His eyes were gray, like the colonel’s, only darker. More dire.
Careful, warned a voice inside of her, clear and sudden. Careful with this one.
From over her shoulder came a diffident cough.
“Oh,” said Madeleine, blushing. “Sorry! I don’t know where my head is today. Colonel Astor, Mr. Astor, please meet my father, William Force.”
She leaned back as they all greeted each other, keeping her eyes on the hem of her dress, on the shiny black tips of her shoes. She was afraid to look up again and afraid not to look up. She knew they were all three waiting for her to speak, but her mind was empty. If only Katherine were here—she always knew the exact right thing to say, something droll and smooth and gracious.
Then be Katherine, directed the voice. Play the part.
She lifted her lashes. Across the racetrack, a photographer had raised his camera, pointing the lens straight at them.
She turned around, set her back against the railing. She imagined herself a Gibson girl, cool and perfect, and smiled up at the colonel.
“How pleasant you’re both here for the season. Do you have any special plans? I’m told there’s going to be a regatta among the yachts in Frenchman Bay this weekend. Unofficial, of course.”
Thank goodness, it worked. Straight off, everything returned to normal. Well, as normal as it could be with Jack Astor and his heir standing with them, chatting about nautical miles and tides and who in Bar Harbor had the fastest ship.
A horn sounded in the distance. Madeleine turned again to the track. The ground beneath her began to tremble seconds before she saw any of the horses, but then there they were, streaking past in percussive, rolling beats, and for a very brief moment the steeds and their jockeys were the entire world, the massive engine of their competition churning by, the heat and essence and pulse of it engulfing her senses.
In a flash, they were gone. She gazed after them, her hands gripping the metal railing with the excitement of it all, bits of sod now clinging to the front of her dress by her ankles. Father craned his neck to peer down the course, and Madeleine let go of the railing, opening and closing her fingers.
Colonel Astor leaned closer to her ear. “A zealous fan of the ponies, Miss Force?”
She glanced up at him and then it was as if the rest of the world were gone, too, not just the sweating horses and their jockeys, their thunder; everything else was gone but the colonel, smiling down at her, his eyes bright, his lashes long, the shadow cast by the brim of his bowler a soft painted darkness along his cheekbones.
She hesitated, weighing the consequences of truth against what she knew she ought to say.
“I would rather be the rider than the observer, honestly.”
“A young lady of action. I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Or, merely a young lady who is easily bored.”
“Are you? Easily bored?”
She sensed a line crossed, some moment of politeness missed, and tried to think of a way to go back but couldn’t. “Maybe. My mother might say so.”
“I hope,” he said quietly, after a moment, “that I do not bore you.”
Madeleine studied her toes once more. When she answered, her voice was even quieter than his. “Colonel Astor, I cannot imagine any man more stimulating than you.”
As if they’d planned it, they dropped their poses and faced each other as the crowd around them milled and the horses battled close again. The wind pushed, recapturing the tails of her scarf, lifting them to float between them. She saw his gaze follow that, the cream silk dancing.
Without meaning to, she licked her lips. “How is your dog?”
He watched that, too, and the horses rumbled by, and it was another long moment before he answered her. “Restless, I think. Like you, she prefers to be in the thick of action, rather than observing from afar.”
“A good pup.”
“Very.” He looked away. She felt that, the physical and mental distance he constructed between them as he took two steps back and slipped both hands into his jacket pockets. He aimed a wry smile down at the ground, then turned to her father.
“Mr. Force. I wonder if I might be so forward as to invite you and your family to spend the weekend at my cottage here, sir. We’re slightly starved for company, you see, and if there is a yacht race, we’ll have an exceptional vantage of it from the back lawn.”
“Ah,” replied Father, bland as rice pudding. “A kind offer, Colonel Astor. Most kind. I must consult with my wife, of course, but I think I can say we are free.” William Force glanced at his daughter. “I admit I do enjoy a good regatta. We would gladly accept your hospitality.”