"Did I say something to displease you?"
Caleb shook his head. "No, not at all." His fingers brushed hers as he took the currycomb from her hand, and he tried not to notice how soft her skin felt. "You'd better go. Your aunt will be looking for you."
She tossed him a look. "Thank you for reminding me. I suppose for the short duration that you will be employed here, I shall have to get used to taking orders."
Caleb glanced away. "Sorry." He said nothing more but inwardly he cursed. He was too damned used to taking charge, too used to being in command. If he wasn't careful, Vermillion was going to suspect he was more than just a servant.
Vermillion. But the young woman he had seen this morning bore little resemblance to the image conjured by the name. As he finished grooming the gray and started on the tall bay gelding, Caleb found himself wondering about the pretty young woman who called herself Lee.
3
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The horse races at Epsom Downs were attended by patrons from every level of society. From the lowliest ragpicker who stood watching from behind the rail to the royal party in their private boxes above the starting line.
The Durant women, longtime racing aficionados and owners of some of the finest racing stock in the country, sat with their own entourage, guests for the occasion who had traveled behind them in a string of expensive black carriages along the route to the track.
Activity swirled around them: apple sellers cooking on their tiny coal stoves, ale men selling beer at a penny a pot; an organ-grinder making music while one of those silly little monkeys jumped up and down on his shoulder. There were pickpockets and blacklegs, too, lying in wait for the unwary. Lee marveled at all of it, enjoying the cacophony of sights and sounds.
Anxiously awaiting the most important event of the day—the sweepstakes race in which Noir would be running—she sat next to Colonel Wingate, one of the three men most seriously vying for her affections.
A position soon to be filled.
At her aunt's insistence, Vermillion had agreed to announce her choice of lover on her upcoming nineteenth birthday. It was time she made a place for herself in the world, her aunt believed, past time, in fact.
On that particular point, Vermillion agreed. Aunt Gabby had her own life to live. She couldn't be expected to shelter her niece beneath her protective wing forever. For more than a year, Gabriella had scrupulously worked toward the goal of setting her young charge free. Vermillion would choose her first lover and assume her place as the toast of the demimonde.
And Colonel Wingate, Viscount Nash, and Lord Andrew Mondale each believed he was the man she would choose.
Vermillion sighed as she listened to the merry tune of the organ-grinder. She appreciated her suitors' confidence, but even she was not yet certain. Wingate was an attractive, imposing man somewhere near Lord Nash's age, perhaps close to forty, a military officer who had traveled extensively and was worth a goodly sum. He was intelligent and solicitous. He was also gone a great deal, which infinitely suited Vermillion.
Nash she considered a friend. He was in his late thirties, attractive in a genteel sort of way, and always interesting to talk to. The viscount was involved in politics and currently served as an advisor to the Lord Chancellor of England.
She liked Lord Nash. She just wasn't sure she wished to risk destroying the friendship she felt for him by turning it into a more intimate sort of relationship.
And then there was Mondale. Andrew was the youngest of the trio, perhaps seven and twenty, the best-looking of the three, the man she found the most attractive. Lord Andrew constantly professed his grand amour and he had kissed her more than once. They weren't the sort of kisses she had dreamed of, mashing her lips against her teeth and holding her a little too tightly, certainly not the sort her aunt described that made her knees feel weak, but her heart had certainly beat faster and her palms had grown a little damp.
Aunt Gabby's timely arrival in the garden had made certain the kisses were brief. There was no doubt what Mondale would do if he were given the least encouragement, but Vermillion wasn't yet ready to make that sort of commitment. Still, he was probably the man she should choose, being tall, blond, and handsome, and possessed of a passionate nature she imagined would make a good first lover.
He was also a complete and utter rogue where women were concerned, and though he read poetry to her and vowed to be faithful for the duration of their arrangement, she didn't believe for a moment that he would be.
But then, in the world of the demimonde, fidelity wasn't considered important.
"Are you comfortable?" Seated beside her in the grandstand, Lord Andrew cast a look at his competition. "The view might be better a bit farther to the right. I'm sure Colonel Wingate would be happy to give up his seat so that you might better view the race."
"Of course," the colonel said, drilling Mondale with a glare. "I should be happy to move, dearest, if that is your pleasure." Wingate's hair was black and he wore it slicked back and neatly trimmed. His eyes were light green and he had very handsome side-whiskers and a small mustache. "Or perhaps Lord Andrew's seat would better suit."
Used to the men's squabbling attentions, Vermillion simply smiled. "Thank you both for your concern, but I can see perfectly well where I am." She gazed off toward the track, then over to the stables where Noir and other competing horses were being readied for the race. She tried not to wish she were there with them instead of here with her aunt and her friends. "Besides, from here I can watch them leading the horses onto the racecourse."
Aunt Gabriella shifted on her seat in front of Lee. "Does anyone have the time?" she asked. Gowned in lavender silk with a matching silk bonnet, she sat next to Lord Claymont on her right and the colonel's aide, a young Lieutenant named Oxley on her left, next to the Countess, Lady Rotham.
" 'Tis nearly post time," the young lieutenant said, not bothering to hide his excitement.
Aunt Gabby smiled at Vermillion. "You're looking far too serious, darling. You mustn't worry. Noir is going to win."
"Of course he is," Lord Andrew said firmly. "As a matter of fact, I have placed a goodly wager to that end."
"As have I," the colonel chimed in.
"Oh, dear, that reminds me. I meant to send one of the footmen to the betting shop yesterday to place my wager—I can't imagine how I could have forgot." Seizing on the chance for a moment's escape, Vermillion surged to her feet. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I promise I shan't be gone more than a moment."
"Allow me to escort you," Lord Andrew said, snapping to attention beside her. "It would be highly unseemly for a lady to place such a bet on her own."
"Mondale is right," the colonel grudgingly agreed. "You must allow one of us to escort you." His look said he clearly preferred that she chose him while next to her, Lord Nash merely smiled, his manner, as always, gracious in the extreme.
Perhaps she should reconsider. Mondale might be handsome, but Nash would be gentle and constant.
"Hurry back, luvie. You don't want to miss the start." This from Lisette Moreau, a well-known courtesan and close friend of her aunt's, who sat next to Sir Peter Peasley, another of Gabriella's inner circle of acquaintances.
"The charming Mrs. Moreau is quite correct." Lord Andrew offered Lee his arm. "We had best be off." Accepting defeat, she placed a gloved hand on the sleeve of his saffron kerseymere tailcoat and they started making their way out of the stands.
"Please, pet, allow me to place the wager in your name."
Some of Vermillion's excitement seeped away. Those are the things a man is supposed to do for a woman, her aunt would have said. Charm her, lavish her with money and jewels. Vermillion figured she had enough money and jewelry already and she enjoyed the betting far more when the money at risk was her own.