Virginia Henley (22 page)

Tony closed the book with a snap. Would to God she had some paste of henna to cool her own hot center! She felt flushed and decidedly breathless. She knew exactly how Jemdanee felt, for she had become the princess and naturally her lord was none other than the Leopard.

Tony could take no more of their erotic tale for the present, but she could not resist taking a peek at the
Kama Sutra.
It was a fatal mistake! The pictures and commands blurred before her eyes. They were mesmerizing,
wickedly erotic, yet intimately beautiful. The command inscribed upon the first page read: “You must fetter his soul before you bind your body to his in lovemaking.”

Tony turned on her back and gazed up at the ceiling. Fetter his soul … fetter his soul … bind your body to his …

Antonia was lost, lost. The room tilted and everything seemed to slide away out of her control. She could no longer handle her emotions; she could no longer cope with this lie she was living. She longed to stop time, then make it all go backward so that everything she had done could be undone, and everything could be exactly the way it was before … before.

Tony forced herself to breathe slowly, to calm down. She had momentarily let go of the strands and they had slipped through her fingers. Mentally she picked up the threads, one by one, and took a firm grasp upon them. She would cope. She would face it all squarely.

The first thing she would examine were her feelings toward Adam Savage. She was attracted, intrigued, but daunted. Nay, she lied. She was not daunted enough to keep her sinful thoughts from him, and attraction was far too pale and pallid an emotion for what she felt. Yet she knew it was not love. She had no sweet thoughts about him. No soft sighs, no illusions.

He was dangerous, immoral, and most likely wicked and corrupt. She doubted if his kind of wealth could be accumulated without cheating and stealing. Despite all this, or perhaps because of it, she wanted to be with him constantly. He drew her like a lunar tide. She swore she would keep her distance, then against her will she would seek him out, to look at him, to listen to him, to be with him. Morning, noon, or night, it mattered not the hour when the longing struck.

She distilled her thoughts and her feelings down to one word.
Hunger.
She hungered for him. She hungered to touch him, have him touch her. She hungered to kiss him,
have him kiss her. She hungered for him to teach her all his knowledge, all his skills, all his worldly experience. She hungered to bind her body to his in lovemaking.

God, what a coil she was in. Her situation was impossible, yet she must accept responsibility for what she had done. She sighed for what might have been, then turned over and curled up in an effort to ease her ache.

Adam Savage looked over the merchant vessels that were for sale and by a process of elimination was left with a clipper that promised speed as well as spacious cargo holds. It had been neglected, run nonstop for profit obviously, and now that the wear and tear was visible, its owner intended squeezing the last halfpenny out of it.

The telltale smell of opium still clung belowdecks. For that reason Savage determined to pay only half what was being asked. The thoroughbreds he had bought from the Prince of Wales were to be delivered to Edenwood today, so he decided to kill two birds with one stone. He’d sail the ship to Gravesend to see how it handled before he made an offer.

When Tony received the note from Savage telling her he was going to Edenwood, she heaved a sigh of relief. Wasn’t it amazing the way things had of working themselves out? Today was the day she’d agreed to take part in the great race to Richmond.

It had seemed a lark at the time to agree to the phaeton race. After all, the winner stood to gain a small fortune, but she had been three sheets to the wind and the fact that
she owned neither a perch phaeton, nor horses to drive it, hadn’t deterred her. Her guardian always seemed to possess whatever she lacked and he had encouraged her to drive his carriage.

Tony knew it was unconscionable to race his cattle without his permission, but she reasoned, Savage would admire such initiative and daring. There was no denying it would take guts for her to carry it off, but just the thought of a glint of admiration, rather than contempt, from those ice-pale eyes made her want to risk all. She closed her eyes for a moment and clenched her fists. The need to prove herself knotted her guts.

The race was for couples. Sherry was taking Amoret, Charles Fox’s mistress was Lizzie Armistead, and of course Georgiana was partnering the Prince of Wales. She wasn’t the prince’s mistress. No one filled that position at the moment because it was reserved for Maria Fitzherbert, who had a lovely house on Marble Hill in Richmond. She was playing coy at the moment and had retired from London so George would go running after her. He did, of course. It was rumored he drove out to Richmond every day, which gave the prince a distinct advantage in familiarity with the course, but Tony knew every single man racing was heavier than herself.

She scribbled a note inviting Dolly to spend the afternoon in a fun-filled drive to Richmond, signed it Lord Anthony Lamb, and dispatched it to the Olympian Theater. She felt confident the little actress would jump at the chance to rub elbows with the Carlton House set. This done, she lost no time making her way across Green Park to Stable Yard Road, where Savage kept his horses and carriages.

