Page 481 of From Rakes to Riches

Gemma didn’t startle. One didn’t show high emotion around a horse. They required a calm, settled atmosphere.

Before she turned, she already knew a few facts about the voice’s owner. With the deep, cultured tone and particular intonation of his syllables, he was a gentleman. A lord, even.

And he was the owner of this horse.

Slowly, she pivoted, careful to keep her face pointed toward the ground. Lords expected as much. Black boots buffed to a mirror shine, that was the first thing she noticed about this lord. Unable not to, her gaze continued upward, over tan buckskin riding breeches—and noted the muscular thighs beneath. Up farther, her gaze couldn’t help traveling across his tall, rangy form—hunter-green jacket fitted perfectly across broad shoulders…white silk cravat knotted neatly at his throat…square jaw and dimpled chin…angular cheekbones that caught the flickering light of the lantern…thick black hair that just curled at the ends from beneath his black hat.

But it was the endless black pools of his eyes that drew her in and held her in thrall. Those eyes could see into a soul—if one wasn’t careful to guard it.

She needed to lower her gaze. It was an impertinence for a lowly lad such as herself to be meeting the eyes of a nobleman in the first place.

A single black eyebrow lifted in silent question, and the spell broke. Her gaze fell to her feet—where it belonged.

Why was her heart racing in her chest so?

It wasn’t as if she’d never met a nob.

But…she’d never met a nob as devastatingly magnificent as the one presently lifting the gate latch and readying his horse to ride.

Checking the saddle straps, he said over his shoulder, “I thought all the lads at this coaching inn stayed clear of Moonraker.”

“Moonraker,” she found herself repeating when all that was expected of her was a noncommittal grunt. Really, though, what a wonderful name for this horse with his light grey coat.

The lord cast a speculative glance in her direction. “You like the name?”

She nodded, gaze on her feet, and muttered, “I do.”

Then it struck her: Contrary to what Liam thought, she could pass herself off as male without him. For this lord clearly thought her a lad. Fragile possibility lifted its head…

“Rakesley,” came another cultured voice.

Gemma’s head whipped around to find another tall, impeccably dressed lord entering the stable. But where the one before her was dark and rangy, this one was blond and massive. Rather like a Viking, she couldn’t help thinking. But a Viking with kind, laughing eyes, she could see from here.

Yet that wasn’t what had her heart galloping in her chest.

Rakesley.

The Viking lord had called this lord…Rakesley.

Sudden, irrefutable fact walloped Gemma over the head—she’d been conversing with the Duke of Rakesley.

Careful to remain unobserved, she stepped away until her back met the stall gate on the opposite side of the aisle while the lords readied their mounts to leave. From beneath the brim of her slouch hat, she took Rakesley’s measure.

Here was the man with the most renowned racing estate in all of England.

Here was the man she was being paid life-changing money to spy upon.

She’d formed an idea of Rakesley based on the Thoroughbred-owning, turf-obsessed lords she’d come across in London stables and at Tattersall’s over this last year. Men not nearly as stunning as the beasts they owned, to put it nicely.

ButthisRakesley…

He was stunning—full stop.

Here was no bumbling, inept lord, but very much a capable duke.

She couldn’t help wondering if Deverill understood that.

She couldn’t help thinking he didn’t.

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