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"Isn't he absolutely wonderful?" You beamed, the question not even needing an answer as your words drowned in the myriad of applauding voices. The presenter's voice could be vaguely made out, but one thing was clear to all:
It was your horse that brought it home.
"Fat Joe came through alright?"
You laughed a jolly laugh but gave your close friend a push in the shoulder, looking at him for a fraction of a second before turning to the muddy racetrack. "He is not fat Philip. He is perfect. Bravo Joe! Bra-vo!"
Your friend chuckled, matching the quick pace of your claps to his. Another victory this is for Joe, another mark in his journey. A medal of honor, and flowers to match.
It wasn't about the money for you. Horses were your whole life. For some they passed as the most leisure of activities, but you made a name for yourself in it. Quite a quick start you had, as a duke's daughter. Money flowed, allowing things one can't even imagine. All in favor of the horses you had in your possession. A winning streak at only three and twenty of age.
You smoothed out your skirt and smiled at the cameras that flashed beneath.
Philip Clark was your racing manager and a close friend, and it was with him that you took your horse back to the estate where the magic had first happened. Clapping awaited Joe, people who gave as much as you did to make sure he is in his best form stood at the front gate after he came back from his win.
"How old is he now? Four?" Asked Philip even though he knew the answer.
You smiled as your hands patted his silky, black coat. He was calm, Joe, now that he was in the safety of his stall. Able to breathe in his winnings. "He's not there yet, but yes he's very close to four."
"You ought to retire him now Y/N."
"Retire him?" You furrowed your brows, "But he's in his prime."
"That's exactly why I think you should do it," Philip encouraged, walking around the stallion to meet you. His gloved hand matched the rhythm of your own and he began to gently stroke the gallant warrior. "Life as a stud would do him good with the track record he has. And you too. Think of all the money."
You scoffed, "Believe me, money doesn't tempt me."
"It should," stated Philip. "Joe's the best middle-distance horse in Europe. Owned and trained by you. He has a column in the newspaper every week. He'll bring in thousands of pounds as a stud."
"That is quite true," you rocked on your heels and eventually gave in. "But we need good candidates. Calm, gentle mares. Joe's skittish sometimes."
"Or maybe he needs a strong-wielded mare," your friend said instead, his voice laced in unspoken truths. He peeled himself away from both you and Joe, making a dash for the exit. "Like any man in his right mind."
Your laughter followed him out, "He's a horse Philip, not a man!"
"Men are horses too sometimes! It's hardly a different thing."
And that was that.
***
"He has a reputation, my lady."
"I find that I have no problem with that," you replied to the employee, and turned to Philip for advice. "Is Mr. Shelby's mare any good? Her color is wonderful. I see great temperament in her too."
"Yes, yes she is."
You nodded and turned to observe the mare again, but your eyes followed her owners. Across the dirty path stood a group of men, clothed as darkly as Joe's midnight coat, looking all but excited to be here. At the front of the group a man rested with his gloved hands clasped at his front. The hat on his head shielded most of what looked to be a strong jaw and hidden blue gems for eyes. Quite handsome if one looked better under his hat. But demeanor wholly different from the filly that was prancing around, enjoying the attention. She had the strangest pallet of colors, but they all complemented each other well. A fine mare, and you wondered if she would be a match for your winner.
You would not let the aloof behavior put you off. These men should be grateful for your agreement.
"And her trainer?"
"May Carleton."
You wolf whistled, sold on the arrangement. "Wonderful," you said with a nod. "I'm sure she'll make a fine candidate. But I should like to speak to her owner first. Make sure we are on the same grounds. I heard there was a fiasco at the Derby last year. It makes me wonder how the mare fares."
"Yes," agreed Philip. "She did make a solid placement."
"What is her name?" It felt foolish to ask it now when the horse had already gone. When one meets the other, names are the first thing exchanged.
"Grace's Secret."
You casted your eyes on the front man, wondering if there is a meaning behind her name.
As if he knew, he lifted his chin from the ground and glanced at you. Indeed, his eyes were a shade of blue you have yet to see but so beautiful all the same. His eyes went over your styled hair and the shawl that covered it from the wind then over the fitted dark green vest, down to the tips of your knee-high, polished to perfection riding boots.
Yes. There is definitely a secret there.
And the mystery made you place one foot in front of the other and ask him to take a walk with you.
***
"Townsend Joe?"
"Yes," you replied as a matter of fact, willing your bones to calm. "It is what I get after letting my nephew name him. But I think I quite like it. Makes for a fine brand."
The two of you were two willowy dots by the fence looking over the field that became somewhat of a playground for horses. Townsend Joe relaxed idly and nipped at the grass here and there. The sugar cubes wrapped in a handkerchief waited in your front pocket. You dug your hands into the pockets of your trousers and dared not to look at the man beside you.
His warmth seeped through your clothes, travelling and warming you up. Thomas paid no mind to the way it made you feel, man's proximity, and if he did then he was great at not showing it.
"I don't doubt it." Was all he said, drawing out a cigarette. His gloved hand offered you one, and you shook your head.
"My father's a smoker," you said. "Wouldn't dream of catching his cough."
Tommy chuckled beside you but drew a breath nevertheless. It's his own demise. Smoking.
Your chipper voice mixed with wind as you continued to talk names, "And you? What secret lies behind Grace's?"
"One not worth telling."
Men and their simple answers. It came as no surprise that you enjoyed Philip's company so much. He spoke his mind and littered words all over the person he spoke with. Yet your heart raced with men of few words. It always did. And it always will.
He has a reputation.
That was supposed to be a warning.
It did quite the opposite.
