Page 17 of From Rakes to Riches

Now Wakefield’s disgusting words about Gemma, delivered with an idiotic grin, brought the man of violence inside Guy to life.

In the next moment, Wakefield hung in his grip, Guy’s hard fists around the lapels of his coat. Wakefield’s face went purple over his tightening cravat.

“As I said, Wakefield. You will not speak of her, or to her, or ever go nigh her. Do you understand?”

“Damn you, Lovell.” Wakefield wheezed. “You’ll regret laying hands on me.”

“You’ll regret your tongue speaking Mrs. Cooke’s name.”

Wakefield continued to gasp. Guy finally set him down with a thump of Wakefield’s boots, feeling both satisfied and amazed at himself. The amiable Guy Lovell did not lose his temper and attack other gentlemen.

The amiable Guy had now spent time with the beautiful Gemma Cooke.

Guy abandoned his cheroot and brandy and quit the room without a farewell. He feared he’d kill Wakefield if he remained.

Behind him, Wakefield drew ragged breaths. “We’ll meet for this,” he rasped. “Name your seconds, Lovell.”

“Speak to Ashford,” Guy threw over his shoulder, and strode down the empty hall.

6

Guy hadn’t regained his equanimity by the time he’d descended to the lower floor. He had no idea where he was going, if anywhere. Part of him wanted to rush back upstairs and dash Wakefield’s face to the floor, the other wanted to race into the misty London air and seek out Gemma.

To speak to her, look upon her, bathe his senses in her. Even simply thinking about her was making him feel better.

What the devil was the matter with him?

“Sir?” The obsequious footman who took coats at the front door and wheedled large tips from the patrons sidled up to Guy. “Your great-uncle is asking for you, my lord. He’s in the back drawing room.”

The footman’s palm hovered. Guy let out a small sigh and dropped a shilling into it. Far more than the man or his information was worth, but Guy didn’t have time to sift through his coins to find a lesser one.

“Thank you, my lord.” The footman’s gushing words followed Guy. At least the man would not misplace Guy’s coat tonight.

“Uncle Clem.” Guy greeted his great-uncle, who was as usual buried in a deep armchair near the fireplace in a small drawingroom. The shadows in this room were dark, the fire throwing spangled light over Uncle Clem’s white stockings. Uncle Clem insisted on wearing breeches, not liking the new fashion of garments that reached the ankle.

“Ah, Guy. My dear boy.”

Clement Lovell was Guy’s late father’s uncle, brother to Guy’s grandfather. Uncle Clem had always been fond of Guy, as both of them were second sons.The Spares,Uncle Clem called them.We must hang together.

“You wished to see me?” Guy asked as Uncle Clem relapsed into silence.

“Yes, yes indeed.” Uncle Clem lifted a racing newspaper from the table at his side. “I have a very important question for you.”

Guy took a chair facing him, leaning forward, hands on thighs. “I am all ears, sir.”

Uncle Clem rattled the paper. “This new horse, Glorious Reign. What do you think of his chances at Epsom?”

An important question indeed. Guy pushed aside his impatience to answer. “He has good form for a youngster, but I’d not wager heavily on him.”

“No? Good. Good. Well, thank you.”

Uncle Clem laid the paper aside and took a long drink of brandy.

“Was that all?” Guy asked. His body was unclenching in the peaceful atmosphere of the chamber. A good natter with Uncle Clem might let him forget his troubles, remind him of who he was. Family bachelors together.

“Pardon?” Uncle Clem blinked at him. “Oh, yes. Indeed. That was my question. Thank you, my boy. You’ve settled my mind. I’ll place only a small wager.” Another gulp of brandy. “Now.” Uncle Clem’s eyes took on a roguish twinkle. “What about this Cooke woman, eh? Does she have good form?”

Guy regarded him in stunned dismay. “Uncle …”

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