Stephen was happy. Mae felt his contentment flow into her, warming her blood. It was beautiful. It made her feel beautiful, and whole.
Her eyes slid closed. For long minutes she lost herself to the glory of the music and the moment. Stephen gave in to it as well; she could feel his surrender in the grip of his hands, in the intimate press of his legs to hers, and in the graceful, floating ease with which he guided them about the dance floor.
And that was when she knew sheâd come full circle. Her campaign was forgotten, her plans and strategies left behind. Here she was, right back where sheâd started two years ago, wanting Stephen Manning with all of her heart.
Perhaps she needed a new campaign, with new strategies designed to win his heart. Because she longed for it, and for his unfathomable blue eyes and his maddening imperious ways and his warm acceptance and his heated kisses.
But there was one other thing that was different now, too. She wasnât that young girl any more, happy to accept whatever part of himself Stephen was willing or able to give. She wanted all of him. And no campaign of hers was going to be successful in flushing it out. She sighed. He had to choose to give it.
DEB MARLOWE grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, sheâd read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween partyâeven though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.
Though she now spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. Sheâs working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at [email protected]
Previous novels by Deb Marlowe:
SCANDALOUS LORD, REBELLIOUS MISS
AN IMPROPER ARISTOCRAT HER CINDERELLA SEASON ANNALISE AND THE SCANDALOUS RAKE (part of Regency Summer Scandals) TALL, DARK AND DISREPUTABLE
For Darleneâthe only true Super Mom
that Iâve known. You are an inspiration. I want to be just like you when I grow up.
Horse racing was a popular pastime in the Georgian and Regency periods, and quite a different spectacle from what it is today. Imagine the ruckus that might happen if enthusiastic spectators joined in the last leg and rode along with the finishers in a modern race! I loved dipping into racingâs illustrious history, and hope you will enjoy a glimpse of historic Newmarket and this exciting sport.
Neither Pratchett nor Ornithopter were real horses, but the gambling âlegsâ and âblack legsâ truly existed, and poisoned water troughs, opium balls and laming were a few of the terrible methods that were used to influence the outcome of races. I admit to shifting the order of the races that would have taken place in Newmarket at the time, but as it was done for Stephen and Maeâs sake I hope you will forgive me.
Newmarket, Suffolk, England
A great swell of music rose from below, bursting over Lord Stephen Manning like a bubble and causing him to lengthen his stride.
He was late.
This is what came of dawdling in Newmarket all afternoon. Titchley Hall lay just outside the famous racing town, and Stephen had passed through on his way to the Earl of Toswickâs house party. Heâd attended the spring meetings before, of course, but today heâd been unable to resist stopping to see the courses, clipped and ready, and the Heath, lush, green and quiet after all those gorgeous thoroughbreds had finished exercising for the day.
Everything had looked the same, and yet it all felt very different. Stephen had wandered the long, familiar stretch of High Street, trying to unearth a reason for his sense of displacement. Not until he found himself back on the Rowley Mile, mentally measuring the padding on a course post, did the realisation strikeâNewmarket was the same. It was he who had changed.
He had been discerning details and noticing incidentals that he never had beforeâbecause today he looked through new eyes. No longer was he just a spectator, another young blood of the ton seeking the excitement of the races and the thrill of risking his quarterly allowance. He was older now, and hopefully wiser, and, most importantlyâhe was a man with all the burdens and responsibilities that came with owning his own racecourse.
All the warmth of pride and accomplishment swept over him again as he reached Titchleyâs grand stairway. After two long years of work and sweat and sacrifice, heâd done it. Heâd taken a neglected and broken-down estate and literally transformed it. Fincote Park lay waiting, pristine and challenging and bristling with potential.
And empty.
Impatient, Stephen brushed the thought away. He banished, too, the wispy, haunting image of his forlorn mother. Shame and despair had once been Fincoteâs main commodities, but those days were over now. Thatâs exactly what all those months of labour had been about. He summoned instead the picture of Fincoteâs people, all the eager and hopeful faces that had seen him off. They were why he had come here. They were what made this house party the most important social event of his life.