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  “I would love to watch you race,” Alexandra enthused and rushed upstairs, not to don breeches but rather her prettiest day dress of sprigged muslin with the green ribbons fluttering at the high waist to draw attention to her pert breasts.

  In the stables a short time later, Christopher Hatton offered his new Thoroughbred, Renegade, to Hart Cavendish for the race.

  “I say, Kit, that’s damn sporting of you.”

  “Not really,” Kit drawled. “He’s an unknown quantity. I’ll stick with my hunter—better the devil you know, I always say.”

  Nicholas, busy saddling his own horse, Slate, realized his twin had found a way to save face, and was glad. The horse to beat was definitely Renegade; now he could try to win without holding back.

  The course they had set ran through Hatton Great Park, around the lake to the banks of the River Crane, through the meadows of Hatton Grange, then through the Longford woods, and ended at the stables where it started. The lawn and the stable courtyard overflowed with laughing guests, making wagers.

  Alexandra could overhear a conversation Henry Hatton was having with a group of older men. She recognized John Eaton, a cousin of Lord Hatton’s who was a financial advisor, and she also knew retired Colonel Stevenson who had served in India under Major-General Arthur Wellesley, now known as Lord Wellington and so much in the news these days. Their talk was all of war, because Wellington had just won the Battle of Vitoria in Spain, which put him closer than he had ever been to France.

  “No need to worry,” the colonel declared. “Wellington has put an end to the power of Napoleon in the Peninsula. He’ll beat the French hollow—no finer general ever lived!”

  Suddenly, Alexandra saw her grandmother in their midst. “Bloody warmongers, the lot of you! The poor hooked-nosed bugger will have a devil of a hard time beating the French if the Horse Guards keep sending him idiots like General Lighthume and Colonel Fletcher! He needs more men with iron testicles like Sir Rowland Hill!”

  “Ah, I always thought you were a Whig, Lady Longford,” one of the men declared. Dottie’s blue language was perfectly acceptable because of her age and great wealth.

  “Whigs and Tories—they all piss in the same pot! Just so long as they are making money, they’re happy to let England go to hell in a handbasket.”

  Henry Hatton grinned. “I’m not above making a profit from war. Eaton here will be glad to advise you about investing in some lucrative government contracts.”

  Dottie made a raspberry. “What a load of caca! I wouldn’t dream of disturbing my investments. They’ve returned me a thousandfold over the years.”

  Alexandra saw the look of speculation on Lord Hatton’s face. “Will you take tea with me, and a spot of brandy, this afternoon, Dottie? There’s a certain matter I’d like to discuss.”

  Alexandra’s curiosity was whetted, but at that moment she felt the ground rumble with approaching hoofbeats. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowd to watch the climax of the race. Two horses were neck and neck, far ahead of the others. One was black, the other gray. Nick Hatton’s horses had always been gray, as far back as she could remember. The one he was riding he had bred himself. If Alexandra had had a million pounds, she would have unhesitatingly bet it on the gray, yet it had little to do with the horse. It was the man riding the gray on whom she would put her money.

  The horses were full-out now. They were well matched, and their satiny sinews strained forward with brutal strength. The animals were even, head to head, and it looked as if the race would end in a draw, but Alexandra knew better. She raised her eyes to the man riding the gray and saw his teeth flash in a smile that told how much Hazard Hatton was enjoying himself. She shivered as she saw his male power dominate and harness the power of the animal beneath him. Then, triumphantly, his mount surged over the finish line ahead of the black Thoroughbred Hart Cavendish rode.

  Alexandra was mesmerized just looking at Nick. Her blood pounded exactly as his did. Simply watching Nick thrilled and excited her; he had a deep and abiding lust for life, and he was more man than any male she had ever encountered. His linen shirt clung to his chest and the cords of his neck pulsed with the glory of being alive. She knew that it was not so much that he liked to win; rather, she knew he could not bear to lose. Twin he might be, but to Alexandra, there was no man on earth like him.

