Page 27

Kirnochshire Manor

Hunter’s Race Course

Three hours later

God’s teeth.

Evan still couldn't fathom what bloody, maggoty impulse had prompted him to declare that Sophronie would ride Eclipse. Something potent and uncontrollable had welled up inside him at Leah’s deliberately targeting Sophronie—attempting to draw blood with her cutting wit and double-edged words.

The impulse to protect Sophronie, though he knew full well she didn’t need, want, or appreciate the gesture, had overcome him. Nae, the urge to firmly put Leah in her place had motivated him equally as much.

For all of her pretentiousness, Leah Wesleyan would never toss Society’s strictures aside and ride astride, let alone compete with the men. Evan had no doubt Sophronie could manage the course atop Eclipse. Still, he’d also made her the object of speculation and perhaps additional scorn by declaring she’d enter the gentleman’s race.

Stupid, stupid fool.

Only Sophronie Slater could make him completely forget himself.

“Evan, I don’t have to race.” The breeze caught a wisp of her rose-gold hair and teased her temple. “It is of no import to me.”

It wasn’t.

Her sincerity wasn’t an act. She honestly didn’t care what people thought of her, and it was so refreshing and unexpectedly welcome that an unidentifiable emotion battered the walls of his chest.

That this woman, this firebrand who barely reached his shoulder, should have such an impact on him befuddled and bemused him. Why she, of all women, had the power to do so was equally confounding.

They stood a few feet away from the men preparing themselves for the upcoming competition in the shade of an oak grove. Several cast her speculative or sardonic glances.

Sophronie was either accomplished at ignoring the searing looks sent her way, or she honestly hadn’t noticed.

Earnestness etched upon her pretty features, she touched his forearm. “I have nothing to prove, and I don’t care what Miss Wesleyan or any of the others think of me. I’m leaving Scotland in a few days and will never see any of them again anyway.”

“Aye, lass, I ken ye dinna care. But I do.”

Evan shouldn’t care a whit that Sophronie’s name was on every tongue thanks to him, but he did. Much more than he ought to and assuredly more than was wise. Besides, the truth of it was, Evan would thoroughly enjoy watching her compete. Never had he met a woman more at home in the saddle, and what was more, he sincerely believed she could win.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

Regardless, the day wasn’t a total loss.

The past few minutes had convinced him of one thing—Leah Wesleyan would never become the next Duchess of Waycross, even if she was an heiress and a match between their families would substantially enlarge the duchy’s holdings.

Her temperament and personality rubbed Evan raw, and he had observed her unkindness toward his family too many times. Though her father wasn’t titled, she behaved as if his family were inferior to hers—even to the point of scorning his family’s brogue.

More than once, her condescending and patronizing attitude toward his kin had gravitated to waspishness and criticism. She’d even hinted that Balston House was too small for so many of his relatives. The keep boasted two-and twenty bedchambers. The plain unadulterated truth of it was, she didn’t want any other females vying for his attention or undermining her absolute control.

The fact that another woman, this one not even a relative, now resided under the same roof as Evan had Leah seething with envy. Slightly panicking too, since Evan couldn’t hide his admiration of Sophronie when it came to her knowledge of horseflesh or her riding ability.

Leah had always been selfish and self-centered. As an only child, she’d been cosseted and pampered. Coincidentally, so had Sophronie Slater. While both women possessed strong personalities and inherent confidence, Leah was conceited, self-important, and believed herself superior to nearly everyone.

Sophronie, on the other hand, accepted others, and he’d never heard her disparage anyone. Not even those who had been less than gracious to her in England. There had been many who’d mocked her accent, found fault with her mannerisms, took exception to her freckles and lack of artifice, and disdained her simply because she was an American.

“Yer father is none too pleased with me.” Evan jutted his chin toward George Slater.

“He’ll forgive you. He doesn’t hold grudges.”

Sophronie half-turned to search out her father and Evan’s mother and grandmothers sitting beneath one of the large white tents. They shared a table, sipped cool beverages, and nibbled on the heaping plates of tantalizing foods expressionless footmen had served them. Slater looked a bit more ashen than he had when they’d arrived.

Was that due to his annoyance with Sophronie and Evan, or should he have stayed abed a while longer?