Page 550 of From Rakes to Riches

He didn’t mind a bold woman—within limits.

Some women took it to extremes.

Like the woman who hadn’t been too far from his mind these last three days.

Just before he passed beneath the clock tower leading into the stable yard, his gaze caught upon three riders—a lead pair followed by the groom Cal—trotting across a not-too-distant field. Of the pair, one was Artemis on her gray hunter, Helen of Troy. His sister had a penchant for naming her horses after the tragic heroines of antiquity. But it was the other rider that his gaze narrowed upon.

Gemma.

He would know her anywhere, from any distance.

In fact, such was his body’s visceral response to the sight of her that one would think it knew her before his mind did.

Unable to resist, he watched her ride astride with utter freedom—the only way she knew how to ride.

It was the first time he’d caught sight of her in three days. He’d let her avoid him, and, well, he’d been avoiding her, too, the temptation to ravish her again too great.

His body wasn’t finished with hers yet.

In fact, if it had its way, it had only just begun.

His gaze, inevitably, slipped lower. Her bottom had been haunting his dreams these last three nights.

He had but a single regret regarding their encounter.

That he hadn’t placed his mouth on that fetching bottom and tested its firmness with his teeth.

That was a regret.

And his body wanted nothing more than to rectify it.

This very moment, going by the half-aroused state of his cock.

He attempted to push the image of Gemma’s bottom from his mind. It wouldn’t do to greet the Duchess of Acaster with a raging cockstand.

It might send the wrong message.

Artemis and Gemma topped a far-off hill and disappeared down the other side. Artemis was leading Gemma to the folly. While part of him wanted to saddle up a horse and follow, his sensible side prevailed and convinced his feet to start moving again—toward the duchess.

The stable yard was a hive of activity as lads and grooms tended to the duchess’s newly arrived coach-and-four with well-practiced efficiency, Wilson ensuring all proceeded smoothly with his usual calm and command. Rake scanned the cobbles until his gaze lit upon two still figures, standing off to the side—a fifteen-hands chestnut Thoroughbred and a lady. Reins in one hand, she stroked the horse’s velvety white snip with the other.

Silky Sadie was the horse.

And the lady in the coral wool and velvet traveling habit was the Duchess of Acaster.

The duchess was much as Rake remembered her from over a decade ago—and yetmore. She’d fulfilled the promise of her youthful loveliness to become a true beauty. Statuesque and curvaceous, she had the sort of body that could keep a man occupied for a good long while. More than one young buck had commented on it all those years ago. Luminous brown eyes. Not nearly black, like those of Rake and Artemis, but amber, as if lit from behind. Her thick sable hair was knotted in a neat chignonat the nape of her neck and topped by a stylish hat adorned with a jaunty white ostrich feather.

If the Platonic ideal of an English duchess existed, she would be the Duchess of Acaster.

And Rake felt not the slightest jolt of desire for her.

She was perfect, yet…

Too perfect.

She looked as if she smelled of the most expensive perfume.

Unlike the woman he’d just watched ride across the fields. That woman likely smelled of horse and perspiration at this very moment.

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