Outside, Miss Thorpe and Jones were hitching a pair of donkeys to their own two-wheeled open carriages. This was not what James expected, but with Miss Thorpe, nothing ever was. As soon as James’s feet crunched over the gravel, Miss Thorpe turned to him and spread her arms wide toward the donkeys.

“Shall we?” Miss Thorpe asked.

“What?” he asked.

“Race!”

“Go on,” his mother nudged him, sitting herself down at the wrought iron table where her hot chocolate waited.

Miss Thorpe stepped forward, grabbed his hand, and dragged him toward the carts. He glanced down at her fingers that curled around the cuff of his jacket, the pressure momentarily alleviating the sting of his father’s betrayal, grounding him.

In front of the carriages, she let him go, saying, “All hitched. I can almost do it myself.”

Impressive. He checked the buckles.

She bumped his arm. “You needn’t express your doubt so obviously.” Miss Thorpe examined his face. “Was that a smile?” She leaned close to him, a rosy-cheeked grin luring him into deeper calm.

“Are you certain you are ready for a race?” he asked.

“I have been racing for days at Havenwood.” She cast him a brilliant look of self-satisfaction. “Or at least driving very fast.”

Miss Thorpe was prone to exaggerating her equestrian skills, but he could either play along or sit alone in the dark library. No better occupation was available to him. Hunting, fishing, riding, archery—memories of his father tainted other entertainments. He could no more concentrate on estate business than consider his political views. The company of Miss Thorpe was an appealing alternative. A race it would be.

“Choose your carriage, my lord,” she said.

“I will have—” James began.

“I was bluffing! The gray is mine. Nimbus, because he is saintly. You take Cinnamon.”

Was this a trick? Cinnamon, as she called him, was larger and stronger. He looked inside the donkey’s mouth. Young, too.

Miss Thorpe’s lithe frame stepped into the little equipage, and she took the reins. He followed suit, asking which course the race would take.

“You decide, since you are disadvantaged, not having as much experience as I in the sport of carriage racing.” She was bright and teasing, a restrained smirk on her lips.

He nearly laughed. “Impudent,” he muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

“Oh! We are getting serious.”

“Once around the green.”

“And the prize?”

He knew what he wanted. Her confidence—but he could not force that. He said the second thing that flashed to mind. “The winner takes the reins whenever we are in a carriage together.”

“Perfect!”

Immediately, he regretted his choice. This was the woman who jumped a fence with no instruction. He set his jaw. “Prepare yourself, for I will not lose.”

“Very well.” The sparkle in her eyes was quite becoming, but it increased his suspicion. She was up to something.

They lined up. Miss Thorpe did her best to glare at him, but she was clearly about to break into a fit of giggles. Jones shouted, “Go!”

“Walk on,” James said, but the donkey remained still while Miss Thorpe’s Nimbus kicked up a cloud of dust. He tapped the donkey’s flank with the whip. Nothing. His rival looked back, laughing. “Step!” Cinnamon remained still. “Go on! Move!”

He looked helplessly at his mother. She was shaking, covering her mouth with her hand.

“What’s the trick?” he asked.

She came to him. “Cinnamon was trained for a peculiar client who preferred specific verbal cues. The trainer did an excellent job, but the buyer never returned. I purchased him at a discount.”

 

The Gentlewoman Companion releases in August, so if you would like to find out who wins the race, preorder now. If you simply can’t wait, email me, and I will send you the rest of the scene.