"Ram!" the countess screamed, her nails biting through the fine wool of his coat as the carriage hit a pothole and tilted crazily. "Put me down this instant!"

For a fleeting moment he was tempted to do just that, but he was a gentleman for all his faults and couldn't indulge his wishes and leave her in the middle of the muddy road. He raised his voice enough to be heard against the storm. "I'll set you down at The Swan in Chaldon."

"It's too far!"

While he agreed, it wasn't as though he had another option. Forcing himself to a politesse he was far from feeling with his chance of winning virtually destroyed, he shouted, "Just ten minutes more and you'll be dry!"

"I should never have let you talk me into coming along! Look at my bonnet and gown!" she cried. "And the state of my…" Her voice died away, the glance he shot her way chill enough to silence even the overweening vanity of London's most celebrated beauty.

The rest of the wet, miserable journey to Chaldon passed in silence.

Bringing his matched pair to a plunging stop outside the entrance to The Swan, the Earl of Bathurst tossed his reins to an ostler and leaped to the ground. He was around to the countess's side in a few racing strides, his arms lifted to catch her. Carrying her inside, he bespoke a room, set her down, paid the innkeeper a generous sum over and above the required amount to assure his companion would have every comfort, and bowed to the lady who had cost him not only the race but a ten-thousand-guinea wager. "I'll send my carriage for you in the morning." Without waiting for a reply, he strode back outside.

Hilton had passed him, of course. He'd been close on his heels since Red Hill. Dermott didn't need the ostler's report to know he'd been bested. Softly cursing, he tossed the man a guinea, vaulted back onto the phaeton seat, and snatched up the reins.