Disbelief widened her eyes. "What are you talking about? Are you telling me Caleb Tanner let me win that race?"
"I'm sayin' the man 'ad ye beat. Behaved like a real gen'l'man, 'e did."
Lee shook her head. "I don't believe it. Caleb Tanner would have liked nothing better than to see me out here mucking out those stalls." She cast him a look. "If he won the race, why didn't you say something sooner?"
Arlie shrugged a pair of bony shoulders. "Couldn't do that now, could I? Ain't fittin' fer a lady ta be doin' that sorta' work. Figured better 'im doin' the shovelin' than ye doin' it yerself."
Lee fixed her gaze on Caleb, who bent to his task down at the end of the barn. His shirt was gone, draped over the side of the stall. The muscles in his broad back gleamed with sweat, flexing every time he hefted the shovel. His skin was smooth and tanned dark from the sun, his hair damp with sweat and curling at the back of his neck. For a moment, she just stood there, mesmerized by the sight of him, trying to ignore an odd sort of breathlessness and a funny little flutter in the pit of her stomach.
Arlie shuffled away, still chuckling, and Lee's temper heated. Jerking a pitchfork off the wall, she stormed down to the end of the barn.
"Get out! You're finished in here." Ignoring the astonished look on his face, she bent over and started forking the wet straw and manure out of the stall.
Caleb jerked the pitchfork out of her hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Lee whirled toward him, clamping her hands on her hips. "You won that race! Arlie said so! Now get out of this stall and let me go to work!"
Caleb started to smile, then he grinned. "You actually would have done it? You would have cleaned out the stalls?"
"What did you think? That I wouldn't stand by my wager? You figured you might as well let me win because it really wouldn't matter?" She reached out, grabbed the pitchfork out of his hands, and started furiously filling the wheelbarrow.
Caleb frowned. Stalking toward her, he reached over and jerked the pitchfork away. "Arlie's mistaken. You won the race."
She eyed him skeptically. "You're lying—I can see it in your eyes. What I can't figure out is why. Arlie says you were playing the gentleman. But you aren't a gentleman, are you, Caleb Tanner?"
His gaze ran over her, skimming the fullness of her breasts, the swell of her hips, outlined so clearly by the breeches. He reached out and caught the tops of her arms, and she didn't resist when he drew her toward him. His eyes were a darker shade of brown and there was a glint in them that hadn't been there before. Unconsciously, her palms came to rest on his naked, sweat-slick chest.
"No…" he said softly, "I'm no gentleman." Their eyes locked for an instant, then his mouth came down over hers.
Lee staggered at the jolt of unexpected heat. Beneath her palms, his skin felt hot and slick. He smelled of sweat and horses, and the powerful muscles across his chest flexed each time he moved. He took what he wanted, but his lips felt softer than they should have and heat spiraled out through her limbs. His tongue slid into her mouth as he deepened the kiss and she started to tremble.
All too soon, Caleb ended the kiss. He let her go and when he stepped away, she could see the heavy ridge of his sex pressing against the front of his breeches. Instead of fear or repulsion, she felt a strange blend of curiosity and excitement.
"The week is over," Caleb said as if the kiss had never occurred. "Which of us won no longer matters. With your permission, now that Jimmy will be busy riding for you, I'll hire one of the village lads to help Billy do the dirty work in here."
Lee swallowed and nodded, tried to sound as nonchalant as he. "All right, that will be fine." She turned and started walking, her heart still beating madly, her legs like India rubber. Outside the stall, she stopped and turned. "I want a rematch. You owe me at least that much."
Caleb's lips curved. She remembered the heat of them moving over hers. "Anytime, Miss Durant." But the hunger in his eyes warned that racing him today could have dangerous consequences. Lee ignored the little voice daring her to accept the unspoken challenge; she turned and walked away.
It was later that same night that Vermillion joined her aunt Gabriella and a small party for a night at the theater. Jonathan Parker, Lord Nash, was their escort, handsome with his silver-touched brown hair, impeccably dressed in a blue, velvet-collared tailcoat, blue-and-silver waistcoat, and dove gray breeches.
"I'm glad you and your aunt accepted my invitation," he said as he escorted Vermillion into the Theatre Royale in Haymarket for a production of Richard III. "It seems eons since we've enjoyed a moment to ourselves."
Which was true, of course, with Wingate and Mondale hovering over her every moment, to say nothing of Aunt Gabby's usual throng of hangers-on. But she had purposely excluded the others tonight. If she were going to make the right choice, she needed to get to know each of the men a little better.
And Nash was certainly charming. He smiled as he offered his arm and led her through the lobby, which blazed with the light of a dozen crystal chandeliers. Candles gleamed against the deep-red velvet draperies, and gilt-framed paintings hung on the walls. Nash guided them up the sweeping staircase to his private box on the second floor and they sat down in small, round, velvet-covered chairs.
He leaned toward her and she felt the brush of his coat. "I hear Noir will be racing at Newmarket come week's end. I imagine he'll sweep the field."
"It's going to be a difficult race, but I believe Noir will win."
The red velvet curtains moved just then and Aunt Gabby, dressed to kill in an exquisite gown of black and silver, turned to see Lord Claymont walk in.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, smiling at Gabriella. "Though it doesn't appear I've missed anything yet." The earl was average in height and build, with lightly graying black hair and intense blue eyes. He was attractive and intelligent, a generous, kind-hearted man, and Vermillion had grown extremely fond of him.
"We've been invited to a party in honor of Michael Cutberth, darling. Isn't that exciting?" The actor was one of England's most renowned thespians and Gabriella was wild to meet him.
Not surprising. Aunt Gabby lived for nights like this.
The earl whispered something in Gabriella's ear and she laughed.
The viscount moved a little closer. "You must be looking forward to the race," he said. "When will you be leaving?"
"On the seventh. The horses have already departed."
He flashed her one of his charming smiles. He really was a handsome man. "I'm sure they'll all do very well."
Aunt Gabby tapped his sleeve with her painted fan. "It's going to be great fun, Jon. I've taken a house for the occasion—quite a lovely place, actually. I plan to do a little entertaining. Why don't you come with us?"
He flicked a glance at Vermillion, but regretfully shook his head. "I should like nothing better, believe me. Unfortunately, I've a ministers' meeting I cannot escape." He smiled. "I promise, however, I shall find a way to make amends." His eyes were warm on her face and Vermillion felt a smile of her own appearing.
They talked more of racing and a little of the war, the threat of invasion a constant worry on everyone's mind.
"Some say the little corporal will try to make the crossing with an armada of steam-powered airships," Nash told her.
Vermillion toyed with the diamond and ruby necklace at her throat. "Airships? I should think if Napoleon has been building steam-powered engines, using them on real ships would be far more efficient."
"I agree," Nash said. "But who can know the mind of the enemy?"
"I've heard rumors he is amassing more troops in Spain, which I suppose makes sense, in light of what happened at Oporto."
Jonathan turned toward her. "I'm certain General Wellesley has the matter well in hand. At least we must pray that he does."