanted to congratulate Bran. Sure, Radish hadn’t won this race, but that mattered little. What mattered was all Bran had achieved in getting him here.
That was worth congratulations.
At least, that was thewhyshe told herself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bran had come through his fair share of experiences on the grand stage of life, but nothing had prepared him for the Race of the Century at Epsom Downs.
The only event he’d been part of on a similar scale was the Battle of Waterloo.
And this, thankfully, wasn’t that.
While victory and defeat played out today, the Race of the Century was the madness of mindless bloodlust transmuted into the madness of fierce competition.
As he accepted congratulations from every direction, no few slaps on the back, and general greetings welcoming him back into the fold of thetonafter his decade-long absence, he signaled a groom to lead Radish to his stall. Now that the Thoroughbred was cooled down, he needed quiet. His step being slower than that of those who wished to congratulate him, it was Bran’s lot to endure as he followed. More annoyance, than pain.
Not twenty yards away, the Duke and Duchess of Rakesley came into view. He supposed he should congratulate the winner. “Rakesley,” he called out, gaining both the duke and duchess’s attention. “Superbly done on a well-executed race.”
The smile that curved Rakesley’s mouth hinted at an understanding of what Bran left unspoken. Hannibal had left no doubt that he was a spectacular horse, but all five competitors were spectacular horses. What won a race like The Race of the Century were both the tangibles and intangibles. The conformation of the Thoroughbred. Their experience on the turf. The grit of personality. Knowing the strengths and weaknesses of the horse and capitalizing on both. The skill and wiliness of the jockey. Then the race plan executed to perfection.
“Liam is a once-in-a-generation talent,” said the duchess with the unwavering certainty of a proud sister.
“Twice in a generation,” said Rakesley.
Gemma nodded toward her brother in the distance. Long-limbed and lean in the way of young men, Liam Cassidy was tall for a jockey, bucking the trend of jockeys growing smaller and smaller in stature. A handsome man, too, with his sun-streaked auburn hair and hazel eyes, like his sister’s. But it was that lopsided smile that hinted at a gameness for anything that attracted ladies like bees to honey. Handsome, talented, and cocksure—didn’t Liam Cassidy know it? After today, London would be his oyster.
“You’ll see,” continued the duchess. “The name Liam Cassidy will make the history books.”
Bran agreed.
“It was a proper contest on the turf, though, wasn’t it,” said Rakesley. His eyes yet held the light of combat.
It was a glint Bran had beheld on many a battlefield.
And so, too, did the blood in his own veins still fizz from the raw thrill. “It was destined to be so.”
“Aye,” said Rakesley. “All five were winners until today.”
“The thing about winners,” said the duchess, “they get a taste for winning, don’t they? So, it’s only natural they expect to keep doing so.”
A very sensible approach to a sport that thrived on heated impetuousness and vast sums of money cast to the winds of chance, based on little more than whim or gut feeling.
“But today,” said Rakesley, with a smile that had tipped well into the arrogant, “there could be but one winner.”
The duchess met her duke’s eyes. “You, of course.”
Rakesley reached his arm about her rounded waist. “In the one way that matters.”
A well-made match, these two.
Bran’s mouth was forming words of farewell—Rakesley and his duchess looked in need of a room that could afford them privacy—when a voice rang out, “Ah, there you are, brother!”
He froze and most likely winced.
