He nodded. “Indeed. Will you ride with me for a while?”
“That would be delightful. Thank you for the invitation.” She kept her smile firmly in place even as she inwardly scolded herself for being disappointed that it was the baron asking to accompany her when Nicholas had not.
She guided Dandelion into position opposite his horse, and they fell into step. Sophie knew without checking that Betsy would be close behind.
“Do you enjoy riding?” the baron asked, glancing over. “I believe I’ve seen you here before, on occasion.”
“Very much so,” she agreed, “but only when the weather is nice. Alas, I don’t have the fortitude to venture out in inclement weather.”
“Oh, I’m the same.” He beamed, apparently delighted by this. “I prefer the comfort of a cozy home during rain or cold.”
As they continued along the path, the baron raised a hand to acknowledge another gentleman, who was walking arm in arm with one of the season’s younger debutantes.
“How is your mother?” Sophie asked, recalling that she and Lady Carlisle had become friends following the death of the former baron, who had been rather reclusive. His widow had mourned for the required period and promptly set about ingratiating herself amongst the older female members of theton.
“She’s well.” The baron adjusted his seating as they came up to a corner, and Sophie did the same. “We’re going to the Hampstead ball this weekend. Will we see you there?”
“Yes. Mother and I will attend.” Sophie looked forward to a time when her social calendar wasn’t completely overtaken by balls. She enjoyed dancing, flirting, and eating sweet treats, but there was only so much one could take before it became mundane.
“I hope you will save me a dance.”
“I’d be honored to.” It was true. Not for the first time, she couldn’t help wishing that she’d had the good fortune to fall in love with someone as uncomplicated as Baron Sylvestor rather than blasted Nicholas Blackwell.
Unfortunately, her heart wanted Nicholas, and it wouldn’t accept anyone else.
Hopefully her parents would be more considerate than they had in the past, because a marriage to someone other than him would devastate her.
Alas, she might not have a choice.
CHAPTER 2
Nicholas Blackwell tensed his muscles,wholly focused on the small white flag held above the head of one of the stablehands at the starting line of Hensley Racecourse.
He breathed steadily, keeping his pounding heart in check, and stroked his horse Blackheart’s neck.
“You can beat these fools,” he murmured, his thighs bunching as the stablehand’s arm twitched.
Poised for action, he waited until the flag came down before urging Blackheart into motion. Movement blurred all around him, and hooves thudded on the grass as half a dozen horses lunged forward.
He bent low over Blackheart, tuning out anything that wasn’t important as he squeezed gently with his heels, encouraging the gelding to go faster.
No one streaked ahead of him, which meant that he was either in the lead or not far from it. Races weren’t short, though—at least, not ones like this. If he wanted to win—and earn a little blunt from his friends—he’d have to maintain the lead for four miles.
Blackheart’s strong body tightened and released continually beneath Nicholas, and he rode with an easy grace thatcame from years of regular practice. He’d learned to ride at his father’s side, and it was in these moments that he felt most connected to him.
Even though his father had died years ago, Nicholas knew he still watched over them.
To his left, a chestnut horse overtook him, its rider concentrating too hard to spare a glance for Nicholas.
Chisholm.
Unwilling to concede defeat so easily, Nicholas urged Blackheart on. Slowly, they regained ground on Chisholm and edged up the inside, pushing him out and retaking the lead.
Nicholas whooped, but it was swallowed up by the wind.
He and Blackheart clung to the lead. Even as they neared the finish and hooves thundered right behind them, they kept ahead of their competition, crossing the line at least a neck ahead of the next contender.
Nicholas stooped down to scratch Blackheart’s sweaty flank. “Good boy. You did well.”