  She watched Hart Cavendish shake his head in disbelief, then laugh aloud as he congratulated Nick Hatton. Alexandra liked the fair-haired young man immediately because he was so good-natured. At least half a dozen young women crowded past Alexandra to congratulate the winner and to flirt with all the young men who had raced. As the horses were returned to the stables, the talk was all of wagers and who would collect and who would pay. Jeremy Eaton, a second cousin to the twins, had appointed himself to handle the money, and none objected since his father was a financial advisor.

  “If I’d been riding Renegade, I would have beaten you,” Kit informed his brother.

  “That’s quite possible,” Nick acknowledged generously.

  Overhearing the twins, Alexandra wondered if Nick would have held back and allowed Kit to win. The Hatton twins had a close bond that was sometimes hard to fathom.

  As Kit and Rupert turned their horses over to Hatton grooms, they suggested a swim in the lake to cool off.

  All the young men agreed, and the young women began to giggle and whisper, making plans to follow and watch.

  Alexandra did not join the other young people but entered the stables, knowing Nicholas would tend his own horse rather than turn it over to a groom. She watched him cool down the Thoroughbred as well as his gray, curious about his special touch with horses. When she posed a question about it, Nick grinned at her.

  “Mr. Burke says I inherited it through my mother’s Irish blood. Her family bred horses and practiced the ancient secret rituals known as horse whispering.”

  “I’ve never heard of horse whispering,” Alexandra said raptly.

  “You learn the animals’ natural behavior and train them with kindness rather than mastering them with brute force.”

  “It seems to work like magic.”

  Nick’s grin widened. “There is a lot of myth surrounding horse whispering, but I doubt there’s any magic involved. I suspect that kindness works best with humans and all living creatures.”

  She watched his muscles flex and ripple as he gave Slate a rubdown. He had beautiful hands, and for a moment she imagined what it would feel like to have him touch her in a similar fashion. She went weak at the thought. Alexandra longed to sketch him, to capture his male beauty on paper, so that she could keep it and look at it whenever the desire came upon her. And Alexandra frankly admitted that the desire came upon her quite often lately.

  “If you’d worn your old riding clothes, you could have helped me. Why the pretty gown?”

  “I have decided to behave like a young lady this weekend, rather than a hellion.”

  His gray eyes filled with amusement. “I wondered why you didn’t insist on joining the race. It makes for a nice change”—he eyed her dress appreciatively—“but how long can you keep it up?”

  “Until I get bored, I suppose. You will notice that I did not rush off to the lake to ogle the males who removed their shirts and plunged about in the water for the edification of their female audience.” Alexandra hoped her words would allay any suspicion he harbored about her plans, most of which involved him.

  “I wonder if maturity is sneaking up on you?” His glance roamed over her, paused on her breasts, hesitated on her mouth, then lifted to her saucy curls.

  Alexandra thought the look he gave her held a tinge of regret, as if he didn’t really want her to grow up.

  The first thing Alexandra did when she went up to her room was move the Chippendale bench at the foot of the graceful bed. Then, filled with excited anticipation, she roiled back the green Chinese rug. Yes! The hole is still there. It had been cut into the ceiling below to accommodate a chandelier but had b
een put in the wrong place, about a foot off center of the room. When the magnificent chandelier had been installed correctly, the hole was not noticeable from below.

  Alexandra knelt down and put her eye to it. She had a splendid view of the chamber below because of the eighteen-foot ceiling height. She brought her sketchpad and charcoal and tossed down a pillow from the bed to make herself comfortable while she awaited her model. She didn’t have to wait long. Because of the race and the subsequent attention Nicholas had given the two horses, he was in much need of a bath. She put her eye to the hole and watched him drag a copper bath from behind a screen. In a few minutes two house servants brought buckets of steaming water to fill the tub.

  Alexandra lay flat on the floor, holding her breath, her eye to the hole, as Nick began to remove his clothes. She watched, mesmerized, as one garment after another came off. Her sketchbook lay forgotten as she became engrossed in the riveting scene below. Alexandra had never seen a naked male before, and she sighed with great satisfaction that her first viewing was of Nicholas Hatton.

