The Princess & the Pea (35 page)

"Very well." He sighed in defeat. "What do you suggest?"

"Let me think." A frown knit her forehead.

"It would have to be something she has with her." Quentin said, a helpful note in his voice. "There's no time to fetch anything else."

"How about a nice, simple, small handkerchief?" Jared said hopefully.

Quentin shook his head in a gesture of regret. "No, that won't do at all. It's far too discreet. Simply not a visible enough symbol of support."

"Oh dear," Cece said.

Jared brightened. "In that case—"

"Wait, I have it." Cece's hands seemed to fly to her head, and in less than a moment that thing she called a hat was in her grasp.

"Here." She thrust it at him triumphantly.

He stared at the frilly, delicate, female monstrosity as if it were a carrier of some dire disease. "Here what?"

"Take my hat." She beamed. "It will be perfect and definitely declare my support."

"It will declare something, all right," Jared muttered. "Exactly what, I hesitate to say. I will not have that bizarre example of feminine excessiveness on my car."

"I think it's a charming idea," Quentin said, his manner mild.

Cece cast him a grateful look. Jared glowered. Quentin smiled innocently.

She turned to Jared, her voice firm. "I don't believe this is too much to ask. After all, I am not being allowed to come along on this race—" he opened his mouth, but she held up a hand to stop him—"and I accept that. However." she leaned closer to him. Sparks flashed amber in her eyes. "You have yet to teach me to drive as, if I remember correctly, you promised—"

"I never actually promised," he said sharply.

"Nonetheless, we had an understanding." Her eyes narrowed. "I would think taking something that means a great deal to me and is extremely fashionable in addition is the very least you can do."

He rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. "Very well, Quentin, put the bloody hat on the vehicle."

With a quick twist of a wire the hat was firmly affixed to the front of the automobile.

"It looks ridiculous." Jared gritted his teeth.

"I think it's wonderful, I think," her voice softened, meant for his ears alone, "you're wonderful."

Their gazes locked for a long, silent moment. His irritation drained away.

"Wish me luck?" he said softly.

"I wish you everything." She extended her hand and he brushed his lips across the back. He raised his head and read all that he wanted to see in her eyes, and more.

Quentin cleared his throat. "As much as I hate to interrupt this touching moment"—he gestured at the gentleman serving as the official starter of the race—"it appears we are about to begin."

"Quite." Jared was abruptly all business. Cece backed away and Quentin took his place in front of the machine to crank it to life.

A gunshot signaled the start of the contest. Quentin turned the crank once, then again, and the engine sputtered to life. He leapt back into the vehicle. Jared pushed the lever for more fuel, and they were off.

He vaguely noted Cece blowing him a kiss. This was not the time to think of anything but the race ahead. Still he would soon claim through the legal means of marriage. Firmly, he pushed her image away. It was not easy.

Not with her silly hat fluttering in the breeze before him.

"Do you see them yet?" Irritation underlaid Emily's words.

"No." Cece squinted into the setting sun. "Nothing."

"Surely they'll be here soon." Emily said impatiently. "After all, it's been more than fourteen hours since they left. How long will this silly race take, anyway?"

Cece gritted her teeth and resisted the impulse to scream. She pulled a deep breath. "I believe I have explained this to you a number of times already. However, just to pass the time. I will endeavor to explain once again.

"The race last month from Paris to Bordeaux was accomplished in a little more than forty-eight hours at an approximate speed of just over fifteen miles per hour. A remarkable feat. Since the British are not quite as advanced as the French in motorcar development, generally we could not expect such speeds here. Yet there are many more foreign vehicles entered in this event than English automobiles so—" she shrugged—"it's impossible to say with any certainty how long this will take."

Emily pouted. "I, for one, am tired of waiting."

"Well, you'll just have to marshal all your resources and wait a little longer." Cece snapped and rose to her feet.

The girls shared one of a number of tables placed on the grounds by the owner of the inn for the express purpose of seeing a hefty profit from the beneficent gesture of allowing the race to begin and end from his property. It was apparently a wise move. The crowds were increasing with the expectation of an imminent end to the contest.

