Page 18 of Prince of Scandal

Georgiana laughed along with everyone in the group, but it was a touch wistful. Phoebe and Sir Alan were just so in love. Publicly in love and utterly unashamed to show it in words and deeds and glances. “Who will race me? And show mercy toward a beginner?”

“Me,” said India with a beaming smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Bloody hell.

“Suppose that means we’ll be racing each other, Mr. Latimer,” said Reverend March as he flexed his newly bare feet. “I hope you’ve been practicing, sir, for I shall endeavor, with God’s help, to crush your hoop victory dreams to powder.”

“Fighting words, vicar,” rumbled Mr. Latimer, but the amused glint in his eyes said that this particular race would be run fairly and in good spirits.

Unlike her own.

Georgiana grimaced as she removed her shoes and stockings and placed them on another empty chair, once again cursing the decision to wear a white gown with a makeshift fichu. While the powder room repair seemed to have done the trick and it now felt secure, anything could happen as she hurried along a flattened grass track, urging a bloody hoop to spin with a stick.

Soon, Phoebe and Sir Alan stood at Reverend March’s mark. Georgiana held one end of a soft rope and India the other as the finishing line to breach.

The vicar held up his hand. “Ready…steady…go!”

The pair scampered forward, laughing uproariously as they attempted to coax their hoops down the track with short, tapered sticks. Phoebe struggled a little as her gown flapped around her ankles, but Sir Alan noticeably slowed when she paused to kick up her hem, and he only just darted ahead around the pole.

“Come on, Phoebe!” cheered Georgiana.

Then Sir Alan momentarily lost control of his hoop and it rolled off the track, leaving Phoebe an open path to victory. The young woman strolled across the line to loud applause from a swiftly gathering crowd, before picking up her hoop and curtsying.

“All hail the queen,” said Sir Alan as he crossed the line and bowed deeply.

Phoebe winked at her betrothed, then marched up to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him soundly on the lips. Several bystanders gasped.

Georgiana whooped.

Reverend March cleared his throat. “Phoebe. Now, Mrs. King, Miss Dunmore. Would you ladies like to go first, or shall Mr. Latimer and I run our race?”

“You two go first, Reverend,” said India in a syrupy tone. “So our poor unfortunate beginner here might have another example of hoop excellence to learn from.”

Oh, this witch was going to lose a clump of hair if she wasn’t careful.

Georgiana smiled at the vicar, then met Mr. Latimer’s gaze and licked her lips. His return “behave yourself” frown sent a frisson of delight down her spine. While he’d said their affair would shortly commence, in her mind, it had already started. “Good luck, sir!”

Phoebe held up a handkerchief. “When I lower this, you’ll both begin. Ready…steady…go!”

Both men strode forward down the track, the shorter, slimmer vicar nimbler in his steps, but Mr. Latimer demonstrating excellent control of the stick and hoop. They were almost even at the pole, however the vicar just managed to dart ahead.

“Come on, Papa!” yelled Phoebe.

“Faster, Mr. Latimer!” called Miss Dunmore, waving her lacy handkerchief.

Georgiana scowled, willing her future lover to run faster, and for one of the birds flying overhead to deposit a foul mess directly onto India’s head. Alas, no birds obliged, but in the last few steps of the race Mr. Latimer passed the vicar and breasted the rope being held by Phoebe and Sir Alan.

“Hooray!” said Georgiana, applauding wildly. “Well done, both of you.”

Reverend March shook hands with Mr. Latimer. “Good race. Now I’m quite certain I have discovered your weakness, and will defeat you soundly next time, sir.”

Mr. Latimer smiled faintly. “Until then, Reverend. I shall enjoy the spoils.”

Georgiana bit her lip hard so she did not offer herself up there and then as the spoils to be carried away and thoroughly debauched. He’d quite emphatically stated that they would meet privately and quietly, somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed. But the urge to stroll over and throw her arms around Mr. Latimer, to kiss him as soundly as Phoebe had kissed Sir Alan and publicly stake a claim, was almost overwhelming.

Especially when India was fluttering around and simpering her congratulations.

Ugh.