Tony felt a qualm when she saw the spanking, brand new high-perch phaeton. Its finish was glossy and without a scratch. The hostler took off his cap in reverent admiration as he told Lord Lamb it had been rubbed with eighteen coats of varnish.

The high-steppers Savage had acquired to pull the new rig were a breed apart from the sturdy carriage horses she had tooled along the turnpike, but Tony swallowed her misgivings, telling herself she’d been around horses all her life and that “attitude” was everything. She believed it and she knew Adam Savage held the same conviction.

She wanted to win this race more than anything she’d ever wanted before. Not only did she want to vindicate her brother’s manhood, she wanted the prize money for herself. Savage passionately admired the ability to make money. She hungered to show him he was not the only one who could do so.

The hostler harnessed the horses in tandem between the shafts and walked the equipage outside into Stable Yard Road. In the sunlight the dark burgundy of the phaeton glowed deep red and the glossy coats of the blooded horses reflected the same color exactly. The stableman nodded toward the long whip standing erect in its pinch ring.

“These cattle are mettlesome, my lord. Don’t touch ’em up until you are out in the country.”

Tony knew the reins would be quite enough for her to handle and the whip would remain securely in its holder. She climbed up on the high perch with her heart in her mouth. Maneuvering about London’s streets would be the tricky part; she had nothing to worry about once she reached the country road.

Amazingly she encountered no trouble as she guided them down the street. Everyone had enough sense to get out of the way, even the languid macaronis who made a profession of sauntering quickened their pace to give her a wide berth.

Tony managed to turn the first corner smoothly enough and when she turned the second corner into Green Park she saw it was almost clogged with horse-drawn phaetons and a boisterously noisy crowd.

Postilions and post boys swarmed about between the
carriages giving aid and advice to all the contestants. Tony felt discouraged when she saw that the Prince of Wales’s team consisted of three horses, but then her optimism rose again when she realized that he and Georgiana would take a royal postilion with them.

Crowds of spectators had gathered to vicariously experience the pleasures of the upper class, and a couple of turf accountants were collecting wagers. Colonel Dan Mackinnon was taking care of the private wagers and Lord Onslow was holding the prize money of a thousand guineas.

Southampton and Edward Bouverie, two of the Prince’s gentlemen, strolled up to admire Tony’s horseflesh. They raised their eyebrows and dashed off to find Dan Mackinnon to change their bets. Savage’s high-strung animals were restless, flinging their heads in the air and fighting the feel of the bits beneath their tongues, but fortunately a couple of quick-witted postilions grabbed their harness and tried to soothe them.

Vendors hawked eel pasties, gingerbread, and cheap gin known as “mother’s ruin” to the crowd. As well as availing themselves of the spirits being sold in the park, most of the bucks carried flasks of brandy and by the look of Sherry and one or two others, they had been imbibing to a dangerous degree.

The flowerettes of gaudy ribbon with numbers at their center were handed out. When Tony was handed the last one it turned out to be number thirteen! Her resolve hardened. She would make her own luck. It was another hour before some sort of order was restored from chaos, which gave Dolly Dawson plenty of time to make her way through the mirthful crowd to Tony’s phaeton.

Tony blinked at the garish outfit the actress had chosen. Her powdered wig was a foot high, decorated by scarlet poppies; her dress and frilled parasol were also scarlet. Unfortunately they were different shades and the colors seemed at war with one another. The girl drew every male
eye in the park as well as the eyes of the horses, who shied away as she approached.

Tony cursed beneath her breath, then gallantly reached down to give Dolly a hand up. The postilion winked at Tony and said, “Blimey, ye should ’ave put blinkers on yer cattle!”

Dolly giggled, lifted her skirts to show a liberal amount of petticoat and ankle, and when the postilion gave her a leer, she replied, “Should ‘ave put blinkers on you too!”

She gave Tony a brilliant smile. “Coo, this is ever so exciting, my lord. I can feel my blood rushin’ about.” She put her hand on Tony’s thigh. “Ow about you, Lord Lamb?” she asked suggestively.

“Dolly, I suggest you use your hand to hang on to your wig.”

A starting pistol was fired and the Prince of Wales, who had been honored with number one, tooled his phaeton like a wagon driver. He was addicted to speed and had no intention of waiting until he was out of London before he whipped up his cattle.

“That’s the Duchess of Devonshire!” Dolly cried with awe. “I can’t believe I’m ’obnobbing with ‘Er bleedin’ Grace!”

