“Evie.” He glanced from daughter to mother. “You’ve upset your mother, my girl. Gave her a nasty moment there at that oxer.”

She was to be scolded? That was perhaps inevitable, given that His Grace—

Her father pulled her into his arms. “But what’s one bad moment, if it means you’re finally back on the horse, though, eh? I particularly liked how you took the water—that showed style and heart. And that last fence… quite a race you rode, Daughter. I could not be more proud of you.”

He extended an arm to the duchess, who joined the embrace with a whispered, “Oh, Percival…”

So it came about that, for the first time in seven years, Eve’s proud parents saw her cry—and it was a good thing for them all, and for Eve’s brothers and sisters too. A very good thing, indeed.

* * *

“I think she’s all right,” Greymoor said, his glance anxious as he took in Eve and her parents farther down the barn aisle. “One doesn’t want to ask a duke and a duchess to shove off so one can decide which scandal should be propounded regarding the simple match race one was supposed to supervise, so perhaps you’d best intervene.”

Deene did not care for Greymoor’s irritable tone, but he cared even less for the prospect of Eve’s parents browbeating her for overcoming years of self-doubt in spectacular fashion.

“Evie?” He kept his tone casual and sauntered up to his wife. “Accepting some additional congratulations?”

He draped an arm over her shoulders and shot a challenging look at His Grace.

To Deene’s surprise, the duke was beaming at his youngest daughter. “Indeed she was, Deene. And there will be a proper celebration going on in our private pavilion once you get Greymoor set to rights.”

The duke offered his wife his arm, but Deene noticed they did not withdraw very far.

“Greymoor is about to explode, Wife. Shall we go take our medicine?”

Eve looped her arm through his. “William is faring well?”

“He’s still cooling out, but yes. He’s going sound, he knows he won, and he’s quite pleased with himself.”

“Papa and Mama were proud of me, Husband.”

She nearly whispered this, her tone one of awe. Deene stopped and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Of course they were. I am proud of you. William is proud of you. You need to know that, Eve, regardless of what Greymoor does with the race results.”

“I do know it. Louisa told me I’m to be disqualified.”

He stepped back just far enough to meet her gaze. “That doesn’t matter. You know it doesn’t matter?”

She nodded, her smile a thing of such joy and beauty, Deene’s heart began to hammer hard against his ribs.

“Deene.” Greymoor motioned them over to where Dolan stood beside the earl. “I am prepared to render a result in this race, and then—meaning no disrespect to her ladyship here—I am going to go home, get roaring drunk, and swear off stewarding private matches for at least ten years.”

Eve spoke up. “It’s all right, your lordship. I understand you cannot let my ride stand.”

Greymoor looked relieved, but Dolan didn’t let his lordship reply.

“I don’t see as that’s the necessary result.”

Deene appreciated the gesture, but rules were rules. “Dolan, there isn’t a jockey club on any continent that would allow a female jockey’s ride to stand. I know this. I knew it. I did not intend to keep Eve’s gender a secret.”

Dolan’s gaze was measuring. “I am a man of my word, Greymoor. It’s often the only grudging, honest compliment I garner from those of greater rank, but they must concede that much. At no time in our discussions did we stipulate that Jockey Club rules would apply. We did not run a standard distance, we did not use a standard steeplechase course, and we did not use a standard flat track. We ran a race designed to show off our two colts for the athletes they are, and we accomplished that aim. I say the first horse past the post should stand as the winner.”

“Mr. Dolan—” Greymoor’s brows knitted, and he slapped his crop against his boots once. “I understand this race to have entailed wagers between you and Lord Deene. If I decide the race in favor of Deene, what of the wagers?”

Dolan’s eyes went flat, his face expressionless. “I am prepared to abide by my word.”

“Lucas?” Eve cocked her head. “What does he mean?”

“I mean,” Dolan answered, “that I will surrender into Deene’s legal keeping my daughter Georgina, along with a sum certain in the tens of thousands of pounds, and that stallion known as Goblin, and further described as a gray standing seventeen one hands unshod, bearing no other—”

Deene cut him off. “I am not taking your daughter from you. That was never my aim, and I won’t be held responsible for doing so because your damned pride insists on it.”

“You wagered your daughter?” Eve asked.