  His proud head, wide shoulders, and broad back looked sculpted from bronze. From behind, his hips were narrow, his buttocks small and firm, and his legs strong and muscular. When he turned to step into the water, she saw that his belly was hard and flat, but her eyes traveled lower with an insatiable curiosity that would not be denied. Between his legs was a nest of dark curls that partially hid his male sex. The glimpse she got from above, before he became submerged in water, was brief, but it told her his size was formidable. Even though the fashion of tight breeches left little to the imagination, a male’s private parts were larger than she had expected. She wondered if that was true in general, or in particular where Nicholas was concerned.

  To an artist, his body is absolute perfection, she rhapsodized. Then her innate honesty asserted itself. Who the devil am I kidding? To a woman, his body is absolute perfection! With her pulses racing, she watched him scrub his torso and lather his hair, then duck beneath the water to rinse before he stepped out to vigorously rub his body with a towel. Alexandra suddenly remembered her sketchbook. She sat up and, with rapid strokes, drew the lithe, classical figure of the male she had been studying so intently. She gazed down at the paper and saw that the naked man was indeed a superb specimen.

  She looked through the spy hole again and saw him pad over to his wardrobe. She felt a pang of regret. If only he would remain naked and still for her. She wished he would lie down on the bed so she could capture every detail of his magnificent body. It was only a tiny leap for her imagination to place herself on the bed with him. She rolled onto her back with a low moan as full-blown desire filled her mind. She raised her hand to her tingling breast and touched her own fingertip to her nipple as it hardened. Amazed at her body’s reaction, her fingers traced her rib cage, which rose and fell with her agitated breath. Her palm came to rest low on her belly, and she pressed down hard to ease the ache that filled her with longing. Then, unable to control her vivid imagination, Alexandra surrendered to a wicked fantasy.

  As evening approached, Alexandra carefully laid out her costumes for the masquerade ball. She had brought two with her so that she could carry out her ingenious, yet simple plan. She donned a white shirt that belonged to her brother, Rupert, and pulled on fawn-colored trousers whose straps went beneath her instep to assure a taut fit, then she pulled on soft leather top boots. It was a good thing her legs were as long as Rupert’s or his clothes would not have been such a good fit.

  When she buttoned the gold brocade waistcoat, it flattened her breasts, and she knew the claret-colored jacket with its padded shoulders would camouflage the rest of her feminine curves. Her fingers had no trouble arranging an intricate neckcloth, then she tucked her short curls beneath one of her brother’s brown tie-wigs. The transformation was amazing. Even without an eye mask, none would have guessed she was anything but a young buck of fashion.

  Though Alexandra didn’t know how Nick would be dressed, she did know that Kit and Rupert had chosen identical black and white harlequin costumes so people would mistake them for the Hatton twins. She smiled and shook her head, wondering how her brother expected people to believe he was Nick Hatton when his shoulders were so abysmally narrow.

  She went downstairs and knew she had passed the test when her own grandmother didn’t recognize her. Dottie was easy to spot in her nun’s habit, brandishing the ear-trumpet, especially since she was with her oldest friend and lover, Neville, Lord Staines, who was costumed as Friar Tuck. The ballroom was filled with females anxious to dance. Alexandra thought she recognized Olivia Harding, but the proliferation of medieval headdresses and Elizabethan ruffs transformed most of the uninteresting young women into intriguing strangers. There were one or two females in powdered wigs with red ribbons about their throats who affected delicious French accents, and another disguised as a Japanese lady in a gorgeously embroidered kimono and carrying an ivory fan.

  Hatton Hall’s library had been set up as a card room, and Alexandra walked in and casually rubbed shoulders with the men who filled every table. Her gaze wandered from knights to pirates to men in military uniforms as she tried to decide if Nicholas was the Horse Guard or the Hussar. The latter turned out to be Hart Cavendish, who didn’t recognize her, and the former was Olivia Harding’s brother, Harry, who told her pointedly that he was supposed to be in costume.

  Dottie entered the card room and joined a circle of titled guests, which included Lady Hortense Mitford, Countess Lavinia Bingham, and the Duchess of Rutland, all leading Society matrons. George Bingham immediately arose and offered Lady Longford his chair. “Dorothy, m’dear, won’t you sit?”

