Free Sport of Baronets by Theresa Romain

race. He loves to race.”
    â€œAnd what if he wins?” She sounded hesitant.
    â€œThen I would race him again. Just as I would race him again if he lost.”
    Her footsteps were quiet on the grass. “What is the purpose of it all for you? Simply to make money?”
    â€œThe chances of winning enough money through racing are small. But a champion can be brought to stud, and the stud fees can make up for the expenses of his racing years.”
    â€œSo you hope your colt will race so well that he can spend the rest of his life mating.”
    One of Bart’s boots caught on a clod, making him stumble. “That…does not sound like such a bad fate for man or beast.” Her light touch on his arm seemed weighty.
    â€œBut I think,” he continued, “what you are asking is why. Why do I want to race him at all? And the answer, I suppose, is that I was bred to it as surely as he was.”
    â€œI think…” she echoed. “I think I was too.”
    â€œA Chandler? Indeed you were. Though my family has detested yours for decades, there’s a heavy portion of respect mixed in as well.”
    The barrier of their feuding families had ceased to bother Bart greatly, but it was enough to pull them both up short. Hannah swung beneath the white railing, habit skirts trailing on the spring-damp grass, and stood to face Bart opposite it. “Golden Barb was to carry both of us away from a life we don’t want.”
    â€œI want my life.” His reply was hasty, stumbling. “That is—mostly.” It had gone threadbare about the edges.
    He had choices, to be sure. He could have returned to the land in Lincolnshire, where he had tenants. He could have taken the reins from his steward and… No, he could not stop thinking in terms of horses for a moment. He could no more be a farmer than he could be a ruthless rogue.
    â€œAnd what is it about this life you don’t want, if you think you were made for it from birth?” he pressed. “What would you do if Golden Barb stood before you right now? Would you race him? Or would you ride him to London and throw yourself into the Season you seem to admire so much?”
    She trailed her right hand along the railing. “Yes. I would race him. I would decide when, and I would choose his trainer and his jockey. And when he won, it would be my victory. Because the chances that I, on my own, will ever win a damned thing are all but nonexistent.”
    â€œSo you want the same things I do.”
    â€œNo, you want the same things I do.”
    â€œSurely it is the same either way.”
    â€œIs it?” Her fingers squeezed his, tightly enough to be uncomfortable. “I’d like to be able to leave if I want to. And if I stay, it will also be because I want to. Do you see?”
    The power of choice was what she wanted, in short. “I do see,” he said. “Yes, I do.”
    He swung beneath the railing and stood at her side. “If you’re given your head, I have no doubt you will win at whatever you attempt.” He held out a hand, and she placed hers in it, ducking with him back beneath the white boundary to stand outside the course.
    They leaned upon the railing, still touching, as they watched the horses gallop. White rails drew the eye down the gentle slope of the mile and through the dip before the heave to the finish. The wide ribbon of turf narrowed, slowly, slowly, to funnel the horses to the final post.
    There was so much more he wanted to say, but the pressure of Hannah’s fingers silenced him. The last thing he’d said had, he thought, been right. He did not want to ruin the moment by following it with something wrong.
    And anything that made her feel limited would be wrong. It would be wrong even to hold her hand if she did not want her fingers in his grasp. He had seen too many men treat women as lesser beings. He had seen too many women thwarted, made harsh and shrill