“I wagered her future, which is better served if she’s raised by her uncle and by yourself, Lady Deene.”

This discussion was not going the way Deene had intended.

“I can declare Lady Eve the loser,” Greymoor volunteered, which earned him a scathing glance from Eve.

“Hush, my lord. This is a family matter. Mr. Dolan needs a moment to see the wisdom of my husband’s reasoning.”

“Lady Deene,” Dolan began, “I lost. I had considered losing apurpose, truth be known, and have had some time to accommodate myself to this outcome. I’m sure Deene will allow me ample visitation. We agreed on that for the loser as well.”

His gaze, when he raised his eyes to Deene, was… pleading. How long had Deene waited to see Jonathan Dolan brought to this, only to be unable to stand the sight of the man’s importuning.

“Lucas, we cannot. Georgina loves her father, and while I will happily do all in my power to see the girl launched, please don’t do this. You’ll see eventually…” She started to tear up, and so Deene kissed her to stop the flow of words, then speared the earl with a glare.

“Greymoor, I forfeit the race. I forfeit the race, the wager, everything. Declare Dolan the winner before my wife starts crying. I’ll get my visits with my niece, and Eve will sponsor her come out, which is all I ever truly wanted from this whole match.”

“Fine,” Greymoor sputtered. “The race is for—”

“Not a forfeit, for God’s sake,” Dolan expostulated. “Declare him the damned winner, and I’ll keep my daughter, but the money and the colt will be… wedding presents. Goddamned wedding presents, with the horse going into her ladyship’s keeping.”

Deene most assuredly did not want such a large sum of money from another family member, much less another horse for his wife to fall in love with, but before he could take up the argument, Eve had stuck out a small hand.

“You have a deal, Mr. Dolan.” She shook, she kissed the man’s cheek, and she looked like she’d hug the sorry bastard while Greymoor cracked a smile and the sound of applause filled Deene’s ears.

Eve’s family stood around them, Their Graces, her brothers, her sisters, their spouses, all beaming like idiots. The race, it appeared, had been decided.

Westhaven leaned in. “You will not, I hope, choose this moment to indulge in any ninnyhammer behavior, Deene. Shake the man’s hand, and get my sister the hell home before she faints again.”

Again?

Deene shook Dolan’s hand, endured the moment when Greymoor declared victory for King William, then got Eve the hell home. While she did not faint “again,” she did fall asleep in Deene’s arms, such that he had to carry her over the threshold and up to their chambers thereafter.

* * *

Eve awoke deep in the night to find her husband blanketing her. In one instant, she went from a sweet, sleepy awareness of his body draped over hers, to a focused yearning for intimacy with him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d awaken.” His voice held a note of humor in the darkness, also concern.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, got one hand anchored on his muscular buttocks and the other in his hair. “I’m awake.”

The day had been long, with her family celebrating at great and noisy length, until Valentine had started singing, Westhaven had joined in, then Sophie with her lovely voice, and Her Grace had all but wept to see her brood engaged in such a display of good spirits.

They’d fallen into telling stories next, with every other tale seeming to center around “Remember the time Evie went steeplechasing on Meteor,” or “Recall that it was Evie who wanted to see if the beasts really did speak on Christmas Eve…”

And Deene had waited patiently through it all, occasionally toasting his marchioness, but mostly keeping her by his side while the Windham family recovered from having one of its members in seven years of self-imposed exile.

When Deene had bundled Eve into the coach, she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, then later had fallen asleep at her bath, literally, and needed her husband’s assistance to get from the tub to the bed.

He hadn’t bothered to put her in a nightgown, a decision she had to approve of as he kissed his way across her collarbones.

“These bones could have been broken at that bloody oxer.”

“They weren’t. My husband had faith in me.”

He shifted up, to rest his chin on her crown. “I have never been so goddamned scared in my life, Evie. I have faith in you, and you rode one hell of a race, but please—I beg you—develop no aspirations involving a career as a jockey. There aren’t enough prayers in me or in all of Christendom for that.”

“I won’t.”

He sighed a big, husbandly sigh, proof positive he’d truly been concerned about this. And if she’d started spouting plans to work Goblin into better condition, no doubt he would have learned to pray harder and faster.