  Dottie lifted the ear-trumpet. “Shit? Did you say shit, George? I quite agree that horse shit works wonders on the kitchen garden. It doesn’t offend me, of course, but I don’t think shit is a good choice of subjects in mixed company, m’boy!”

  Lady Hortense and Countess Lavinia both gasped audibly, while Lord Staines tried valiantly to hide his amusement. The Duchess of Rutland stepped into the breach immediately, changing the subject. “Did you see Annabelle Harding’s headdress at the theater last evening? She actually had a nest complete with a blackbird adorning her coiffure!”

  Up went the ear-trumpet. “A black turd adorning her coiffure? I warrant it was an improvement over the battleship she wore to Prince William’s naval tattoo.”

  At the graphic picture Dottie’s words painted, the Duchess of Rutland’s eyebrows raised until they touched her hairline. She welcomed the arrival of her friends Lord and Lady Brougham into the circle, hoping they would steer the conversation back to respectability. The duchess, however, was doomed to disappointment when Lady Brougham announced, “I hear the Prince of Wales is honoring Princess Charlotte with a gigantic ball.”

  Lady Longford slyly tapped Lady Brougham with her ear-trumpet. “I know to whom you refer,” she said confidentially. “The Duke of Cumberland is reputed to have gigantic balls! Wasn’t it your sister who told us that they were the size of swan’s eggs?”

  The gentlemen were all vastly amused; the ladies were not. George Bingham nudged his old friend. “I envy you, Neville; there’s a few games I wouldn’t mind playing with a deaf nun!”

  Alexandra closed her eyes, prayed for patience, and heaved a great sigh of relief when her grandmother left the gaming room in search of other Society matrons whom she could torture for her own depraved amusement.

  A black-caped figure entered the room. The black leather mask and slouch hat were so sinister that Alexandra would never have recognized the highwayman as Nicholas if she hadn’t overheard him tell Hart Cavendish who he was. The two friends sat down at the faro table, one of Nick’s favorite games of chance. Alexandra slipped into an empty chair beside him and casually picked up the cards that the dealer dealt her.

  They were playing for money, of course, and Alexandra wagered everything she had won on the horse race. As she watched Nick’s long fingers caress his cards, a shudder we
nt through her at the memory of her afternoon’s imaginary dalliance with the attractive devil. The felon’s black attire only made matters worse, adding an air of danger to his dark, dominant presence. His closeness made it impossible for her to concentrate on her cards, and she lost her money. Before she knew it, her pockets were to let.

  Affecting a curt, husky voice, she glanced at Nick and said, “A word, sir?” She scraped back her chair, stood up, and stalked from the room.

  Nick Hatton murmured an excuse and followed the young man. When he lifted his black leather mask, Alexandra saw his gray eyes assess the coat by Weston and the Hoby boots and conclude that his card partner should be flush enough to pay his gambling debts.

  “I can’t pay,” Alexandra said flatly.

  “I’ll take your marker,” Nick said smoothly.

  Alex shook her head. “It will have to be pistols at dawn!”

  Nick looked at her closely, knowing someone was pulling his leg, but damned if he knew the fellow’s identity.

  Alex raised her hands, lifted off the brown tie-wig and shook out her red-gold curls.

  “Good God, Hellion! You had me gulled!”

  Alexandra laughed with him as she put back the wig and carefully tucked her own short hair beneath it. With eyes brimful of devilment she confided, “I’m going to the ballroom now to dance with all the debutantes and set their hearts aflutter. I’ll wager you double or nothing I can get my face slapped!”

  Nick shook his head as he watched her depart. She really was the most high-spirited and amusing female he had ever encountered. Once she grew to womanhood, she would be a devastating creature. His eyes lingered on her shapely bottom and long legs encased in men’s britches, and his mouth went dry at the erotic thoughts they produced. Why on earth had their father chosen this particular female for Christopher, effectively rendering her taboo where he was concerned? His father’s words from the night at the Hardings’ summerhouse came back to him. “That’s the big attraction, isn’t it, you young swine? You covet everything that is his!” Nicholas knew he coveted nothing that belonged to his twin. Nothing except Alexandra Sheffield! his inner voice mocked. Daydreams are for children, he told himself bluntly and went back to the card room.