Miss Claiborne's Illicit Attraction
Autor
Bronwyn Scott
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A sexy second-chance romance. He's out of bounds… But impossible to resist! Miss India Claiborne's life was upended when she lost her fiancé, and reckless rogue Carrick Eisley is the man she holds accountable. Years later, she's furious to discover former carriage-racer Carrick is mentoring her impressionable brother in a dangerous race! But confronting Carrick ignites a desire which has long lain dormant for India… Can she forgive their past for a taste of this illicit passion?
Chapter One
Some men were born wild. Some had wildness thrust upon them. Of the two men standing amid the dust of humanity and horses at the improvised starting line along the Richmond Road, Logan Maddox was of the latter persuasion, while Carrick Eisley, born as wild as an autumn tempest, with his auburn hair and storm-grey eyes, was quite obviously the former.
‘By the saints, I swear the competition gets younger every year,’ Logan muttered, stepping out of the way to avoid being run over by a careless driver who pulled his curricle into place alongside Carrick’s with barely any acknowledgment for the man on the ground.
Carrick flashed his friend a cocky grin from his curricle seat. ‘Younger and easier to beat.’ He surveyed the forming line of vehicles. Twelve in all. Only half were familiar to him. The other half were all new bucks come to try their luck at illicit racing—not illegal racing, mind you. There was a difference. No one said you couldn’t race to Richmond in the broad light of day, it just wasn’t recommended. But what could the authorities do? It was a little bit like duelling—which was indeed illegal, Carrick liked to note. Neither was supposed to happen, but everyone knew both did and there was nothing anyone could truly do about it.
Unsanctioned road racing had become a rite of passage of sorts for the young bloods of London. Such racing wasn’t overtly advised, of course, because of the danger associated with it. Daily traffic had a habit of getting in the way. In that regard, the daytime version of the midnight race to Richmond was more challenging. At midnight, a driver contended with the darkness, but had an empty road in exchange. At the height of the day, though, the driver could see, but faced an enormous amount of slow traffic. Such traffic made the race difficult and dangerous in daylight.
Carrick stretched his arms over his head in an exercise intended to loosen his back. With a groan, he finished the stretch and extended his leg out in front of him, resting it on the dashboard.
‘How is your knee?’ Logan nodded towards the outstretched limb.
Carrick shrugged, dismissing Logan’s concern. ‘Fine, a little stiff this morning, but it will shake out. It always does once I get warmed up.’ A driver down the line caught Carrick’s eye and tipped his hat in acknowledgement before turning to say something to the driver next to him.
‘An admiring fan?’ Logan was all wry humour.
‘Maybe.’ Possibly. Hard to say. Carrick didn’t know him, but the man had apparently recognised him. He’d been racing carriages so long and winning those races for so long he’d become something of a living legend. His body had paid for that legend. Along with the victories, there’d been accidents, too, like the time he’d been thrown out of a carriage when he’d taken a turn too fast and broken his arm. A normal man would have ended his racing season right then, maybe even his ‘career’ in racing notoriety. Not Carrick. He’d finished the dubious season driving one-handed to victory a week later. He’d been twenty-three though, a mere stripling on the town, ten years younger than he was now.
‘That knee’s going to go one of these days,’ Logan cautioned with a frown.
‘But not today.’ Carrick laughed. He tried not to think about his knee or any of the other aches he had. Thinking about them meant admitting to them and admitting to all they represented: he was getting too old for this.
‘You hope it doesn’t go today.’ That was Logan, the practical cynic. One of them had to be and it certainly wasn’t him. He was an optimist by necessity, otherwise he would have stopped racing years ago. It was optimism that fuelled him now. Optimism that he would win today, that his knee would hold a while longer. Racing, horses and carriages were all he knew.
‘Ho! Carrick, is that you?’ a man called out, pulling a bright yellow phaeton around to Carrick’s far side. ‘I thought I might see you here today.’
