Part 19 (1/2)

”Correct.”

He led her on a slow perambulation through the milling crowds.

Lucinda felt distinctly round-eyed--she wanted to see everything, understand the fascination that drew so many gentlemen to Newmarket.

The same fascination that drove Harry Lester. He showed her the bookmakers, each surrounded by knots of punters eager to lay their bets. They paraded before the tents and pavilions; again and again they were stopped by some acquaintance of Harry's, keen to exchange a few words. Lucinda was prepared to be on her guard, but she encountered nothing but polite deference in the glances thrown her way; all those who stopped to talk were disarmingly correct. Nevertheless, she felt no impulse to withdraw her hand from the security of her escort's elbow, where he had tucked it, drawing her close.

In the press of male bodies, it was unquestionably comforting to have Harry Lester by her side. There were, she discovered, some ladies present.

”Some have a real interest in the sport--usually the older ones.” Relaxed, in his milieu, Harry glanced down at her.

”Some of the younger ladies have a vested interest; their families, like mine, have a long-standing connection with the turf.” . Mouthing an 'oh', Lucinda nodded. There were other ladies, too, whom he had not seen fit to comment upon, who, she suspected, held dubious right to the t.i.tle. The race-track, however, was an overwhelmingly male domain--every sub-category of the male population was certainly represented. Lucinda was quite sure she would have neither the courage nor the inclination to attend again-- not unless Harry Lester was her escort.

”It's nearly time for the next race. I must speak to Thistledown's jockey.”

Lucinda nodded, conveying with a glance her intention of staying with him.

Harry threw ~her a brief smile then concentrated on forging a path to the mounting yard.

”She seems very lively, sir,” the jockey vouchsafed as he settled in the saddle.

”But the compet.i.tion's stiff-Jonquil--that mare out of Herald--is a starter.

And Caught by the Scruff, too. And some of them others are experienced racers--it'll be a miracle if she wins, what with her fetlock just come good an' all.”

Harry nodded.

”Just let her go--let her set her own pace. We'll consider this a trial, nothing more. Don't cram her--and no whip.”

Lucinda left his side to pat the mare's velvet muzzle; a huge, dark brown eye invited her understanding.

Lucinda grinned.

”Hopeless, aren't they?” she crooned. ”But you don't want to listen to them--men are notoriously hopeless at judging women. They should never so presume.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry's lips lift; he exchanged a glance with the jockey, who grinned.

”You just go out there and win the race--then see how they react. I'll see you in the winner's circle.” With a last pat for the mare, she turned and, with divine disregard for the expression on Harry Lester's face, allowed him to lead her back to the stands.

He secured seats in the third row, almost opposite the post. Lucinda leaned forward, eagerly scanning the horses trotting towards the barrier. She waved when Thistledown appeared.

Harry, watching her, laughed.

”She'll win--you'll see.” With smug confidence, Lucinda sat, back

But when the horn sounded and the barrier was dropped, she leant forward again, eyes keenly searching the thundering charge for Harry's colours of green and gold. So intent was she that she didn't even notice she rose to her feet, in company with all the other spectators, as the horses rounded the bend. As they entered the straight, a gap appeared in their ranks--Thistledown shot through.

”There she is!” Lucinda grabbed Harry's arm. Only deeply entrenched decorum kept her from jigging up and down.

”She's winning!”

Harry was too riveted to answer.