Page 482 of From Rakes to Riches

Rakesley and the Viking lord—Rakesley called him Julian—led their stallions from their stalls, and Gemma snapped to. Here was opportunity slipping away from her…walking his mount down the center aisle and into the stable yard.

No, no, no.

“Your Grace?” she called out, desperation seizing her as her feet kicked into a run to catch him.

Without answering, Rakesley mounted Moonraker before turning so man and mount stared down at her, twin arrogant expressions on their faces—if a horse could be arrogant.

The man certainly was.

“What is it?” he demanded, his dark, bottomless eyes narrowed on her. Rakesley didn’t like to be kept waiting.

A useful fact to know about a man—particularly if one was being paid to spy on him.

Gemma’s mind went suddenly blank. “Would…would…” she stammered, searching for the words that had been suspended on the tip of her tongue mere seconds ago. “Would your stables be needing a lad?”

Her question was met with not an iota of surprise. “What about your employ here?” he asked, utterly indifferent.

Gemma shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

Which was the truth. She wasn’t employed by The Drunken Piebald.

In fact, she was employed by Rakesley’s rival.

All of which, she’d be keeping to herself.

Tetchy nerves jangled through her. He was bound to see with those eyes of infinite darkness that she was no lad at all. “Idon’t allow just anyone into my stables,” he said. “Do you have experience beyond broken-down coach horses at a third-rate coaching inn?”

It wasn’t his rudeness that gave Gemma pause. It was the way he was utterly unyielding—and arrogant and condescending.

The point was this—one wouldn’t want this man for an enemy.

And if she somehow gained a position in his stables, that was precisely what she would be making of him.

An enemy.

The lord called Julian broke in. “What’s the harm, Rake? The lad clearly knows about horses and has a way with them.”

Hope sparked through Gemma. She’d been correct in thinking the Viking lord had kind eyes.

Rakesley’s gaze coolly assessed Gemma, as if he were evaluating a questionable piece of horseflesh. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he asked to check her teeth.

Now, there she’d be in trouble, for she wasn’t a lad of seventeen years but a woman of twenty.

Just when she’d convinced herself that he wouldn’t relent, he said, “Be at Somerton’s stables at seven o’clock tomorrow morning—sharp. I do not tolerate laggards. Ask for Wilson.”

All the nerves held in check within Gemma released in a rush, “I’ll be there at six.”

The Viking lord laughed, and Rakesley said, unsmiling, “Let’s not get carried away. Seven will do.”

The lords rode out of the stable yard, leaving Gemma alone, theclip-clopof horse hooves fading into the night. Tempering the feeling of triumph currently streaking through her came a chill. The instant she stepped foot inside Rakesley’s stables, she would make an enemy of that magnificent, capable duke.

But what choice had she?

Her future, and Liam’s as well, was at stake.

And there was nothing she wouldn’t do to secure it.

Liam would resist, of course.

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