Cece crossed her arms over her chest and stalked off. Surely any activity, even pacing, was preferable to simply sitting here. Waiting. She sighed. She had never been terribly good at waiting.

This day had stretched to eternity. After the automobiles had gone Cece had managed to convince her father to supply the three hundred pounds she'd needed to pay back Sinclair. It was no doubt her earnest sincerity and her fervent promise that this was not some frivolous escapade that had persuaded the senior White to write a bank draft with the amount filled in but the payee's name left blank. It did, however, still rankle that her father had noted he was only trusting her judgment in this instance because she'd had the wisdom to select Jared for a husband and not some scurrilous fortune hunter.

Sinclair was an easy matter as well. Oh, the vile little man had whined and muttered and complained that the carburetor was his, bought and paid for, and the very least she could do was let him study the device. Cece pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that James was dead and since the apparatus in question never actually belonged to him in the first place, a good case could be made that both James and Sinclair were thieves and should rightfully hang at the end of a very short rope. She noted that that was how the situation would be handled in America, specifically in the West. The Wild West.

Sinclair actually turned a pale, rather sickly green color, muttered something about the "bloody aristocracy" and "Americans who stick their noses in places where they don't belong." snatched the check from her hand and stomped off. Nellie Bly would have been proud.

Still, the few moments of excitement were not enough to fill the long, dreary hours. Those gathered for the start of the race, including Cece and her family, had spent the day in London. There was certainly no reason to remain at the inn while the contenders were on the road. Only now were eager spectators drifting back to witness the last leg of the proceeding.

Cece gazed for the hundredth or perhaps the thousandth time to the west. The vehicles would be coming from this direction, driving straight out of the sunset. It would make a glorious picture, but only if they appeared soon. The sun was already barely above the horizon.

She turned away and glanced absently at the gathering crowd. Lady Olivia was here, accompanied by Sir Robert. More than once this morning and again tonight Cece had caught him tossing considering glances in her mother's direction, but as far as she could tell, neither of her parents had exchanged more than a few words with him. Cece pulled her brows together thoughtfully. There was definitely some kind of trouble brewing here.

Lady Millicent apparently agreed. She seemed to spend her time flitting from one couple to the other, as if she preferred not to have to declare loyalty to either old friends or family. Cece studied her for a few moments, then started toward the aging social butterfly. It could be well worth her while to have a little chat with Lady Millicent. The woman knew all the scandalous details about the past. Perhaps she knew as much about today's occurrences as well.

"Here they come!"

The shout echoed and swelled among the throng. Those relaxing on the grass or lounging in chairs leapt to their feet. Others surged forward. Cece pushed her way through to a vantage point she had noted this morning: a slight rise close enough to reach arriving drivers in a few seconds but still with an excellent overview of the winding road.

The sun dipped below the horizon. The last lingering light shone behind the approaching vehicles, nothing but black silhouettes in the distance. Cece strained to identify the shadows, but it was impossible with the dimming illumination and the considerable gap yet to be covered.

The automobiles drew nearer. The crowd grew louder. Cece could make out three machines, all very close together. If they were horses, they would be neck to tail. They disappeared behind a bend in the road, and she scrambled to a spot near the finish line.

At once they were in sight, barely a few hundred yards away. They rumbled toward the finish line. One. Two. Three. The gathering behind her roared their approval, but Cece barely heard.

The German motorcar crossed the line first, followed closely by the French vehicle and Jared's a scant few inches behind. Her heart sank.

He was third.

She swallowed her disappointment and shoved her way through the cheering throng. It was not at all difficult. Most spectators chistered around the winning automobile. She approached Jared's motorcar and forced a radiant smile to her face.

Jared and Quentin climbed slowly out ofthe vehicle. Jared pulled his goggles off his mud-spattered face and his gaze met hers. Defeat, cold and hard, shone in his eyes. He cast her a halfhearted smile, and she thought her heart would surely break for him.

