Free Scarlet Devices by Delphine Dryden

wasn’t to protect her, except in the sense that Dexter had charged him, to support her if she needed it and keep away any unwanted male attention. No, it was simply to defeat her. In order to prove himself in this brave new world of industry, to win enough capital to start his own enterprise and begin building his own future, he
must
defeat her. He must defeat them all, and Eliza was no exception.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    H ER HANDS COULDN’T tremble if she gripped the steering wheel hard enough. Eliza wound her fingers around the leather and hung on, forcing herself to breathe slowly. She hadn’t laced very tightly that morning, knowing she’d be sitting all day, but the corset still prevented her from breathing as deeply as she had the urge to. It couldn’t be helped; she needed the corset in order to wear the crisp white military-cut driving suit with the burgundy trim, the only possible choice for this morning’s appearance. She would simply have to put up with the consequences of her fashion decision.
    â€œNo time to be dizzy,” she admonished herself.
    â€œSorry, miss?” the mechanic piped up. Eliza had forgotten the window was open.
    â€œNothing, Mr. Brearley. Just starting-line jitters. Almost time for you all to step back now, the countdown will begin any moment.”
    Her voice, at least, was strong. The experience of delivering lectures in the face of scorn had trained her not to let her nerves affect her speech.
    â€œCopy of the ready checklist in the side pocket of yon balloon case, Miss Hardison.”
    â€œYes, I remember.” She gave the usually steady Yorkshireman a smile. “You sound more nervous than I do, Brearley. Things will go fine. The steam car is sound, and you know the airship is in tip-top shape.”
    The loudspeaker boomed, and Brearley took a step away from the steamer’s door. “Aye, but I won’t be there to assure myself of that. You’ll keep the cases locked and the keys on your person until the air leg, miss?”
    â€œAs I’ve promised both you and Lord Hardison more than once. Wish me luck, sir.”
    â€œLuck, miss!”
    The countdown had started, sixty seconds until the starter pistol would fire and the rally would begin. Mechanics scattered, clearing the raceway, and leaving the drivers alone with their thoughts as they waited out the final minute.
    Eliza’s thoughts ranged wildly, though she tried to keep them firmly on the day’s driving route.
    Pence meant well, for all he was a beast about it. He genuinely feared for her delicate self and spoke accordingly, seeming to forget that he hadn’t any business doing so. Usually Eliza was able to dismiss him, but this morning her bravado was pure flummery. Outside she might be brash, but inside was all butterflies the size of bats, threatening the equilibrium of her stomach and mind. She imagined the fluttering as actual bats and stifled a hysterical snort at the thought. Her hands felt melded to the wheel, knuckles white and aching.
    Thirty seconds to go. Eliza watched the hands on the enormous clock face that dominated the temporary arch through which the racers would drive. The arch and clock would remain for the rally’s duration, with a daily posting of the leaders and their times, for the benefit of those New Yorkers who were following the news. The posting marquee was empty still, and Eliza made herself envision her own name there, in letters large enough to see from a block away.
    Ten seconds. The crowd began to shout out the countdown, and Eliza readied her hand on the gear knob, her foot on the clutch. The car was warm, and it wouldn’t do to set off with an embarrassing lurch. Slow and steady would win the race.
    Five, four . . . well, perhaps not all
that
slow. But steady, at any rate.
    Then the starting pistol, a jolt of adrenaline and the anticlimax of having to wait and listen to the crowd’s wild roar