Chapter Sixteen
Standing next to his horses, Tristan eyed his opponent’s sleek, new curricle. Well-sprung and designed by a master, it gave him pause. Still, the curricle made up only one part of the formula for a winner. The horses and the driver made up the rest. Tristan had no fears on that regard. A skilled driver, he had never lost a race. His well-matched team ran synchronously. Appleton posed no threat.
His stallion snorted and stomped, tasting the energy of an upcoming race. Tristan ran a soothing hand over the steed, speaking in low tones. “You’ll get your chance. Just run like you always do, and we’ll take home another victory.”
Next to him, Appleton grinned. “Not this time, Barrett. My new curricle is like the wind. You don’t stand a chance.”
Tristan gave him his best curled lip of disdain. “Your cattle aren’t as experienced as mine, and you don’t have the heart of a winner.”
Appleton snickered, his eyes alight in excitement. “I will today. Then you can see what it feels like to lose. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a drink out of my winnings.”
They grinned at each other, both posturing as much as their horses.
Tristan pointed up ahead. “Watch that curve. It comes up faster than you think.”
“Try to stay on your side of the road.”
“Good luck.” Tristan held out a hand.
Appleton gripped it. “You, too.” Appleton looked ahead and let out a breath, his one sign of nervousness.
“Good luck, Barrett,” Palmer said as he hefted the starting gun.
“My bet’s on you,” called another voice. Wynn strolled up with Mrs. Hunter on his arm, both wearing expressions of smug amusement.
Tristan tensed. “Thank you.”
“I wagered a hundred quid on you, so I hope you win.” Wynn glanced at Mrs. Hunter.
“I hope I win, too.” Tristan eyed them.
Mrs. Hunter released Wynn’s arm and slinked over to Tristan, her lithe body moving with the grace of a cat. “Perhaps a kiss for luck would be in order,” she purred.
He raised a brow. “Are you offering?”
She moved so close that her body touched his. “Good luck, Tristan.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
He tried to pull away, but she entwined her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. For a moment, Tristan succumbed. He’d been so lonely. It had been far too long since he’d touched a woman.
No. He wanted more than a meaningless dalliance. His breath rasped. He pushed her away. Though obviously an enthusiastic participant, she failed to ignite the flames he thought she would.
Why did he feel so confoundedly guilty?
She looked at him from underneath her lashes, her lips curving into a smile. “A skilled kisser. No doubt skilled at other things.”
Stepping back, Tristan cleared his throat and glanced at Wynn, but he leered at a woman who strolled by smiling at him over her shoulder. Wynn didn’t seem to notice that the woman in his company had thrown herself at another man. This kind of thing never bothered him before. What the deuce was the matter with him? When had he started thinking like Richard?
Bold and confident, Mrs. Hunter smiled at Tristan and indicated Wynn with her head. “John and I have no special relationship. Do come by my house tonight and we can have our own private victory celebration.” She slipped her calling card into his pocket.
There. The perfect, uncomplicated offer like so many he once enjoyed. He watched her saunter to the sidelines, all the while wearing her come-hither smile.
He should do it. He would do it.
No. He might have a few hours’ pleasure but tomorrow he’d wake up as alone as ever, and wondering if he’d put another stain on the family honor. Or disappointed Leticia yet one more way.
He wouldn’t do it.
He’d be alone forever.
Maybe he should get involved in some kind of cause, something to occupy his time instead of all these meaningless pursuits.
“Ready, Barrett?”
He glanced at his opponent. “Ready.” He slipped a foot into the stirrup at the outer edge, took the second small step, and swung the rest of the way into the open curricle. He checked to ensure the top was folded all the way back and securely fastened.
A rush of nervous energy filled him, clearing his thoughts, sharpening his mind. He focused on the road, the motion of the horses through the reins in his hands. Each breath the horses took, each stomp of their hooves, crackled in his head. He sat forward and braced his feet into a wide stance. He nodded at Palmer holding the gun in the air.
“Gentlemen, ready.”
Excitement swept through Tristan and his muscles tensed. A gunshot split the air. Tristan snapped the reins. Two pairs of horses leaped forward, their hooves moving in a blur. Trees and people flew past him in a colorful smear like an impressionist’s painting. Aware of every movement of the team, he eased them into a flat out run. Born winners, they responded, their necks stretching out and their legs moving in unison.
Over the rutted highway they flew. Exhilaration replaced Tristan’s blood until he was born of wind and speed. He slipped into a state of tranquility where he lived to move at one with his team, where leather and metal and animal blended with man until they were one, unified force.
A shout to his side snapped him out of his nirvana. A sickening bump shuddered through him, then an ear-splitting crash. His carriage lurched to one side. The horses stumbled and went down. All the world slowed into one horrifying motion.
The horses dragged down the pole attached to their harness, converting the two-wheeled curricle into a springboard. The curricle launched Tristan into the air. Helpless to stop himself, he flew, limbs flailing. He landed hard on the ground and rolled.
Tristan disintegrated in an explosion of pain.