"Jared," she cried and threw herself in his arms.

He held her in a grasp so tight, for a moment she thought she'd be crushed, but it was of no consequence. She needed to cling to him as much as he seemed to need her.

"Cece," he said, his voice muffled against her. "I tried. Bloody hell. I tried."

She pulled away and stared at him. At once she realized the truth. This was no defeat. "And you succeeded."

His wry smile matched his words. "I fear you're confused. We didn't win."

"You didn't have to win." she said, excitement growing in her voice. "Don't you see? You accomplished far more than anyone ever expected."

"But we lost." His voice was gentle, as if he was trying to bring understanding to a very small child.

"Jared, just look. What do you see?" She gestured at the commotion around them. "You finished before a score of other motorcars. We haven't even seen most of them yet, they are so far behind you. And you finished on the very heels of the best automobiles in the world."

"We lost." he muttered again, but she could tell from the look in his eye that he was considering her point.

"You have ranted time and again, in your interminable lectures on automobiles, about how terribly advanced the French and the Germans are, haven't you?"

He nodded grudging agreement.

She pressed her argument home. "And haven't you railed on and on about how the laws here in England regarding automobiles are so restrictive, it effectively dampens all but the most persistent inventors? And don't you and I actually break the law each and every time we ride in your vehicle without a man waving a red flag walking in front of us?"

"It's a stupid law," he said under his breath. "Besides, I can do as I wish on my land."

She cast him a skeptical glance. "Does that apply to murder and mayhem as well, or are only the laws regarding motorcars exempt from applying on the Earl of Graystone's land?"

"Whatever." He shrugged, but a twinkle appeared in his eye, and she noted with satisfaction that he had to fight the faint beginnings of a smile.

"And didn't the sponsors putting on this very race require a number of variances and waivers and goodness knows what else, including the permission of an endless number of people ranging from the farmers whose fields you drove by all the way to Parliament?"

He laughed. "It did seem that way."

"Given all that," she drew a deep breath, "a third place finish is nothing short of miraculous. And I, for one, am quite proud of you."

He cocked an arrogant brow and pulled her close. "Are you?"

"I am." She nodded and grinned. Relief surged through her. She read it in his eyes: He understood now as clearly as she did that he'd lost nothing and might have gained quite a bit.

She threw her arms around him and he bent to meet her lips with his. She leaned eagerly into his embrace. Her blood quickened with desire and her skin tingled with anticipation and her nose tickled with... dust.

"Jared ..." She pulled back and glared. "You are filthy. Really, quite disgusting."

He smiled proudly, looking very much like a small boy caught at playing too hard and too well, as if the dust and grime covering him was a badge woo in battle. "Hazards of the road, my love."

Quentin joined them, a more than fitting match for his partner. "I daresay I didn't think she'd notice, given the lateness of the hour." A decisive note sounded in his voice. "Have you seen your sister?"

"Emily should be somewhere over there." Cece nodded toward the inn.

Quentin bid them farewell and hurried away with a resolute step. How very interesting. Although Emily had determined her interest in Quentin to be short-lived, perhaps Quentin had not.

"Now then ..." In the misty gleam of twilight she could question his expression, but the carnal note in his voice was unmistakable. He pulled her close. "Where were we?"

"We were discussing how very successful this effort of yours was." Her breath caught in her throat.

"Which effort was that?" His eyes sparked seductively.

Her heart thudded in her chest. "The race, of course."

"The race ... of course." he murmured. "That's precisely what I thought you were talking about." He bent his lips to meet the line of her neck and drifted his mouth across her heated flesh.

She gasped. "Did you?"

"I did." His solemn manner belied the gleam in his eyes and the increasing pressure of his body against hers. "Whatever else could we be talking about?"

He grinned. She smiled weakly. Slowly his lips claimed hers with a growing eagerness that tossed aside any concern over appropriate public behavior. She was in his arms and that was exactly where she wanted to be.