Page 603 of From Rakes to Riches

A bad feeling settled into Gemma’s gut.

Without thinking, she redirected Hannibal and called out to Deeds. “You’ll not get the best out of her that way.”

The other jockey flashed her a cold glare. “Mind yer own, eh?”

Left with no other option, Gemma continued walking Hannibal to the far outside edge of the starting line, following through with her own strategy. Her first responsibility was to her mount.

A voice called out for the horses to take their places. As all assumed the position for the sounding of the starting gun, the crowd’s roar lowered to a whirring buzz. Gemma’s heart became a hammer in her chest, and anticipation streaked through her as she leaned forward into riding position, light on her haunches, feet secure in stirrups. Hannibal sensed the subtle shift in his rider and went still, even as all the muscles in his body tensed.

He was ready.

The time had arrived to see what sort of heart beat within Hannibal’s chest—and within hers.

23

From atop Moonraker up on the Heath, Rake greeted lords, ladies, and long-time acquaintances of the turf, all the while keeping half an eye on the weigh-in proceeding a few hundred yards below.

Among all the colors denoting horses royal, aristocratic, and even a few from the middling class, he sought out the striped flash of light green and blue silk. Gemma and Hannibal, his coat shining black in the sun, mane braided, his chest high and proud. But it was Gemma who held Rake’s attention, his heart lifting in his chest so it felt entirely possible it might carry him away.

Perhaps it already had, considering all the poetic nonsense that garbled his mind when he so much as looked at the woman.

Seeing her clad in his livery and colors spurred a visceral reaction in his body and a single word.

Mine.

Of course, he didn’t own her. Yet part of him—a part not controlled by reason or logic—responded to this public claiming of her as his.

For now, it was as his jockey.

Soon he would claim her as more.

This morning, in the in-between time betwixt night and dawn, he’d awakened with her in his arms, and with slow deliberation, he’d made love to her once again. Then he’d left without speaking another word.

He knew what his next words to her would be—and they needed to wait.

Though he’d never thought it possible to feel this way, he didn’t much care if Hannibal won the Two Thousand Guineas, as long as Gemma was his at the end of this day.

But Gemma cared. She’d been working with single-minded diligence to bring Hannibal to victory. Rake wouldn’t do anything to distract her from it.

A figure mounted on a chestnut hack appeared at the periphery of Rake’s vision, horse and rider ambling to a stop ten or so feet away. Rake cut the lord a glance—and recognized him half a heartbeat later.

Bolton.

Instinctively, Rake’s hands clenched into fists, then with great reluctance, released. No matter how Rake might feel about the man, he needed to keep the conversation civil.

Bolton cleared his throat. “A fine piece of horseflesh you have down there.”

Rake nodded—and waited. Bolton wasn’t here to talk about Hannibal.

“From the Darley line?”

“Byerley,” Rake corrected.

Bolton crossed his arms over his chest. Gemma had a bit of the look of the man. Red-gold hair and straight, narrow nose. Which was where the resemblance ended. Where Bolton’s mouth held a cruel twist, Gemma’s tipped with kindness. Where Bolton emitted cold severity, Gemma radiated warm generosity.

Bolton sought to possess.

Gemma sought to understand.

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