“Let’s ride,” she blurted, desperate to end the moment. To fly in the wind, attempt to grind these unwanted emotions beneath her horse’s hooves and send them splintering into the ether.
“Weareriding.” He looked at her oddly yet again.
She swallowed. What did a woman look like when she realized she was falling hopelessly in love with a man who did not love her in return? She felt suddenly as if he could see into her and read her feelings. Good God. “A race,” she managed. “From here to the tree line in the distance. On the count of three, we go.”
“Boadicea.”
Even the way he said her name, her full name rather than the abbreviated version, sent a fresh frisson of feelings skittering through her. She attempted to compose herself, hoping that her expression was as bland as she struggled to make it. She stared at him, thinkingplease do not notice I am a complete fool for you. “Spencer. Are you afraid you will lose?”
His expression changed, and she knew her challenge had been accepted. “I do not lose, princess. To that end, I do think your proposed race should have a reward. What goes to the victor?”
In addition to harboring an aversion to rules, Bo also had a deep-seated competitive side. She was an excellent horsewoman, and she had no doubt that she could beat Spencer in any race, and that regardless of the victor, she would challenge him. “The loser must do whatever the winner wishes for the remainder of the day,” she invented. “No questions asked.”
His eyes gleamed. “Those stakes are acceptable. Who will count?”
“Me,” she decided, feeling the need to race into the wind. Hoping it would dispel the ridiculous emotion lodging in her chest at that moment. “On the count of three. One, two, three.”
And just like that, they galloped, soaring over the field. Their mounts were neck-and-neck, the well-trained horses eager to unleash some of their energy at last in much the same way that Bo was grateful she had finally been given the opportunity to revel in the speed and thrill of racing a horse. Though she had taken a horrible spill from Damask Rose and this was the first time she was riding with any speed since that day, she was unafraid. She was, in a word, exhilarated.
She lowered her body over Majestic Iris’s neck, spurring her on, gratified when she pulled into the lead. The tree line loomed. She was getting nearer to victory. To beating him. And any inconvenient thoughts of love had been thrust into the back of her mind. Winning was all she could think about. Winning and riding, riding faster, harder, spurring her mount. She was one with her horse. She was going to win.
And then, a movement in her peripheral vision. He was gaining on her. No. She could not let him win any more than she could admit she was falling in love with him. Oh, drat it all. There it was again already, forcing itself into her mind when she least wanted it.
Love.
He spurred his mount on, and their horses were once again even with each other, their powerful hooves hammering on the ground in tandem. The tree line was closer. His horse went faster, and she was staring at his back, staring at defeat, knowing that he had already won this race, but in addition to the race he had won far more from her.
She wasn’t just falling.
Holding her breath, she attempted to spur her mount into a final burst of speed. But none was forthcoming, and Spencer galloped past the tree line with ease, a full horse length ahead of her.
She had lost. The race, her heart. She slowed Majestic Iris, allowed defeat to sink into her bones as she reined her in. Her husband turned his mount, trotting back to meet her, grinning with unrepentant triumph.
“Well done, princess. You almost won.” He stopped alongside her, lightness dancing in his eyes, and a strange rush of giddiness fluttered through her at the sight. “I am afraid it was not meant to be, however. You are now mine to command for the remainder of the day.”
If he only knew. She was his for the remainder of their lives. Her heart was his. She drank in the sight of him, staring for far longer than was necessary, loving the sight of him so carefree, a world away from the broken, disillusioned man he had been that morning.
“Do not look so terrified, wife.” He winked. “I promise not to be too much of a tyrant.”
Bo gawped some more. The Duke of Bainbridge had just winked at her. Why, if she had not witnessed it herself, she would not have believed a secondhand account. As it was, part of her was convinced he had gotten something in his eye.
“I find your victory dubious,” she said at last, attempting to squelch the seemingly unstoppable surge of emotion roiling through her. “I believe you already knew you would win the race when you suggested it, that you were well aware that your mount would outmatch mine.”
He did not defend himself, his gaze burning into hers. “Certain victory is the best kind.”
“Spoken like a man who has never known defeat.” She kept her tone flippant as she parried back, desperate for him not to suspect the turmoil raging behind her calm façade. He was so observant, those moss-green orbs always plumbing and seeking, and she was not prepared to reveal the depths of her feelings to him. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Self-preservation and pride would not allow it.
“I am beginning to think I have won when it matters most.” He nudged his mount back into a walk. “Come,” he called over his shoulder. “Let us find a proper place to have a picnic, and I shall begin enjoying the spoils of my victory.”
She urged Majestic Iris to follow, smiling as she admired Spencer’s strong shoulders and lean waist from behind. Here, in the calm tranquility of the day, with nowhere to go, no one to see, and nothing but time and sunshine in their favor, it was easy to pretend they were a true husband and wife. That their marriage had not been forced or unwanted, and that not only did she love him, but he returned that love.
Relentlessly, she forced that fantasy from her mind, reminding herself that the truth was far bleaker, and that she could not forget she had married a man who was broken in ways she could not fathom. Broken beyond her ability to fix him, no matter how much she wished she could. That she had married a man who did not and never could return her love. Despite the warmth of the sun, a shiver worked through her, and she knew she would have to do everything she could to keep from falling any deeper for him than she already had. She must guard her heart at all costs.
Above the plod of their horses’ hooves, she heard the happy trill of a ditty she could not name. Good heavens, the Duke of Bainbridge was whistling, of all things. She had not even known he had such frivolity in him.
nother tart?” Spencer asked,holding a cocoa tart near Boadicea’s tempting mouth.
He had already fed her one of the decadent confections straight from his hand, and when she had licked a crumb from the pad of his thumb, it had taken every bit of his restraint to keep from pressing her down upon the blanket he had spread over the grass, throwing up her skirts, and sinking deep within her. Which meant, of course, that he wanted to feed her another. And another, until he fed her his tongue and his cock simultaneously.
