Page 501 of From Rakes to Riches

Thatahdidn’t exactly resound with belief.

Wilson pointed toward the track. “You’ll have noticed the course is marked in furlongs.”

Gemma nodded. “Twelve of them.” A beat. “Like Epsom.”

In fact, that was exactly the information Deverill was paying her for. She would include the detail when she wrote him.

A twinge of discomfort niggled at her, which she instantly tamped down. In truth, the act of spying didn’t rest easy inside her.

“Another interesting bit of knowledge there,” said Rakesley, his eyes darkly opaque, as ever.

Gemma shifted on her feet and was saved from having to acknowledge the observation by Wilson. “But Newmarket is a mile and eight furlongs. So, you’ll take Hannibal another lap at a trot, then ease into a canter. Four furlongs into the second lap you’ll go full tilt into a gallop. Really stretch him out so we can see where he hits his stride.”

Gemma liked the plan’s simplicity and precision. Even though it was Wilson giving the instructions, it was obvious they came from the duke whose gaze hadn’t once strayed from her.

“Is that why the racecourse was originally marked in sections?” she found herself asking, instinctively meeting Rakesley’s gaze.

A beat of time ticked past, and she wasn’t sure he would deign to answer. After all, he was a duke very much aware of his place—and hers.

“Every horse is different,” he said at last. “Each has different preferences, different ways of racing, different action. Some are fast starters, others slow. But none of those differences necessarily indicate weakness or fault. In fact, they can prove the opposite by telling us precisely where a horse’s strength lies. But it’s down to us to find it. Today, that’s what we’ll do with Hannibal. He’s a strapping beast with both the physicality for racing and the lineage. What we don’t yet know is what makes him different and what makes him special on a racecourse.”

For the first time, Gemma felt good about this venture.

Better than good.

She feltrightabout it.

Further, she felt a deepening respect for Rakesley. The way he approached horses and racing wasn’t entirely about winning, though she intuited the man liked to win. Perhaps it was even a compulsion, like so many caught in the orbit of horses and racing.

But it wasn’tonlyabout winning. He wanted to get the best out of his horses. There was rigor in the process—as was necessary—but there was patience as well.

He held out his hand toward her, and the breath froze in Gemma’s lungs. She took a wobbly step backward.

The step had been instinctive, and the bemused smile that lit within the blasted man’s eyes said he was curious why. He didn’t withdraw. “Your coat.”

Shock blazed through Gemma. “My coat?”

Over my dead bodyperched on the tip of her tongue.

Her coat wasn’t simply her coat. It was a large part of what made GemGem.

Without the scratchy, filth-encrusted garment, she would be a little less Gem.

Which, flipped around, meant one thing:

Without it, she would be a littlemoreGemma.

She planted her will in place and continued to resist the pull toward the inevitable.

That Rakesley would win.

That was what his fathomless eyes were telling her.

The man didn’t lose.

6

What had begun as a request borne of good sense had, in a snap, transformed into a war of wills altogether unexpected and befuddling.

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