Page 489 of From Rakes to Riches

Intuitively, she understood it a mistake to meet that man’s gaze. And yet…

Somehow, she couldn’tnot.

The duke’s gaze held a pull. It demanded to be acknowledged—and one stood powerless against the demand.

She gave her head an annoyed shake. What absolute rot. One couldn’t be powerless against agaze.

She returned to her work, now focusing her efforts on the carriage horse himself. She picked up a hoof pick, and her mind wandered as she tended the horse’s hooves.

This work would do for now, providing enough information on the running of Somerton for a few missives to Deverill. But she had to finagle her way into the Thoroughbred wing. Only there would she find the information that would provide life-changing money for her and Liam.

A figure appeared in the periphery of her vision and planted itself in the gate’s opening. Before her mind could register the person’s identity, her body did. Her heart kicked into a full-tilt gallop, and her mouth went dry, as her gaze subtly slid over and confirmed the identity of the tall, imposing form.

The Duke of Rakesley.

Watching her at work.

Nay, nother.

Gem.

She would do well to remember that.

A few too many beats of silence loped past, and Gemma released the horse’s foot and straightened. He would see through layers of wool, cotton, and the linen that bound her chest, down to skin, and on through to bones and the very cells of her being.

A woman…not a Gem.

Eyes inscrutable, he opened his mouth and said, “Follow me.”

And he was gone.

Gemma blinked, and her breath released. The meaning behind his command at last penetrated, as her feet scrambled to catch him. Perhaps he’d seen through her disguise and meant to march her out of his stables and off his estate.

But if that were the case, they were marching in the wrong direction.

Nay.He was leading her down the center aisle and deeper into the stables, then across the cobbled stable yard, the clock tower bell striking nine o’clock.

It suddenly occurred to her where they were going.

To the Thoroughbred wing.

She tried not to gawk as they entered, but that proved impossible. She’d been mightily impressed by the carriage horse stable, but it was nothing to where the Thoroughbreds were housed. From the red-bricked floor stood polished oak partitions and stone columns that supported the vaulted ceiling. As she’d suspected, there were no stalls in this stable, but boxes, each larger than any of the London quarters she and Liam had shared this last year.

Well, the Duke of Rakesley’s Thoroughbreds would never suffer cramped quarters in all their indulged days.

Following the duke at a distance of ten or so feet, Gemma poked her head into each box. To a one, whether black, bay, or gray, the duke’s Thoroughbreds impressed. It was little wonder Deverill wanted information about the operation at Somerton. Gemma wasn’t sure even the royal stables were better outfitted.

Rakesley came to a stop before the last box in the row. Gemma sidled only near enough so she could poke her head around the gate post.

Several feet away, Wilson and Cal had positioned themselves to either side of a stunning black Thoroughbred who was shaking his head and stamping a front foot. From the sweattrailing down the men’s cheeks, they were having the devil of a time with this horse who easily stood sixteen hands tall.

“Hannibal,” said Rakesley, firm and direct.

The horse’s ears perked forward, and he went still, though his nostrils flared and his eyes showed white, as he assessed this new interloper.

“Can’t even get a curry comb on ’im to get the field muck off,” said Cal with a swipe of his brow.

Concern tinged with no small amount of anger flared through Gemma, and ill-considered, impetuous words were flying from her mouth. “What sort of operation are you running here? Clearly, this horse has been mistreated.”

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