Page 41 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

She did not wait for a reply, merely leapt into the saddle (so much easier in breeches!). The groom was still blinking after the sudden appearance of a madwoman in breeches as she urged the horse into a careful trot, Keir’s curses blistering the air behind them.

Dawn glowed behind the veils of snow slowly draping over Hyde Park. It was like being inside a meringue, all light and softness. Birds sang from the white branches. It took Sybil some time to reach a section of the path wide enough for a race. Spectators crowded along the side, breath misting above them as they complained about the weather and passed flasks of whisky back and forth.

She pulled her beast of a horse up next to the earl, eyeing him sharply. He was not entirely sober, but he was steady and was not likely to injure his horse in the process of the race. Nor hers. If he landed on his own backside and broke it in two, she would be the first to cheer.

“See if you can keep your seat, old man,” she taunted him, grinning. He could not back out now. Sybil needed to buy more time. As Spinster House might no longer be as safe as it should be, they would need a little more time to find Miss Maddox a safer place to hide.

Chiswick muttered something she could not hear.

“Go on, Chiswick!” someone shouted. “Show this upstart what you’re made of!”

She patted her horse’s neck. “You are a lovely beast. All we need to do is gallop for a bit. Nothing fancy.” He tossed his mane once. “Yes, you’re very handsome.”

She had no idea if he was fast. If the earl’s horse was fast. It did not matter. One learned to swallow one’s pride in the name of misdirection and subterfuge.

Oh, but it would be nice to win.

Someone had produced a red knitted scarf and sacrificed it to the cause. A gentleman held each end, stretching across the path.

“First to reach the twisted oaks wins!” He paused. “What’s the prize?”

“Glory!”

“Glory it is!” The gentleman paused again, this time with great flair. “Are you ready?”

“Just have at it, man!” Chiswick bellowed.

“I guess he’s ready,” the gentleman muttered.

Sybil leaned down over her horse’s neck. “You are saving a lady this fine morning. Try not to toss me out of the saddle, if you please.”

The scarf billowed up, tauntingly, back down, up again—and was released, finally dropping into the snow.

The race was on.

Sybil laughed into the wind as she held on for dear life. The cold whistled in her hair. The snow was like wet fingers under the collar. The weather was not salubrious. But the horse did not care. And she did not care.

Chiswick cared. He cursed and squinted into the air, hat long gone. It had landed in a tree some meters back.

Her horse thundered on, and she let him take the lead. His mane tickled her nose as she leaned down. Mud and slush flew from under his hooves.

Behind her, Chiswick bounced around in his saddle. His gloves were no match for the weather. His expression suggested he had been eating lemons. With salt. In vinegar.

It was glorious.

So was winning.

When Sybil finally slid out of the saddle, her cheeks were red, her fingers cramped, her boots muddy, her heart thundering in her chest. In other words: she was happy.

Even when the cold threatened to turn into something with teeth. Something made from memory and iron and a cellar. If the sun could make a valiant effort to shine through the clouds, so could she.

Someone clapped her on the shoulder in congratulations as he passed by and nearly sent her headfirst into a tree. Keir caught her by the back of her coat and righted her. “You could have been killed, damn it.”

“By a tree?” A more reasonable person might have started with an apology for stealing his horse. Maybe placated him a little. Not her usual tactics.

“Not that, and you know it.”

She raised her brows. “In a horse race?” Now that was mildly insulting.