Warning: Harry has absolutely no chill in this chapter.

After being mistaken for a surgeon Harry was humiliated and overcome with shyness. The bold and dignified introduction he'd hoped to make had been completely ruined. Now he would be branded with the grotesque nickname, "the Surgeon" for the duration of his stay.

Instead of joining the men for a late supper—because every event at Warwick House was hours late—he retired for the evening.

The room he was assigned had once belonged to Louis' eldest brother. The walls were, of course, red. Harry missed the cool grey walls of his bedroom at home and its unassuming Georgian furnishings. Louis' taste was an ornate Rococo nightmare, with gold moldings, garish carvings and marble tabletops.

Harry was fairly certain the room was haunted and thought the ghost of Louis' brother, who had apparently burned to death in that very room, would keep him up all night, but he could scarcely hear his own thoughts over the noise downstairs. The men drank and gambled until dawn.

Charles was shocked when he came into Harry's room to dress him in the morning. "Are you ill, your grace?"

"No, tired. I didn't get a wink of sleep," he moaned as Charles buttoned his shirt. "How could you sleep through that dreadful racket last night?"

Charles slipped on his breeches, left leg and then right like he'd done every day since Harry was little.

"The servants' quarters are in the west wing. I slept like a log. Theodore looked frightful though. He retired late, with his master, and had to rise early to ensure the race starts on time. The Duke of Warwick is a terror," he tsked.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed while Charles fastened his riding boots.

"Are you sure you're prepared for this, your grace? I don't want to speak out of turn but you've never raced before..."

"Charles, I've studied physics since I was four. I could recite Newton's laws of motion before most of these men could ride. If there's one thing I know it's velocity and speed."

♞

The race was not the Derby, the Ascot or the Goodwood, but rather an informal match among Bilsdale club members at the track in nearby Weatherby. However small, it had all the flare and pageantry of a society event.

They were running an hour behind schedule.

The men were on the track with their with farriers and handlers, attending to hooves and saddles. Harry searched the crowd for Louis' red tailcoat. He thought he caught a glimpse of him but it was just Frederick brushing and primping his chestnut stallion until his fur shone like his owner's bronze hair.

Ladies were in attendance, watching from the lawn on picnic blankets in their finest fall frocks and fur-lined pelisses. They looked bored and miserable.

Harry heard a loud neighing in the distance. He knew before looking that this must have been Achilles.

Two men were using all their strength to drag him by the reins onto the track.

Despite his unseemly behavior, he was an extraordinary sight, a black dahlia among English roses. The ladies clapped and the men congratulated Harry on owning such a fine specimen. Even Frederick and Roy came around to examine him.

"The Surgeon truly has the finest stallion this club has ever seen," Roy noted gruffly. "Who would have thought?"

"No horse is finer than my Belvédère, but he is divine, isn't he?" Frederick said, reaching out to pet Achilles then quickly thinking better of it.

The horsekeeper was less impressed. He was a skilled handler but nowhere near as patient as Alfred.

It was the moment of truth. Harry tried to casually mount his horse. He got one foot in the stirrup when Achilles pulled away nearly taking his leg off. "Whoa, boy, easy."

The men snickered.

He tried again and Achilles grew even more agitated, tossing his head and flicking his tail. When Harry tugged on his headcoller to admonish him, Achilles broke free and rose up on his hindquarters.

Everyone staggered backward.

"That's enough!" The horsekeeper bellowed. "This beast needs the whip!"

"I don't whip my horses," Harry said.

He spotted Louis out of the corner of his eye putting on his gloves, his red coat like hellfire against the grey horizon.

Harry tucked his foot into the stirrup and whispered, "Please Achilles. Please be good. Just this once. Everyone is watching."

Achilles was steady.

"Good boy, good."

With one foot in the stirrup, Harry swung his other leg over the saddle. He had almost mounted when Achilles bucked, throwing Harry to the ground.

