Page 504 of From Rakes to Riches

Magic.

Just as they reached the eleventh furlong—Hannibal’s speed only increasing as they neared the end of the ride—Gem’s ever-present slouch hat flew off his head, as Rake had predicted.

On impulse, Rake ran to retrieve the hat. From the middle of the course, he watched Gem finish the run on the final stretch, hat slapping against his thigh.

Gem spared a rushed glance behind him, a halo of sun-streaked hair flying about his head. Rake held up the ragged hat.

Before this moment, he’d only caught glimpses of reddish tips of hair that curled at the ends peeking out from beneath Gem’s slouch hat. But, now, exposed and free… A crowning glory, that head of hair.

Again, the idea that Gem was an unlikely lad poked at Rake. He could’ve easily handed the hat off to Wilson, but he was holding on to it. He wasn’t sure why, but he suspected it originated in the desire to make the lad come to him. Make those gold-flecked, green eyes meet his. Gem had been avoiding him these last three days. Rake hadn’t been particularly irked. His calendar kept him busy every waking hour of the day.

But he’d noticed the evasion.

A thought slid in before he could catch it as he watched Gem begin to slow Hannibal into a canter.

Fetching.

His jockey had a fetching, round little backside.

He’d never once in all his life caught himself admiring a jockey’s backside. He simply wasn’t that sort of man. He knew a few who were, but not him.

Perhaps that was why he needed to meet the lad’s gaze.

He needed to understand why he kept noticing characteristics about the lad that, hitherto, he’d only ever noticed about women—the gold flecks within his green eyes…the light streaks of hair that glinted strawberry in the sun…his fetching backside…

Wilson joined Rake at the fence, his eyes bright with exhilaration. Nothing like a prime bit of horseflesh pounding the turf to get the blood flowing in one’s veins. “Who wouldaknown that foul-tempered Hannibal would be a sweet goer.” He laughed and shook his head. “Did you notice how he didn’t need but a light command or two?”

“Aye,” agreed Rake.

“You saw what no one else did when you matched that horse and rider.”

“No one could’ve predicted it would work,” Rake deflected.

The fact was he had, indeed, known it would.

He’d felt it deep in his gut.

“There’s the magic of racing, innit?”

“Indeed,” said Rake. “But…” How to say this… “Do you think there’s something different about the lad?”

He had to ask.

Wilson chuckled. “Aye, he’s an odd one, that Gem. But he’s the one to get the best out of that horse.”

“And we don’t argue with that.”

Wilson cut Rake a sharp glance. “Nay, Your Grace.” A beat. “We don’t.”

And that was Rake told—in the only way anyone would ever dare tell a duke anything.

Around the track, horse and rider circled. Gem settled back into the saddle, patiently slowing furlong by furlong, as was right. The cooling down of a horse couldn’t be rushed.

Yet more knowledge the unlikely Gem possessed.

But then everyone knew that, even coaching inn lads.

At last, Gem gently pulled the reins so Hannibal stopped. He slid from the horse’s back and walked him around the final bend, coming within a few yards of Rake and Wilson. Gem’s eyes shone bright, his cheeks stained red from exertion. Sweat glistened on horse and rider alike, the pair only just recovering their breath. The joy that Rake had detected during the ride yet echoed about the lad.

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