‘Landon Fellowes, by Jove!’ Carrick reached over to take the other man’s hand, his spirits buoying at the sight of his friend. ‘Look who it is, Logan, it’s our soon-to-be newlywed.’ Carrick winked at Landon. ‘I’m surprised the lovely Miss Claiborne has let you out of her sights with the wedding looming.’ Whatever doubts the day might have held were banished now. The sun was out, the sky was blue, there was racing to be had, a purse to be won and Landon, one of his best friends outside of Logan, was here beside him to share in the thrills.
‘Wedding’s on Friday.’ Landon grinned, emanating a ridiculous amount of happiness. ‘She’s getting a final fitting today for the gown. I just dropped her off, in fact. It’s hard to believe I’ll be an old hen-pecked husband this time next week.’ But it didn’t look to Carrick that Landon would mind it much. His friend bore all the signs of a man in love. The Fellowes–Claiborne wedding was the talk of the Season thus far, a grand romance as much as it was an alliance of two wealthy families with two handsome children to wed. Fairy tales didn’t get much better. ‘You’ll be there, for the wedding? Yes?’ Landon asked.
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’ Carrick grinned back at his friend. ‘You’re a lucky man. Miss Claiborne is a lovely woman.’ She was also popular, well connected and rich, too, by all reports. Her parents were sparing no expense for the wedding and had even bought the couple a home in London in exchange for their daughter marrying an heir to an earldom. Landon Fellowes had somehow managed to have it all: good looks, a beautiful bride he was madly in love with and the finances he needed to live his dreams without worry. And in time, he’d have a title, too. Until then, he was a hell of a racer, the perfect Englishman, living the perfect life.
Carrick liked racing Landon. Landon was a good driver who knew how to push him. By the look of it, Landon would be doing that very thing today. Carrick studied Landon’s team, two well-muscled Cleveland Bays. ‘New horses?’ Carrick enquired appreciatively. They looked good, up to any pace set by his own team.
‘New team, new carriage. All of it a wedding gift from my father.’ Landon beamed proudly. ‘This one on the right with the tiny star is King and the other is Sabre. These boys are fast and this carriage is the latest, a new French design. I might just take you today.’ he chuckled good naturedly.
‘You might,’ Carrick joked in return. But he thought his chances were still good. He was partial to his team. He’d bet on them any day. He’d raised them from colts, he knew every inch of them, what they could and could not do. ‘Loser buys the first round in Richmond?’
‘You’re on.’ Landon flashed a wide smile, the sun glinting off his blond hair, his laughter full of life. He nodded at Carrick’s team. ‘Still driving the Holsteins? How old are they now? They’re probably thinking of retiring.’
‘Still, always. They’re ten. They haven’t failed me yet.’ Carrick chose to ignore the comment about retirement. They were no closer to quitting than he was. Bronte and Sterope, named for the immortal horses that pulled the sun god’s chariot across the sky, were closer to him than some people. There was no pair like them. He’d cross bred their Holstein dams with a thoroughbred sire of great speed. The colts had been born two weeks apart.
The starter gave the final call for racers. Logan stepped back from the line of curricles, shaking his hand and then Logan’s. ‘Drive safe, you two. I’ll see you at the finish line.’
Carrick flexed his knee, forcing himself to ignore the mounting evidence. Time was running out. He’d been glib with Logan this morning, but his knee hurt more often than it used to. He’d turn thirty-four in a few...in a short while. He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t afford such thoughts today. He needed to think about winning. Winning was financially and socially lucrative. Winning kept his other dreams alive, kept them hovering on the periphery, waiting for the time when they could be claimed: the farm, the horses, a decent life building carriages. An admittedly quieter life. Perhaps that’s why he resisted. He was not the quiet type. Deep down, he knew he craved the reputation he’d built. He wasn’t ready to disappear into the country. Not yet. But some day...some day he’d succumb to its appeal.