"That's it!" the horsekeeper spat. He pulled out his whip and raised his arm high in the air to strike the stallion's back.

"No!" Harry jumped up and threw himself in front of Achilles.

The whip came down and lashed Harry's arm.

The ladies screamed.

"I—I'm so sorry, your grace." The horsekeeper tried to attend to Harry when Charles pushed him out of the way.

"Dear God, are you alright!"

"It's just a scratch," Harry puffed.

"Let me see."

Harry felt the welt throb beneath the fabric of his black coat. He couldn't expose his bare arm in polite company. It would be a scandal.

"Fashion me a sling."

A footman handed him a used pinafore and Charles shredded it.

As Charles tended to his arm, Frederick took it upon himself to announce Harry's forfeiture to the crowd: "Attention everyone! Attention! We're one man down! The Surgeon is injured!"

Harry's humiliation knew no bounds. He was now out of the race and guided off the track to a blanket beside the ladies.

It was the happiest the women looked all afternoon. They crowded around him like he was an object of curiosity.

"Poor thing."

"His arms are delicate for a boy."

"His poor arm!"

"It's like a sparrow's wing."

"Poor little sparrow."

Wonderful, he thought, another nickname.

"He's so handsome."

"No, pretty."

"I have to set my hair for hours to get curls like these!"

They fed him biscuits and tarts while a lady's maid came 'round and served him tea. Lady Finnes, the eldest woman, wrapped her shawl around his shoulders. Harry didn't mind their companionship. He missed his mother.

Though they knew of him and his family, Harry was the only eligible bachelor among their ranks who had never been presented to society. They had a barrage of questions.

"When did you become a member of Bilsdale?"

"I'm not. I received an invitation to the hunt shortly after my father's passing."

"Louis is very strict about membership. Have you met before?"

"He visited Somerset when we were children."

"You must have been the best of friends!"

"He ignored me the entire time and stole my mare."

Lady Finnes looked up at the grey sky wistfully. "I knew a boy like that once."

"What did you do?" Harry asked.

"I married him."

The ladies covered their mouths and giggled.

Harry frowned and turned to the track. The men were all on the starting line, Frederick proudly atop his pampered chestnut stallion and Roy standing beside a sleek prizewinning thoroughbred. Oscar was on the far end, soothing his own anxious mare.

Louis was last to take his place. He trotted past Harry and tipped his hat to the ladies. When Harry saw the horse he was riding, he almost spilled his tea.

"Bertie!" Harry's heart burst with happiness at the sight of his old friend. She looked exactly as he remembered her, with downy white fur bright as snow, a signature black mark between her shy eyes.

But this bout of happiness was short lived. As Louis approached the men they all pointed at her and laughed.

"What in tarnation is that?" Oscar quipped. "A carthorse?"

"Barely fit to pull a cart."

"She'd make a fine meat pie."

"Barely fit for meat."

"I'd send her to the glue factory myself."

"Is this another one of your tiresome jokes, Louis?" Frederick yawned.

"Really, Louis, you can't be serious," Roy sniped, kicking dirt in Bertie's eyes as he mounted his thoroughbred.

She shook the dirt off her face but didn't buck or fuss. She was still sweet-tempered, still his Bertie.

"I assure you, I'm quite serious," Louis said calmly.

What was Louis thinking? Harry loved Bertie but even he knew that she was not built for racing. She looked so small and common standing there among champions. He felt embarrassed for her, and furious with Louis for making a mockery of her.

The Starter pointed his blank pistol in the air and they got on their marks.

The pistol fired.

They were off and, just as Harry feared, all the thoroughbreds pulled far ahead of Bertie.

His heart sank.

A group of women jumped up and began cheering and waving their handkerchiefs. Some cheered for Roy, others for Frederick. Both men were now in the lead, neck and neck.

Bertie was in last place.

Harry could hardly bring himself to look.

Then halfway through the race, as they turned the corner of the track, Louis leaned down and scratched behind Bertie's ear, just as Harry had shown him in the stable when they were boys.

