Page 535 of From Rakes to Riches

“Where the Derby and the Oaks are run.”

“It also happens to be where the Race of the Century will take place.”

Humor shone within her eyes. “Are you, perhaps, getting a little ahead of yourself?”

It was he who was all seriousness when he tapped the paper. “Hannibal will be there.”

With you on his back, he caught himself before saying. She’d only just stopped being openly hostile to him. He shouldn’t push his luck.

She moved to the side of the table adjacent to his, knuckles showing white as her grip on the shirt relented not one whit.

Closer.

That was all his body comprehended.

She was closer.

“Though I was hoping for Goodwood.”

“Goodwood?” Her head canted with curiosity. “I’m not familiar with that course.”

“It’s the best racecourse in the country,” said Rake, matter-of-fact. “One description I’ve heard is there’s an elasticity in the air which communicates itself to the turf.”

Another laugh from Gem.

“More concretely,” he continued, “is it’s located on the Duke of Richmond’s land, and he runs his course like a tight ship. Horses are saddled in public view. Starts are punctual. That sort of thing.”

“Then why aren’t more major races run there?”

Rake waved a dismissive hand. “The usual reasons. Tradition. Politics. Petty personal grievances. The racing world runs rife with all three.”

Gem nodded. “Isn’t that what makes the racing world go round?”

“A fair point.”

Drawn by curiosity, she moved to his side of the table. With her free hand, she reached across him to point out this or that particularity about Epsom. Rake hardly registered her questions or the answers he gave. He was too busy inhaling and picking up the scent of lavender from her hair—her clean and slightly damp red-gold hair. She’d pulled it back into the familiar queue, buta few errant curls had escaped. He only caught himself before reaching out and tucking one behind her ear.

He needed to get a hold of himself.

Yes, Gem was a woman.

But she was his jockey.

That was all.

And now his jockey was regarding him with a quizzical expression on her face. She’d asked a question—and expected an answer.

“Or is that impertinent of me to ask?”

She’d not only asked a question, but an impertinent one.

Blast.

“Possibly,” he ventured. It seemed a safe response.

“I don’t understand it. Not many owners invite their competition to tea to discuss track qualities. They tend to want to keep that information for themselves.”

Ah.She was wondering about Artemis and Julian.

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