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“Be careful, Fee Sophronie’ s,” her sister said, using the pet name she’d called her since they’d learned to talk. “I’m sure it’s quite safe, but it never hurts to be aware. Stay together.”
Gabriella wasn’t one to worry without cause. Ophelia glanced toward the wrestling ring, but the man who’d made her uncomfortable was gone.
“Where are you two off to?” Gabriella’s husband asked when he reached them.
“To look at the horses, Your Grace,” Sophronie put in. “I might see an animal or two I simply must add to our stables back home.”
Personally, Ophelia didn’t think the horses would enjoy the voyage.
Sophronie and her father bred thoroughbreds in the United States. They were creating quite a name for themselves in racing circles in both Britain and America.
Grinning, Maxwell shook his head before taking his wife’s elbow. “Why am I not surprised?”
Sophronie shrugged, seeming to not care in the least that her fascination with horseflesh wasn’t de rigor amongst the ton.
In truth, Ophelia would prefer to explore the encampment than have her fortune told. In that way, she was different than her twin. Preternatural dabblings had always given her the heebie-jeebies, even if it was claptrap and rot.
“Come along, Ophelia.” Sophronie tugged at Ophelia’s hand. “I see that bounder Waycross heading toward the corral.”
Corral was a generous description of the roped-off area.
Ophelia looked to where her frowning friend stared and bit back an unladylike oath. Waycross wasn’t alone. The Duke of Asherford strode beside him, though the men’s backs were to the women, so he hadn’t spied her yet.
“I always have my way, Ophelia. Always.”
She shuddered anew upon recalling his husky whisper.
Having her palm read didn’t seem so disagreeable after all.
“Must we look at the horses just now?” After last night, Ophelia wasn’t at all kindly disposed to spend time in the company of the duke.
Sophronie gave a toss of her head, causing the loose strawberry blond curls piled atop her head to jiggle.
“And let that Highland boor have the first pick? I think not. The Duke of Waycross has been intolerable since I outbid him at Tattersalls. He acts as if it were a personal affront, for pity’s sake. It was business, not a slur upon his character. I wanted the mare for our stables, plain and simple. I outbid him. If he wanted her, he ought to have bid higher. He’s behaving like a spoiled child.”
Maxwell had mentioned that many people believed Waycross to be miserly and stingy, but the truth of it was, he wasn’t flush in the pockets. So he’d ventured into horse breeding a few years ago as a means of restoring his family’s financial standing.
Ophelia almost pitied the man. Except he’d been unpardonably rude to Sophronie.
“Do hurry, Ophelia,” her friend urged, making no effort to disguise her impatience.
Ophelia suspected Sophronie enjoyed the verbal sparring with Waycross, though she’d walk on hot coals before admitting it.
Like you do with Asherford?
I do not!
Don’t you?
Of all the ridiculous notions. Now Ophelia’s mood had turned quite sour.
Puffing her cheeks out into a silent, almost childish sigh, she grudgingly conceded. Neither she nor Sophronie should be wandering the encampment alone. “After the horses, I want to look at those hand-painted fans across the way. And try those pastries. They smell heavenly.”
“Of course,” Sophronie agreed, tugging Ophelia across the hard ground with an alacrity that belied her petite form. She’d have agreed to anything if it meant spending time with equines.
“Oh my stars, look at him,” Sophronie breathed. Eyes round, she moved trancelike toward a glistening ebony Friesian. “He’s magnificent. A perfect specimen.”
Yes, he is.