Her speed increased.

She overtook Oscar's mare.

Louis rose above the saddle slightly, the fine shape of his legs defined by his tight breeches. His body moved not in reaction to her but with her, like they were one.

Bertie's hoofs pounded on the mud, heavier and harder than the agile thoroughbreds but twice as fast.

She inched past another horse.

And another.

And another.

Now she was in third place, just two horses behind.

Roy was out in front with his thoroughbred, whipping him fiercely with his riding crop until flecks blood splashed off the horse's back onto Frederick's white lace shirt.

"Fiend!" Frederick cursed.

His chestnut stallion Belvédère was unperturbed. He was born to run. It was inconceivable that Bertie could pass him.

Louis flexed his thighs, urging her forward.

Impossible. Belvédère was faster but Bertie surged ahead through sheer will, drawing all her strength from Louis.

Now she was closing in on Roy.

They were seconds away from the finish line.

Harry jumped up and down, cheering louder than all the women put together: "GO, BERTIE! GO!"

Roy beat his horse raw and bloody. The animal winced but went faster.

Louis and Bertie were moving in unison, sharing one body. One heart.

Roy was whipping harder, his thoroughbred's lean legs practically flying across the track.

Bertie's heavy legs couldn't carry her any faster but her eyes were determined. Louis spoke affirmations in her ear and she pushed herself, listening intently to the sound of his voice. She was doing this for him. His will was hers.

Defying all the laws of physics, Bertie overtook Roy's thoroughbred.

The entire crowd was on their feet. No one could believe their eyes.

Louis and Bertie thundered across the finish line in first place.

"THAT'S MY MARE!" Harry cheered, pumping his fist in the air.

Everyone looked at him like he'd gone mad.

There was an informal winner's ceremony where Louis was handed a bouquet of white roses and a small medal by the Bilsdale club officer. Then he and Bertie did a victory lap around the track. Bertie seemingly aware of her accomplishment had an extra bounce in her step and sparkle in her eye.

As they trotted past, Louis tossed his bouquet to the women.

Harry dove down and caught it with his good arm.

The losers of the race gathered to grumble about Louis' shocking victory, all except Frederick who was more angry that Roy ruined his lace shirt.

The handlers wrangled the horses on the track. Instead of heading back to the house with Charles, Harry slipped a lemon tart in his pocket and snuck off to see Bertie.

He was afraid she wouldn't recognize him, that she would stare at him blankly, their friendship erased by time. But the second she saw him she broke away from her handler and nosed his chest. He scratched behind her ear and pressed his forehead to hers. "I missed you so much," he whispered, kissing the black mark between her eyes. She sniffed the lemon tart in his pocket. He laughed.

"What are you doing?"

Louis was standing behind him with his arms crossed. He was still flushed from the race, hair dewy with sweat.

"I'm giving Bertie a treat."

"My animals don't eat treats. And her name isn't Bertie anymore, it's Albertine."

Harry puffed out his chest. "She won the race she deserves a treat."

"I won the race." Louis then noticed the bouquet tucked in Harry's sling and arched an eyebrow. "You caught my flowers?"

"They... landed in my vicinity."

Harry opened his hand to feed the tart to Bertie.

"Come, Albertine," Louis ordered.

The mare was confused. She looked from side to side. At Louis, then at Harry. Her nostrils flared. She really wanted that tart.

She chose Louis.

He took her reins and patted her neck.

Harry stared sadly at the crumbling tart in his palm.

As Louis began to walk away he stopped and said, "I saw what you did for Achilles. I would have done the same."

Then he snatched the tart from Harry's hand, took a bite, and winked.

A/N: Bertie's alive!

Harry and Achilles are still working through their issues but there are more events to come.

I hope you enjoyed the race. The next chapter is where things get complicated. It's the Bilsdale dance... We meet a new character and get to know Louis a little (or a lot) better.

Though the next chapter is also in Harry's POV, the one after that will be in Louis' POV.