Page 527 of From Rakes to Riches

That was the question.

And the answer was—possibly for the first time in his life—he wasn’t sure.

10

ONE WEEK LATER

Gemma gave Hannibal’s lustrous black mane one final stroke of the brush and, without thinking, leaned over to set the tool on the half wall separating his box from the next.

A stab of pain shot through her, eliciting a wince and a grunt, her hand immediately reaching for her lower back and applying firm pressure.

It had been a long, bruising day.

A long, bruising week, in fact.

Wilson had returned from Newmarket with a trainer—one Mr. Blankenship. The man had taken over Hannibal’s training schedule. Gemma had been wary at first and had complained to Liam. But, as usual, her brother had talked her around. “Hannibal could win one race with natural ability, but not an entire season. A horse has to be tested to become the best. People aren’t much different when you think about it. And don’t forget that. They’re also testing you.”

Gemma supposed Liam was right.

But that didn’t mean she had to like Blankenship, with his rigid bearing and cold, calculating stare. And it certainly didn’tmean she had to accept all his methods. The exercise and feed schedule, she’d come to agree with, even if she did slip Hannibal a few slices of apple or turnip here and there.

The sweating of Hannibal, she was less sure about. It was the prevailing practice of all racing stables to sweat a horse to dissipate excessive heat and prevent illness. Many trainers took it too far by piling layer upon layer of blankets onto a horse’s back to achieve the desired sweating. While Gemma didn’t speak openly against the practice, she didn’t sweat Hannibal half as often as Blankenship instructed.

However, Gemma had put her foot firmly down on one front—the use of crop and spur.

She wouldn’t.

That was the end of it.

Blankenship must’ve been quite accustomed to always having his way, for he’d turned a livid shade of crimson at her refusal. She could’ve given him the show—as Liam had suggested—and donned spurs and carried a crop without using them, but she’d chosen not to.

Instead, she’d made a different choice—to stand her ground. The practice of whipping and spurring horses would never change if more people didn’t openly repudiate the practice. Chifney had shown such implements were unnecessary when he’d won race after race without them, proving that methods of force were the lazy—and cruel—way to pressure a horse into doing one’s bidding. Less physically aggressive methods got the best out of a horse, but most trainers and jockeys refused to listen.

But, with Hannibal, Gemma held a trump card.

She was the only jockey he would allow on his back, so she’d won the battle.

No crop and spur.

A mean, little thrill of triumph sparked through her at the memory of Blankenship’s thin lips pressed into a straight line. He hadn’t wanted to yield but had to.

Now, however, as Gemma bent to grab a bucket and dump its contents into the alley, it occurred to her that Blankenship may have had the last laugh. The training this week had been a step beyond bruising.

It had been punishing.

And every muscle in her body felt it—from the tension in her neck and shoulders all the way down her legs. Somehow, even her calves were sore. It wasn’t only Hannibal who was being trained into fine racing form, but her as well. Liam had been correct on that score.

This week she’d discovered muscles she hadn’t known existed. Rather than rising from bed, she’d taken to rolling over, then scooching and scuttling out from beneath the covers. When she began to move, the muscles loosened, increment by stiff increment, but if she remained still for the any length of time, her muscles took the opportunity to tighten up again.

Wilson had noticed and asked if she was fit to ride. She’d brushed off the question. As for Blankenship, a little, knowing smile had curled at the corners of his stingy mouth. He knew what he was doing, that man.

Now, she held her breath and straightened, slowly, carefully. It was only when she was fully upright that she released a slow, measured exhalation. A slight movement caught the corner of her eye, and she gave a mild start when she saw it was a footman.

Nerves shimmered through her. Footmen ever made her tetchy. They were so tall and handsome and so very aware of both. But it wasn’t for that reasonthisfootman made her nervous. Only when one was being summoned by the duke, didthisfootman appear.

“His Grace has requested your presence in his study.”

“Has he?” she asked, the question a reflex, a little rebellion.

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