Page 9 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

S ybil did not care for carriage races. There were too many ways for the horses to sustain injuries. If a drunken lord broke his own leg or even his neck, that was his problem. The human idiots could live with the consequences. The horses should not have to.

But a simple horse race?

That was so much better than cards or dancing or climbing trellises. The bite of the wind on her cheeks, the slap of the horse’s hooves and the bellows of his breath as they worked together to the same purpose.

Beating the Earl of Chiswick and buying Miss Maddox more time.

And for once, it wasn’t raining.

Mostly because it was snowing instead. A beautiful, soft snow, just starting to fall. The ground was hard and packed, not yet wet or icy. It would not turn slick and dangerous for some time. It clung to the bare branches of lilac trees and linden trees and giant, shaggy oaks, to streetlamps and shop windows. It gleamed and glittered under a sky glowing pink and clementine.

There were worse ways to spend a too-early morning.

Half of the gaming hell poured out of the doors and rushed to jump into carriages, all heading toward Hyde Park. A horse race, a pot of coffee, and a wedding.

Well, not the wedding part.

Sybil would have smirked if she wasn’t currently trying to figure out how to race a horse without an actual horse.

Plan B needed some work, apparently.

She’d forgotten that not only had she taken a hackney to keep her identity secret, but even if she had not, neither her father’s horses nor Priya’s could offer Chiswick enough of a challenge. He’d win the race before she’d even convinced her horse to consider a trot.

Bollocks.

She didn’t have much time. There was a big, strong-looking horse just at the corner, but a groom held his reins and he did not look friendly. Or short enough that she could cosh him on the head and steal the beast.

“You’re thinking of stealing my horse.”

Keir.

His voice was soft and knowing, and right behind her. The warmth of him blocked the wind for a moment. Of course the horse belonged to him. He needed something sturdy enough to handle a giant. She should have guessed.

Why was he still here? Surely horse races were beneath him.

She angled her face away just in case, even though he would never recognize her.

“Sybil,” he said, patiently. Pointedly.

Her mouth dropped open and she whirled on him. “ What? ”

“I know it’s you.”

“Shh!” She tugged the brim of her hat a little lower in case anyone had overheard him, even though he was very soft spoken for a man who looked like he could shout the trees down.

He continued to look down at her, inscrutable as always. Maybe not quite as inscrutable. She was fairly certain there was a tiny muscle twitching by his left eyebrow. “You cannot have my horse,” he said.

She frowned. “I need him more than you do.”

“Like you needed the betting book?”

“Precisely. And will you hush? You are not very good at subterfuge, are you, my lord?”

“I’ve never had the occasion to take on another name and character, no.”

“Pity.”

“Pity?”

“It’s amusing.” She shrugged. “And you could do with some amusement,” she added in a mutter under her breath.

He loomed over her, but she felt sheltered instead of intimidated. She wondered if that would shock him. “What are you doing, Sybil?”

She adjusted her gloves the way she had seen countless young men do. “I’m getting ready to win a horse race.”

“Let me try again,” he said, clearly growing more exasperated by the second. Good. She hated when he was all lordly and controlled. The infamously calm Lord Blackburn destroyed his enemies both at home, in Parliament, and on the Continent with cold, brutal efficiency.

She preferred Keir. This was the man who had dared to show his sense of humor in a note written after midnight.

“ Why are you trying to win a horse race which you clearly baited an old man into taking?” he pressed.

“That old man is goat dung.”

“No argument there. But I won’t be distracted, Sybil.”

Why did he keep saying her name? It was too intimate, too personal. Private. She liked the sound of it too much in his mouth. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

“You do if you want my horse.”

“It was very considerate of you to bring him for me.”

“I think you mean coincidental.” Now he looked as though he was trying not to be amused. Finally.

“ Very considerate,” she said.

“Sybil.” A warning this time.

One she had no intention of heeding. Obviously.

Especially not when another wave of drunken patrons stumbled through the doors behind them, clogging the pavement. Very convenient.

Very convenient, indeed.

Keir was stronger.

But Sybil was faster.

She tossed him a grin over her shoulder and darted into the crowd. He bellowed her name. Better yet, he was considerate enough to bellow her assumed name. “Singleton, damn it!”

She decided she was terribly fond of him right then and there.

“Bates,” he called to his groom. “Keep tight to those reins.”

Perhaps not that fond.

Sybil reached the groom long before Keir. Bates frowned at the crowd of stumbling lords, the traffic of carriages and horses suddenly surging away from the hell. He was tall, clearly competent. The horse was well cared for and a veritable beast.

But neither of them were prepared for Sybil.

Which was exactly how she liked it. People were always so much more obliging when she took them by surprise.

She caught his gaze and smiled. “Lord Blackburn has been kind enough to lend me his horse.” She kept her voice light, natural, nearly cloying in its debutante sweetness. Ha. Debutantes were as sweet as unripe lemons. But it did the job.