Her bleeding Grace was in a reckless mood, urging George to leave the others to eat their dust. Tony didn’t worry that number thirteen was the last to start. The city streets were no place to vie for position. Caution would be her byword until she reached the countryside. Others who hadn’t the sense they were born with were already out of the race. She passed a phaeton that had lost a wheel and another whose driver had toppled drunk from his perch.

When the road widened and the first trees appeared, the horses picked up speed so rapidly, they outpaced half a dozen other teams in the space of minutes. They were bowling along at such a high speed, all Dolly could do was gasp and hang on for dear life.

Tony saw that the road ahead narrowed and reluctantly
pulled back on the reins, knowing there would not be enough space for her and the carriage ahead. That was when she learned the horses must have gotten their bits between their teeth. They surged ahead wildly, passing the carriage as if it were standing still—and to Tony’s alarm she saw she had just passed His Royal Highness.

Dolly shrieked as her scarlet parasol turned inside out. She let go of its handle to clutch the seat with both hands and the thing took off like a projectile. Tony knew she couldn’t control the horses and began to worry about how she would stop them when they arrived at Richmond Park.

She didn’t remember passing any of the remaining racing teams, but suddenly up ahead she saw White Lodge, the royal residence. The gates to Richmond Park had been thrown open and a small crowd had gathered outside. As they thundered through, a great cheer went up. Tony heard it only dimly over the roar of her own blood in her ears.

The horses were thrown off their stride by the crowd and slowed slightly as they climbed the first hill. Tony braced her feet to the floorboards and pulled back on the reins with all her strength, shouting, “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” over and over until she was hoarse. The team veered from the path onto the grassy slope and Dolly felt as if her teeth would be jarred from her mouth. The team slowed to a canter by the time it circled the park, and Tony managed to bring the horses to a quivering stop, just as two other phaetons arrived, neck and neck.

“Blimey,” Dolly whispered, her poppies hanging limply, obscuring her vision, “if this is wot you do for fun, count me out.”

Tony jumped down to fasten the reins to a stout tree with shaking hands before the devil horses decided to bolt. Then she dropped to the grass to catch her breath and gather her wits.

It came as a surprise when she realized the shouts were directed at her. “You won! You won!” regaled the crowd,
and suddenly she was laughing and a mollified Dolly was dimpling at the men who competed to hand her down from the phaeton.

The next hour was a blur for Tony as she walked about on wobbly legs accepting congratulations. The Prince of Wales, peeved for a moment that he had lost, told all his friends that he would have won easily if it hadn’t been for a bright red, unidentifiable object that deliberately spooked his gee-gees.

When Maria Fitzherbert arrived, however, the race was wiped from his mind. Here was a much more urgent prize he intended to capture. A picnic feast had been arranged on the lawns of Richmond Park. Footmen spread snowy cloths over trestle tables and were kept busy replenishing the food and drink consumed by the royal guests.

A marvelous feeling of euphoria enveloped Tony as she walked among the merrymakers, acknowledging their congratulations. All she could think of was Adam’s face when he learned she had won the great phaeton race to Richmond. Dolly had removed the wilted poppies, and without the clashing scarlet of her parasol, her red dress looked quite fetching. Tony’s euphoria was wiped away as she came face to face with Bernard Lamb.

“Hello, coz.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “What the devil are you doing here?” Dolly and Angela Brown were already having an animated conversation.

Bernard drawled, “Racing, same as you, cousin. Why else would I be here?”

That is precisely what worried Tony. She could have sworn she hadn’t passed him in the race, but then she hadn’t remembered passing Sherry and the others either.

Bernard’s lip curled. “I’d congratulate you, but it’s quite obvious it was superior horseflesh and not your driving skill that won the race.”

“Yes, blood will out,” Tony said pointedly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Bernard’s nostrils flare at the insult.
She walked away, hoping Dolly would remain with her friends, but she trailed after Tony. There was no way she was going to miss being front and center when Lord Lamb was awarded the prize.

The Prince of Wales took the fat purse from his equerry, Lord Onslow, and prevailed upon Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert to make the presentation. As Tony came forward she was dazzled by the lady’s beauty. Maria had learned how to dress in France. Her complexion was like cream and roses and her glorious golden-blond hair fell to her shoulders in unpowdered curls. The magnificent swell of her breasts was breathtaking, even concealed beneath her modest neckline.

She pressed the purse upon Tony, who gallantly clicked her heels and raised the lady’s soft white hand to her lips. The crowd applauded that it was prettily done and Sherry immediately touched him up for a loan.

“Shove off! Find another pigeon to pluck.”

“You did say pluck?” punned Sherry.

Dolly giggled. “His Royal Highness is going to get plucked before the afternoon is out.”