CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER FORTY TWO

Everyone looked at Carcel.

He was still wiping his face with the towel, his back to the group. He felt their eyes on him, a heavy, unwanted weight. He turned slowly, his expression one of pure, irritable exhaustion. "What? Why are you all looking at me?"

"Race him," Weston said, his eyes gleaming. "Race against Rowan. Wipe that smug off his face."

Carcel just stared at him. A race. On a horse. In the bright, pounding, awful sun. With his head feeling like a cracked bowl.

"Not interested," he replied, and he turned back to the water barrel.

"Oh, come on!" Weston groaned. "Spoilsport! You are always like this. Don’t be such a... such a duke!"

Rowan laughed and walked over, his own rifle in his hand. He hit Carcel on the back, a hard, affectionate, and, to Carcel, painful blow.

"Come on, Carcel, don’t be that way," he teased, his voice full of the easy, confident joy that Carcel had not felt in... well, in forever. "It is just a short race. To the old oak and back. Or are you finally ready to admit that my stallion is faster than yours? Are you... scared I’ll beat... you?"

Carcel closed his eyes. Rowan had, as he always did, gone straight for the one, tiny, exposed nerve: their lifelong, brotherly rivalry. He could not, would not, be called a coward by Rowan.

He let out a long, slow, defeated sigh. "Fine. Just one race."

"That’s all it takes!" Rowan boomed, triumphant.

The energy of the entire gathering shifted.

Lady Markham, Weston’s sister, stood up from the tea table.

"Oh, ladies! You must hear!" she announced, her hands clasped. "A race! Duke Carcel and Duke Rowan are racing against each other!"

"Oh my!"

"This I must see!"

"This is going to be exciting!"

A thrill went through the female population. They stood up, a flutter of pastel silks and ribbons. Their bored, tea-sipping expressions were gone, replaced by a flushed, eager excitement. They all flocked to the edge of the field, their parasols held high, to watch the two most eligible, powerful, and handsome men in England compete.

Ines did not move, her teacup in her hand, swirling the contents within. She sat, a small, violet, stubborn statue. She would not go. She would not give him the satisfaction of watching. She would not support her brother if it meant, by extension, supporting him.

But then, Lady Markham, that dreadful lady, looked back. "Lady Ines? Are you not coming? Your brother is racing!"

To stay now would be a snub. It would be a statement. It would be noticed. And it would, she knew, hurt Rowan.

She stood up, her movements stiff. She picked up her parasol. Fine. I have to. To show support for my brother. That is what this is.

She went with the other women, standing at the very edge of the group, her face a mask of perfect, icy boredom.

The two men were on their horses.

Rowan, on the bay, was a picture of relaxed, smiling charm. He was laughing, adjusting his stirrups, chatting with Weston.

Carcel, on the black stallion, was a different creature entirely. He was not relaxed. He was in his shirtsleeves, his damp hair pushed back from his face. His jaw was set. He was leaning forward, his hands holding the reins, his body already one with the powerful animal. He looked, Ines thought with a small, unwilling jolt, like a man going to war.

"To the oak and back!" Weston shouted, raising a pistol. "Ready?"

Ines watched. She found herself holding her breath.

Weston fired the pistol into the air.

BANG.

The horses exploded from the line.

The race started. They were two thunderclouds, a black and a bay, tearing up the green field, their hooves pounding the earth, a spray of dirt in their wake.

The ladies at the pavilion screamed and cheered.

Ines did not. She just watched, her parasol clutched in her hand. The sun was hot. So incredibly hot.

The noise... the women’s voices were so shrill. The pounding of the hooves... it was so loud. It felt like it was pounding inside her own head.

She felt a little dizzy. She had, after all, pretended to be faint a while ago. The power of suggestion, perhaps.

She watched the two men, now distant specks, circle the far-off oak tree. They were neck and neck. They were turning, coming back.

The crowd roared.

The pounding in her head was getting worse. The air felt... thick. It was hard to breathe. Her chest, her weak, treacherous chest, felt tight. As if a band were being slowly tightened around her ribs.

Her eyesight... the bright, colorful dresses of the women beside her... they were blurring. The green of the field and the blue of the sky were smearing together, like a wet watercolor.

She felt... she was... faint. For real, this time.

She tried to focus. She had to focus. She looked for Rowan. She saw his bright bay, a blur of motion.

But her eyes... her eyes found him. The dark, powerful, terrifying shape on the black horse. He was all she could see. He was a blur of speed and power, coming toward her, getting closer, and she... she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t get any air.

Her parasol, her last shield, slipped from her fingers. It clattered, unnoticed, onto the grass.

Her hand went to her chest, to her heart, which was not pounding. It was... fluttering. A weak, trapped, bird-like flutter.

"Is my illness flaring up again?" She asked herself.

She tried to call for her brother. She tried to say his name.

But the only name that came, the last thought in her mind, the last person she saw before the world went black, was his.

"Carcel," she whispered, her voice weak, a tiny, lost sound in the roar of the crowd.

And then, like a marionette with its strings cut, she collapsed, a heap of violet silk, onto the ground.