He blinked at her. “Miss?”

“You wouldn’t put a lady in danger, would you?” It was technically true. Sybil might not be in danger, but Miss Maddox most assuredly was.

She did not wait for a reply, merely leapt into the saddle (so much easier in breeches!). The groom was still blinking after the sudden appearance of a madwoman in breeches as she urged the horse into a careful trot, Keir’s curses blistering the air behind them.

Dawn glowed behind the veils of snow slowly draping over Hyde Park. It was like being inside a meringue, all light and softness. Birds sang from the white branches. It took Sybil some time to reach a section of the path wide enough for a race. Spectators crowded along the side, breath misting above them as they complained about the weather and passed flasks of whisky back and forth.

She pulled her beast of a horse up next to the earl, eyeing him sharply. He was not entirely sober, but he was steady and was not likely to injure his horse in the process of the race. Nor hers. If he landed on his own backside and broke it in two, she would be the first to cheer.

“See if you can keep your seat, old man,” she taunted him, grinning. He could not back out now. Sybil needed to buy more time. As Spinster House might no longer be as safe as it should be, they would need a little more time to find Miss Maddox a safer place to hide.

Chiswick muttered something she could not hear.

“Go on, Chiswick!” someone shouted. “Show this upstart what you’re made of!”

She patted her horse’s neck. “You are a lovely beast. All we need to do is gallop for a bit. Nothing fancy.” He tossed his mane once. “Yes, you’re very handsome.”

She had no idea if he was fast. If the earl’s horse was fast. It did not matter. One learned to swallow one’s pride in the name of misdirection and subterfuge.

Oh, but it would be nice to win.

Someone had produced a red knitted scarf and sacrificed it to the cause. A gentleman held each end, stretching across the path.

“First to reach the twisted oaks wins!” He paused. “What’s the prize?”

“Glory!”

“Glory it is!” The gentleman paused again, this time with great flair. “Are you ready?”

“Just have at it, man!” Chiswick bellowed.

“I guess he’s ready,” the gentleman muttered.

Sybil leaned down over her horse’s neck. “You are saving a lady this fine morning. Try not to toss me out of the saddle, if you please.”

The scarf billowed up, tauntingly, back down, up again—and was released, finally dropping into the snow.

The race was on.

Sybil laughed into the wind as she held on for dear life. The cold whistled in her hair. The snow was like wet fingers under the collar. The weather was not salubrious. But the horse did not care. And she did not care.

Chiswick cared. He cursed and squinted into the air, hat long gone. It had landed in a tree some meters back.

Her horse thundered on, and she let him take the lead. His mane tickled her nose as she leaned down. Mud and slush flew from under his hooves.

Behind her, Chiswick bounced around in his saddle. His gloves were no match for the weather. His expression suggested he had been eating lemons. With salt. In vinegar.

It was glorious.

So was winning.

When Sybil finally slid out of the saddle, her cheeks were red, her fingers cramped, her boots muddy, her heart thundering in her chest. In other words: she was happy.

Even when the cold threatened to turn into something with teeth. Something made from memory and iron and a cellar. If the sun could make a valiant effort to shine through the clouds, so could she.

Someone clapped her on the shoulder in congratulations as he passed by and nearly sent her headfirst into a tree. Keir caught her by the back of her coat and righted her. “You could have been killed, damn it.”

“By a tree?” A more reasonable person might have started with an apology for stealing his horse. Maybe placated him a little. Not her usual tactics.

“Not that, and you know it.”

She raised her brows. “In a horse race?” Now that was mildly insulting.

“In a race on a horse you do not know and in the snow. You could have been injured.”

When he put it like that , it did not sound as much fun. Necessary but, very well, possibly reckless, even for her. Not that she would ever admit to it. Certainly not to him. “But I wasn’t injured.”

“You could have injured my horse.”

She sucked in a breath, truly offended for the first time. “I would never. ”

He studied her for a long moment before frowning. It was much frownier than the one he used for her fake swooning and horse racing and general havoc. “You’re cold.” It was downright accusatory.

“It’s winter.” She studied him for a moment. He did not look cold at all. Only cross. And something else she could not decipher. “I did not take you for the type to frequent a gaming hell until dawn.”

“And here I took you entirely for that type.”

Was that an insult? A compliment?

She would jump naked into the Thames before asking.

“What were you doing, Sybil?”

“Hush!” She poked him hard.

“Everyone is dispersing. There’s no one near enough to hear me.”

He was right. She hadn’t noticed. It was hard to notice anything but him.

Which was embarrassing, really. After all this time.

The others were indeed huddling back into the warmth of their waiting carriages, exchanging winnings. Chiswick was being helped discreetly off his horse. He looked sore. Ha. Served him right.

