Reckless Rakes: Hayden Islington. Bronwyn Scott
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Kendal, Near the Lake District, Winter, 1838
Hayden Islington believed there were two great thrills in life; sex when it was done well and horse racing when it was done on ice. Last night, he’d engaged in the former. This morning he was moments away from engaging in the latter. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who held with at least the second part of that philosophy. Twelve other madcap riders were assembled with him on the frozen surface of Lake Kendal and a sizeable crowd had left their warm beds to see the spectacle from shore.
Beneath him, Guerre snorted, nostrils flaring as the white stallion caught the scent of the excited crowd and jostled haunches with the horse on the left. “Soon,” Hayden murmured, stroking the beast’s thick shoulder.
The crowd was primed for the race. A collective, high-pitched squeal of feminine excitement drew Hayden’s attention. He scanned the shoreline crammed full of onlookers until he found the source; a group of women, Miss Last Night in their midst, blonde and striking in a bright blue wool ensemble. She waggled a gloved hand his direction. Hayden raised two gloved fingers of his own to his lips and blew her a kiss.
Miss Last Night buried her face against the shoulder of a friend, acting as if he’d showered her in diamonds instead of imaginary kisses which were far less expensive. He wasn’t surprised, or even flattered by the reaction. Kisses from him of any sort, imaginary or not, had long ago attained swoon-worthy status among a certain type.
He knew exactly how he affected the ‘ladies’ who followed the event and he knew why; they were in love with the speed, the danger and most of all, the victory, almost as much as the racers themselves were. Almost as much he was. Almost. They didn’t need it like he did — those precious moments of speed and danger that demanded all his thought and attention. He lived for them, race after race. Those moments kept him sane, and of course, the validation of winning, proving that he was the best at something.
The ladies adored a winner, although their adoration was fickle, changing with the victor. He understood. Should he lose, affections may waiver. So far, there had not been a shortage of women who’d do anything to have all that excitement to themselves for a night and Hayden was happy to oblige. He knew precisely what these women wanted and why.
On his right, Carrick Pierce, his long-time friend and fellow racer, laughed from atop his bay, catching the direction of Hayden’s gaze. “Good lord, Hayden, another one? Do you even know her name?”
“Elaine, Elena, Ella? Something with an E.” Hayden chuckled and shook his head. “No, in answer to your question, I don’t.”
The starter signaled for attention. It was all business now. Hayden thrust thoughts of Miss Last Night aside, giving Guerre his complete focus. There were more where Miss Last Night came from, but Guerre was one of a kind. The safety of his mount always came first. Hayden moved Guerre into position in the center of the pack, the racers forming a horizontal queue at the starting line. He gathered the reins, his body tensed, waiting for the gun.
Boom! At the sound, Guerre’s muscles bunched and he leapt forward, his long legs confidently embracing the ice in their stride. The wind hit Hayden’s face, cold and exhilarating. This was living at its finest. He was ahead early in the race, Guerre surging out to a commanding lead. That could change at any moment; the ice could crack, Guerre could slip, another horse could pull ahead, all of which would require immediate and decisive action on his part. It was the concept of unlimited possibility that thrilled him, that led him to such a dangerous undertaking. The thrill demanded his utmost in concentration.
The course was short, a test of speed over a slick surface more than a test of endurance. Guerre was built primarily for endurance but that didn’t mean he was slow. The big boy could harness his power for speed when he had to. Hayden could feel the big horse settling into a well-regulated pace and pushed him a little. How fast would Guerre be willing to go on the ice? For now, the new shoes on his hooves with their special traction were giving the big boy confidence.
Hayden took the turn at the half way point. He hazarded a backward glance beneath his arm. Carrick was close behind him, keeping a calculated distance in order to thwart any reckless behavior that came too close. That was Carrick’s job, to ride as his lieutenant and keep danger away from Guerre. Not far from Carrick, a sleek chestnut was recklessly moving into the turn, attempting to cut the curve and pull ahead. The rider was pulling too sharply. “They’re going to crash!” Hayden called, seeing the accident in his mind before it happened, a spill was inevitable at that angle, but Carrick had already seen the danger and was pulling wide to avoid it.
The chestnut slipped, going down on the ice, rolling away from its rider and right into Guerre’s path. “Hayden, watch out!” Carrick shouted, steering his horse around the wreck. Hayden assessed the situation in an instant. The rest of the field was closing behind them fast. If he swung wide as Carrick had done, it would cost him the lead. Worse, it would put him among the pack, a most precarious place to be. In a crowd, anything could happen. The slightest of slips could cause a whole group to go down. There was only one choice.
Hayden rose out of the saddle, his body in a perfect two-point over Guerre’s neck, his weight off the horse’s back, his eyes sighting the jump between Guerre’s ears. Those ears flicked back and forth, catching the sound of his voice calling instructions. Guerre knew what he wanted. They couldn’t go around the wreckage; they would have to go over it. Hayden signaled for the leap with his thighs. Guerre gathered his legs and sprung.
The crowd along the bank went wild as he cleared the downed horse and took the last sprint towards the finish line, outpacing Carrick’s bay by half a length. They’d won! What a race! What a challenge! Adrenaline buoyed him as he and Guerre were led to the winner’s circle amid a cheering crowd.
The celebrity after a race was a rush of a different sort. People he didn’t know reached out hands to clap him on the back, everyone wanting a piece of the victory. Miss Last Night had found her way into his path, her cheeks flushed with excitement. He seized her about the waist and pulled her to him for a showy kiss that made the onlookers roar with approval. She stayed with him until Logan discreetly detached her at the winner’s circle. Then there was a silver cup and a purse to claim from the pretty daughter of an affluent merchant in town who had sponsored a large part of the race. Guerre was handed off to a groom and he was handed off to meet important people, people who had paid money to see him win, who might want to sponsor an event of their own if he’d come to race in their town.
He had given the people their victory, and now it was time for business. Admittedly, he was just the front. He simply raced. It was Logan Graeme who handled all the details. It was Logan now who had him by the elbow, guiding him skillfully through crowds of onlookers who attempted to waylay him. Hayden shook a few hands as he and Logan passed for good measure. The adrenaline was starting to recede, giving way to more clarified thinking.
“There’s a group of merchants who want to talk,” Logan murmured at his ear, rattling off key information. “They’re from Derwentwater and think they’ve got a lake that will freeze every year. They’re looking for an annual race commitment.”
Hayden nodded, taking it all in. An annual event could mean big money and do much to elevate public awareness of the new sport. “Maybe we’ll be as big as Ascot someday.” He laughed.
“Be serious,