My Sister Called Me A Hopeless Spinster—Then I Raced The Duke At Dawn
Part 2
The dawn air felt utterly electric as we launched forward in absolute unison.
I gave my mare the decisive signal and she responded with magnificent, explosive power.
The cold wind rushed past my face in a glorious, completely deafening blur.
I felt truly and completely free for the first time in countless, suffocating years.
His black stallion matched my pace exactly, running like a dark shadow at my side.
The damp morning grass flew up behind us as we tore across the open park.
I urged my beautiful mare to give me absolutely everything she had left.
We leaned sharply into the final curve, our stirrups coming dangerously close to the ground.
I deliberately took the inside line, using every ounce of my experience to maintain our momentum.
Greg pushed his massive stallion hard, desperately trying to close the small gap between us.
I flattened myself completely against my horse’s neck, minimizing the wind resistance as much as possible.
The stone markers of the far gate rushed toward us with terrifying, exhilarating speed.
I pushed my mare past her absolute limits, asking for one final, desperate burst of energy.
We crossed the stone markers three full lengths ahead of his magnificent stallion.
I slowed down gradually, entirely breathless and laughing aloud with pure, unfiltered joy.
Greg rode up beside me without a single trace of anger or wounded pride.
His dark gray eyes held a profound warmth that made my heart hammer painfully against my ribs.
He quietly told me that witnessing my uninhibited victory was worth far more than winning the race.
I stared at him, completely speechless at the raw vulnerability hidden in his confession.
The ride back to my family’s estate passed in a blur of surreal, impossible happiness.
The society gossips worked themselves into an absolute, vicious frenzy by noon.
Heather stormed violently into my room, brandishing a handful of scandalous, hastily written letters.
She demanded to know immediately if the horrific rumors about my morning ride were true.
I confirmed them with a completely unrepentant, satisfied smile fixed firmly on my face.
She warned me hysterically that I had ruined my reputation beyond any conceivable hope of repair.
I calmly told her I no longer cared what polite society thought of me or my actions.
The evening ball at the Miller estate felt like walking through a gauntlet of cruel stares and whispers.
Brenda Miller glared at me from across the crowded ballroom floor with unmistakable hatred.
I stood quietly by the refreshment table, expertly ignoring the pointed remarks of the gathered chaperones.
The crowded room fell dead silent when the formidable Duke of Ashbourne made his unexpected entrance.
He walked straight past the cluster of eligible debutantes and bowed directly, purposefully to me.
He asked for the very first dance in a commanding voice loud enough for everyone to clearly hear.
I placed my trembling gloved hand in his, feeling a jolt of pure electricity at the contact.
The musicians nervously struck up a waltz, and he confidently led me onto the polished floor.
Every single eye in the room tracked our movements with intense, predatory focus.
He pulled me slightly closer than was strictly proper for a formal first dance.
I looked up into his striking gray eyes and saw nothing but genuine, unwavering admiration.
He whispered softly that I looked as magnificent in pale silk as I did in dark wool.
A sudden blush crept up my neck, entirely betraying my carefully affected composure.
I realized in that breathless moment that my quiet, predictable life would never be the same again.
What would society say when the formidable Duke began courting the undeniable spinster?