She considered running and tackling him to the ground. Challenging him to that duel. Pushing him into the Serpentine. But she had done all that she could do. Now she could only trust that the others had spirited Miss Maddox away already. She was due for her marriage ceremony in an hour.

Keir sighed when he realized that not only was Sybil not going to give him an explanation but was already distracted by something else. His mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile, but his tone was dry as dust. “Horse thievery is a hanging offense.”

“Only if you’re caught.”

“I caught you.”

She nearly asked him what he planned to do with her now that he had caught her, but bit her tongue instead. They did not talk about that. Ever.

Proof she could control herself. Make rational decisions.

Which was about as diverting as resting .

She grimaced inwardly and tried to take the reasonable route after one steals a horse, wins a race, and is caught in the snow in borrowed breeches.

Retreat.

“Thank you for your assistance, Lord Blackburn.” She bowed sharply, more than a little tauntingly. She had to bite her back teeth down as she fought a full-body shiver. The snow was hitting the back of her neck again and also seeping into her shoes. She needed to get home and get warm. Now. “Goodnight.”

His fingers closed over her wrist. “I think the hell not.”

Her eyes widened. “Such language, Lord Blackburn .”

“Get in the carriage, Miss Taunton .”

“I can walk home.”

He did not move, did not release her wrist. Did not blink as he studied her. “No.”

She thought about fighting him just for the fun of it, but there was very little fun in trudging home with icy toes that might shatter if they got any colder. “Fine.” She climbed the step. “But don’t get any ideas, Lord Blackburn—I cannot marry you,” she said, echoing his words from the night she pilfered the betting book.

For some reason, his jaw clenched. She fancied she could hear his molars grinding together.

She felt quite cheerful after all, despite the cold.

He had hired a hackney, no doubt while still cursing her name. Bates had already come to claim the horse. The carriage was warm and cozy, and with Keir, it felt considerably smaller. He propped his boot against the door with a raised eyebrow, referring to the fact that she had run away the minute his back was turned the last time he had popped her into a carriage. “You don’t trust me?” she asked.

“I know you.”

But why should he mind that she had slipped away from the Willoughby ball, aside from a bit of concern? She had done him a favor, surely. He was not fond of messiness, and she was nothing if not messy.

But he did not look inclined to let her go at the moment.

And she did not want him to.

That was a problem.

She bit back a sigh, could not bite back a shiver. The snow had melted through her coat and her stockings, clammy and chill. The warm brick at her feet was absolutely heaven but not quite enough to battle the weather she had dragged in with her.

Keir scowled. She was no doubt dripping all over the floors, staining the seats, which, at least, were not the fancy ones of his personal carriage. There was mud on her boots. Why was there always mud all over her when he was around?

“You’re still cold,” he said darkly. As if it offended him to his very soul.

“I’m not.” Her teeth chattered around the lie.

He cursed. “You’re soaked through, you little liar.”

“Just a bit.” When he reached for her legs, she blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you warm, since you seem incapable of staying out of the cold like any reasonable person.”

“I had a job to do.”

“Catch your death?”

“No, stop a wedding.”

He pulled off her boots and then undid the buttons at the knees of her breeches, while she watched, not knowing if she should do it herself, not wanting him to stop. His hands were big and warm and exceedingly gentle as he rolled down her wet stockings. He cursed at the sight of her bare calves, mottled pink with cold. The scars on her ankle looked angry. She tugged away slightly, embarrassed despite knowing better than to care about such things. Her head knew the scars were just scars. Other parts of her wanted to be warm and smooth and pretty when Keir was looking at her.

“Stay still,” he ordered her. He stroked his palms up and down her calves, rubbing very gently to warm her up. He did not seem satisfied with the results and plucked her out of her seat instead, as though she were a great deal smaller than she was, tucking her into his side. “Take off your coat.”

Dazed, she obeyed. He pulled her under his coat, against his chest, the place she loved the most even when she wanted to poke him repeatedly with a sharp stick. He was so warm and sturdy and smelled so nice, with a hint of snow. “Why is it you’re always warming me up?”

“Why is it you don’t know better than to traipse around London in the dead of night in winter?”

“Extenuating circumstances.”

“I am beginning to think your entire life is an extenuating circumstance.”

She smiled softly. “Sometimes it does feel that way.”

“You have to have more care.” He said it softly, less a command, more a plea. As if it truly did matter to him.

“I’m not fragile, Keir. It’s just a bit of cold.” But it wasn’t, not since the cellar. She had come too close to that kind of cold again, the one that clawed icy fingers into her chest and would not let go.

Except Keir made it let go.

Somehow, he made it let go.

It wasn’t just that he was so solid and exuded warmth like a bonfire. It was something else. Something purely Keir .

And for now, it was hers.

A single, quiet moment in a carriage trundling through quiet snowy streets. Warmth and darkness and safety.

And Keir’s mouth.