Page 631 of From Rakes to Riches

Of course, the story of a duke who ran off to Gretna Green with his jockey and married her would, inevitably.

If he was a laughingstock, it was a fate he happily accepted.

After all, he’d won the prize—Gemma.

As they sat side by side on the folly’s window casement, he reached for her hand and shifted slightly so he could observe her profile while she stared at the valley stretched below.

Utterly besotted.

That was how Artemis had described him with a mystified shake of the head when he and Gemma had asked her to serve as witness for their anvil marriage.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” laughed Artemis. “I never thought I’d see it, brother. Next, you’ll be spouting poetry.”

And Rake found his sister hadn’t been half wrong. His heart did seem to be in possession of a poetry both unexpected and strangely welcome.

He wouldn’t fight it.

He was done fighting his heart.

To behold his wife was to feel poetry down to the essence of his soul.

The essence of his soul…

Here it was again—the poetry.

Her hair, the red-gold of autumn leaves, curls free to flow down her back.

Her green eyes flecked with amber—direct, intelligent, playful, compassionate…

Her eyes contained the world.

The only world that mattered.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen, indeed.

Gemma’s head angled, and she met his gaze, a soft smile about her mouth, a question in her eyes. “Yes?”

She’d caught him staring. He didn’t mind. He would have her know every minute of every day what she meant to him.

Which sounded rather close to poetry.

Again.

Actually, he did have a question grounded in the real world and not in thela-di-daone of poetry… “When was the last time you rode Hannibal on the practice course?”

She tapped a contemplative finger against her chin. “Two weeks ago?”

As he’d thought. “You know, you don’t have to stop riding Hannibal simply because Liam has taken over as his jockey.”

“Oh, but I took him out for a nice amble just this morning.”

“I’m speaking of the racecourse.”

“Ah,” she replied, utterly unconcerned.

“I still think you should ride him in September. You and Hannibal would win,” he pressed. “The Jockey Club has no rules explicitly stating a woman can’t be a jockey.”

“How about a duchess?” she asked, eyes sparkling with amusement. She wasn’t taking this conversation as seriously as he wanted.

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