"You will find it Mr. Shelby," you began after taking in a deep breath of the damp air, "that we tell our stories in the names of our horses." You turned to look at him, catching those ocean eyes in your own. They were curious. Tempted to know more. "Alas, not in the case of Joe but perhaps in other. He is, after all, not my only horse."
"You train them all, Mrs. Y/LN?"
"Miss," you corrected him with a polite smile, and turned to the field so he wouldn't see your rose-stained cheeks. "I don't make a habit out of training. I own quite a number of them. Joe was a gift from my father-"
"The duke."
You chuckled, albeit warily. He said the title with a bitter undertone. "Yes, the duke. I highly doubt that frightens you."
Then you looked him over, your eyes like lasers into his, pinning him in place to prove a point. "I don't think there are many things that scare a man like yourself."
His gaze made you breathless and had you feeling like you were the only woman in the world. Above you, the sky turned into a gray hue, though not gray enough to showcase rain, but enough to enhance the black in his clothes and paleness of his features. "Your father gave you the horse?"
You swallowed and spoke with the weight of his eyes still on you. "Gifted yes, and I raised him so it felt right to train him too. Philip helped me of course, but it's hardly an effort to deal with numbers don't you think?"
"You trust him?"
The question took you aback, "Of course I do. He's my closest friend."
"Is he?"
"Mr. Shelby such cryptic words will get you nowhere," you told him and tug your tongue in your cheek, shaking your head. "Especially not in this business."
"I've been faring quite well." He said and took a casual drag.
"As arrogant as your horse," you noted. "I wonder how fun it must be for May to work beside you. She is after all your horse's trainer. I, on the other hand, am here to allow your dam a quick roll in the hay with my sire. You plan to race the yearling?"
"Don't know yet."
"Well, I hope you do," you said, suddenly irritated by the man. "Joe's had a fine career. So has your Grace."
Your words had meaning. Your Grace. That was a plan wrapped in silk to get out a reaction. How well you executed it told you his knowing eyes and the smirk that tugged at his lips. "You think something will come out of it?"
Your calm air broke at that, "Why are you here Mr. Shelby?"
"Tommy." Was all he said in return.
You shook your head like he was crazy, "I will not call you that."
"Thomas then." He seemed to settle on that.
"Mr. Shelby-" You wholly turned to face him, the lapels of your west almost brushing against his. It took you by surprise, the proximity, because he was not so close before. You swallowed, dared not to look at the lips he drew sinful smoke with, "Thomas…why are you here? I'd trust a man who came all this way to breed his filly would know what to do with the horse that will come out. Is there perhaps a secret agenda you're following? Whyever-"
"Do you remember me?"
You took a step back. Remember?
Do you remember me?
Why would-
"You."
Suddenly anger flared in your veins, overcoming your senses like a fog. You turned on your heel, ready to leave him be. Facts came rushing back, accompanied by foul memories and wicked flashbacks. That one night in the great city of London.
You repeated yourself.
He knew about Joe. Knew about him being a gift.
He knew and stayed silent.
Why? To see how you act out of sheets? To see how you look adorned in work clothes?
You didn't get far before feeling pressure on your swinging writs. One hard pull and you were against a chest you scratched with your nails senseless.
"Look at me."
Your eyes were closed, and you didn't even realize.
He repeated himself again after you shook your head. Then you felt his voice against your ear, his warm breath tickling your neck. The way his hand curled around your waist while the other one stayed shackled around your wrist. Your breathing turned shallow, goosebumps erupting on your silky skin. "Do you think of me as a fool?"
"No," Tommy said.
You yanked your arm; he didn't let go. "Then why are you doing this? Humiliating me? You think this is a joke? Is this your twisted trick at getting me into your bed again?"
"I don't need tricks to get you in my bed Y/N," he replied, voice laced with truth. "Why?"
You heard the unspoken extension of his question.
Why did you leave?
Why did you leave him alone in the bed and sneaked out like a shadow with only your clothes in hand? After a night spent in the sheets, where he took you over and over again, why did you leave? Why not stay?
"I don't do meaningless sex Tommy." It felt weird to say it out loud. "That night…I wasn't myself. I needed…"
Silence.
"I needed to let it go."
"Did you?"
"No," you admitted. "Far from it. I had a taste of something I cannot have. Besides, I didn't even tell you, my name. How did you find me?"
"When I want something, I find it."
"And why do you want me?"
You move backward until your back is pressing hard against the fence. Tommy stops only when his face is just a few inches away from yours. This up close, he looks even more handsome. His pale skin. Sharp jaw and slight, almost invisible stubble. Dark eyelashes framing blue eyes, the color of ice.
The air sizzles between you. There is no mistaking the look of pure possession in his eyes. Only the sounds of your breathing and distant galloping of Joe's legs are heard in the air. He's like a shadow, eating you up until there is nothing but him. "Because you want me too."
Then his lips took yours. Rough and commanding, knocking out air from your lungs. You're taken back to that dark London night, the club and the blinging chandeliers. To the dark hotel room where you came with ecstasy over the course of an entire night.
You forgot how alive his hands made you feel. How blinded with lust his lips made you feel.
When you pulled apart, you buried your hands into his coat and asked, keeping your voice light and even, "You are still planning to go through with the arrangement? Joe's quite taken with her."
Tommy's chuckle followed a question, "Philip?"
You looked at him, "What about Philip?"
"He's loves you." He said the information as if he was talking about the weather.
"But I'm not in love with him."
It seemed to settle the storm in him. You kissed him once more, loving the way his lips felt against your own and grabbed the ends of his coat, urging him to follow. "Come. I promise you that I won't run this time."