Last Hellion by Loretta Chase

Author:Loretta Chase [Chase, Loretta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Romance, Humour, Romantic Suspense
ISBN: 9780380776177
Google: QZQ27Vfj9nUC
Amazon: 0380776170
Barnesnoble: 0380776170
Goodreads: 958521
Publisher: Avon
Published: 1998-03-31T11:00:00+00:00

They would set out from Newington Gate at eight o'clock sharp next Wednesday morning, regardless of weather, illness, or Acts of Parliament or of God. Backing out, for any reason, would equal losing—with the same consequences. They would each take one passenger to alert tollgate keepers and hostlers and pay tolls. They would drive single-horse vehicles, commencing the first stage with their own cattle. Thereafter, they would take the best available at the changes. The finish line was the Anchor Inn in Liphook.

It took less than half an hour to settle upon the terms. It took a fraction of that time for Vere to comprehend the enormity of his error, but even then it was already far too late to retreat.

The June race was a sore point with him. It was Fate's own perversity that had put the goading words in her mouth. And he, provocateur par excellence, had let himself be provoked. He'd lost his self-control along with his temper, and so lost control of everything.

In June, at least, he'd had the excuse of being three sheets in the wind when he'd challenged a roomful of men to reenact the chariot races of ancient Rome upon a busy English coaching road. By the time he came to his senses—to sobriety, in other words—it was the next morning and he was sitting in his phaeton at the starting line with nearly a dozen other vehicles arrayed on either side of him.

The race had been a nightmare. Drunken observers as well as drivers caused property damage totaling several hundred pounds; four competitors suffered broken limbs; two carriages were demolished; and two horses had to be put down.

Vere had paid for everything, and certainly hadn't forced his idiot friends into racing. Nonetheless, the papers, politicians, and preachers held him personally and solely responsible—not simply for the race in particular but, judging by their extravagant oratory, for the downfall of civilization in general.

He was well aware that, loud, rude, and crude, he made a prime target for reformers and other pious hypocrites. Unfortunately, he was also well aware that there wouldn't have been an insane race and consequent public uproar if he'd kept his big mouth shut.

At present, he hadn't even the excuse of inebriation. Stone-cold sober he'd flapped his fool tongue, and in a few moronic words undone what he'd so carefully constructed while tending the fire: the logical and virtually irresistible—for her—argument for matrimony.

And now he could scarcely see straight, let alone think straight, because his brain was conjuring images of smashed-up carriages and mangled bodies and screaming horses, and this time it was her carriage, her screaming horse, her mangled body.

The nightmarish images accompanied him as he exited the study and headed down the hall, and crashes and screams rang in his head as he jerked open the door… and nearly trod down Bertie Trent, who had his hand upraised to grasp the knocker.

In the same instant, Vere heard heavy doggy paws thundering behind him, and swiftly moved aside, to avoid being knocked aside, as Susan leapt upon her beloved.

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