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Sophronie tipped her head at a fiercely whispered expletive to her right but forced herself not to look in that direction.

One of Evan’s relatives had called Miss Wesleyan a bitch.

Evan’s strong jaw repeatedly flexed with his undisguised irritation as he cut a glance toward the festivities. He did not want Sophronie to race today. He’d made that abundantly clear the other night, and she didn’t intend to give him further reason to disapprove of her.

She could race until her heart was content once she was back home in Virginia.

“Jealous harridan,” one of the sisters or aunts murmured beneath her breath.

“Hush,” another shushed her.

Papa had come to a standstill as well, and the attention of everyone in their entourage shifted from Miss Wesleyan to Sophronie.

Evan had yet to answer his grandmother.

Sophronie, who never let another woman’s spitefulness get beneath her skin, itched to slap the smug expression from Leah Wesleyan’s beautiful face. She knew precisely what she was doing, despite her wide innocent eyes and soft, cultured tone.

“Regrettably, my daughter is here merely as an observer today, Lady Larimore.” Papa addressed Evan’s grandmother, rather than the haughty heiress. “You are aware that I am recovering from an accident, and I’d prefer Sophronie to remain near me.”

He gave Sophronie one of his do-not-argue-with-me looks.

“Of course, Mr. Slater.” Lady Larimore had the good grace to appear genuinely abashed.

Miss Wesleyan laughed, a humorless tinkle that held no warmth. “How gallant of you, Mr. Slater, to come to your daughter’s defense and protect her from a humiliating experience.” She angled her dainty chin upward. “I’ve won the women’s hunter’s course for the past five years.”

“Only because we’re no’ allowed to compete, ye dimwitted ninny.”

Sophronie didn’t need to look to know Rosalind had made that declaration, followed by a pained whoof as someone likely elbowed her in the side.

Miss Wesleyan turned her face up to Evan and offered a sincere smile. Well, as sincere as an alligator with its prey in its beady sights could. “What do you say, Evan? Shall your American guest add her name to the women’s course even though the outcome is predetermined?”

Evan’s gaze landed on Sophronie, and there was a question in his blue-gray eyes.

He would let her race if she wanted to after all.

She could see that truth in the way the corners of his eyes flexed the merest bit. Her heart swelled with emotion. He’d put aside his declaration and desire that she couldn’t compete because Miss Wesleyan was behaving like a spiteful twit.

Sophronie lifted her chin in silent assent, and Evan grinned.

“Nae, Miss Wesleyan.” He adjusted his hat, his eyes bright with hilarity. “Miss Slater will no’ compete in the women’s course.”

“I thought not.” Miss Wesleyan preened in smug satisfaction, practically rubbing herself on Evan’s arm.

He disentangled himself from her tentacles and, disregarding her petulant glower, took the few steps to where Sophronie stood. Tucking her hand into his elbow, he passed his gaze over everyone.

“If Miss Slater chooses to race today, she’ll compete against the men, astride Eclipse.”