Carrick gathered the reins, steadying his horses for the start. It was important to go out fast and not get trapped behind the other racers. He knew from experience how that could change a race. Too much experience. In his saner moments he did think about retiring from this dangerous gentlemen’s game. But when the wind was in his hair, the road speeding by and he the master of it all—of horse and carriage, the angles of the road—the conclusion was always the same: Not yet. One more season; one more season as London’s fastest driver, London’s riskiest driver, most daring driver, the one the men cheered for and the one the ladies swooned for; one more season as London’s biggest winner. He’d made sure he lost at nothing, that he didn’t know how to lose.
The starter raised a white handkerchief. ‘Gentlemen, take your marks!’ Harnesses jingled. Carrick steadied himself. ‘Go!’ He was off, surging to the fore for all he was worth. He had a legend to perpetuate and a reputation to protect. After all, if he wasn’t London’s most reckless rake, who was he?
Bronte and Sterope thundered to the front, taking advantage of the early start straight away. They would fly now while the road was empty and straight. They’d have to slow around the curves. One never knew what was coming on the other side of the bend. He passed a farmer with a heavy cart who swore as he sped by. He slowed his team to a trot for the first curve, the other drivers already dropping into a pack behind him with a handful of drivers still on his wheels, Landon among them. He took the curve on the inside, the team turning well, the carriage smooth on its axels.
Carrick’s joy soared. This was everything! The feel of a team, a driver, a carriage all in beautiful synchronicity with each other. The wind pushed his hair back from his face and he felt the sun on his skin. The curve behind him, a stretch of empty, visible road ahead of him, he gave the horses their head. They were ready for it, had been begging for it. They loved to run.
Two-thirds of the way to Richmond, only Landon with his light phaeton was left to challenge him. They were both forced to slow as a group of market wagons took up the road. He could hear Landon cursing behind him over the traffic. Carrick laughed. He eyed the road, finding a narrow strip on the shoulder wide enough for a curricle to pass between the outer wagon and the verge. It would be tight, no margin for error. The verge was uneven ground. If he went too far to the right, the curricle could tip over. Too far to the left and he’d be on top of the dray.
Carrick would chance it. He swerved to the right, knowing Landon would follow him, taking advantage of the work he’d done forging a path, but so be it. The wagons would block the other racers behind them, ensuring it would be a two-carriage race now, just him and Landon the rest of the way to Richmond. Sterope and Bronte were steady as he manoeuvred through the narrow lane, unfazed by the other horses and the general busyness of the road. He squeezed past and then he was free!
Carrick flicked his reins and was off, finding more speed. The last curve to Richmond loomed, Landon thundering behind him, pushing him to increase his speed and the risk. He’d been lucky so far. The curves hadn’t presented any oncoming traffic as yet. How fast to take this one? It was nearly noon. The recent traffic had cost him. He had no significant lead on Landon now. Landon would pass him if he slowed too much for the corner, then it would be a mad, reckless dash. Carrick kept his speed and moved to the centre of road. It was an old, familiar tactic. At least he could block Landon out and dominate the road. By driving in the middle, he prevented Landon from going around him wide or inside and it gave him better visibility if indeed anything was oncoming.
Feeling confident, Carrick let the horses run. Faster times called for faster measures, after all, and Landon was indeed pushing him today. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Landon pull even and make his move.
Good lord! The man was crazy! He was going to pass on the inside and use the tighter turn to edge out a lead. It was sane in theory, insane in practice. Theory didn’t account for the risk. If there was someone coming, Carrick would be able to swing left, but Landon would be pushed into the ditch along the verge. Unless...unless Carrick gave way, dropped back and ceded the road. Hell, no! He was not giving way. This was a race, Logan had managed wagers on his behalf. He needed the win, the money. This was his career. He wasn’t going to give way because Landon Fellowes was driving with the devil beside him.
