Page 510 of From Rakes to Riches

He stood at the door and watched Julian clumsily mount the ever-patient Petunia and then find the back path that connected their two estates at the west boundary. His friend faded into the night, leaving Rake alone with the words he’d left behind.

Sometimes with a person, we only see what we expect to see, and not what’s really there.

The words now struck Rake sideways. What was he not seeing with Gem?

He sensed whatever it was, it had been before his eyes all this time.

All he needed to do now was actually see it.

8

NEXT MORNING

The sky grew bright with dawn too quickly for Gemma’s liking as she rushed across Somerton’s wide drive, its gravel road flanked by sweet chestnut trees green with budding spring. She’d stayed overlong catching up with Liam at The Drunken Piebald. She could only hope her absence hadn’t yet been noted by Wilson.

Liam had demanded a full accounting of yesterday’s ride from beginning to end. Gemma left nothing out, from the moment she’d led Hannibal from his box to the moment she’d returned him.

“How was Hannibal’s action?” asked Liam. “He isn’t a daisy-cutter, is he?”

Like the Arab horses from which they were bred, Thoroughbreds could run too close to the ground. The risk was a stumble, and there went horse and rider, tip over tail. She’d assured her brother that Hannibal hadn’t any such tendency.

“He’s perfect, Liam.”

Those had been her exact words.

Liam’s gaze went narrow and sharp. “There is no perfect horse, sister. You would do well to remember that. It’s the perfect horses that will break your heart.”

Gemma moved on to the day. Dreamy mist burning off the track with the morning sun. All the grooms and lads—maids, cooks, and footmen too—gathered around the course, shouting their heads off when Hannibal got up to speed and showed the stuff he was made of. The crisp air cutting harsh against her face, through her hair. The sweet sweat of exertion coating every inch of her skin. The ride had been everything she’d dreamt it would be—pure freedom and joy.

Liam’s familiar easy smile returned. “Aye, it can be like that.” Wistfulness traced through the words.

“Liam, you’ll be riding again,” she said, grabbing his hand as he turned to stare out the window. “Soon.”

He nodded, but doubt was writ clear upon his face. A leg broken above the knee was no minor injury. That was the fact they left unspoken. Some people never fully recovered. Some walked with a limp for the rest of their days. And a man with a limp would no longer be hired as a jockey. They left that unsaid too.

Not one for a morose state of mind, Liam’s gaze cut toward her. “And Wilson? Was he satisfied?”

“Aye.” Even as Gemma spoke the word, tension entered her body. She braced herself, knowing what question would follow.

“And Rakesley?” asked Liam.

A simpleayewould’ve sufficed. But she had to be careful how theayeemerged from her mouth. Liam would be able to hear or sense atone.

That was the tricky thing about a twin. They heard and sensed all about each other.

Fortunately, just as that dreadedayewas emerging from her mouth, a knock sounded at the door. A light two taps,but enough to distract Liam from the squeak that had surely sounded in her voice.

He pulled himself straighter against the headboard and ran his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to subdue his short red-gold curls. They were untamable, as Gemma knew from experience. “You may enter,” he called out.

The inn’s scullery maid entered the room with a charmed smile on her face and a serving tray bearing tea, toast, ham, and eggs. “A good morning to you, Master Li—” Her bright gaze landed on Gemma. “Oh, yer brother is just payin’ a visit. I’ll just set this on the table and leave ye two to yer?—”

Liam met Gemma’s gaze and subtly jutted his chin toward the door. She took the hint and shot to her feet. “No need for that,” said Liam. “Gem’s just leaving.”

Gemma’s gaze fell to the tops of her mud-encrusted boots, and she gave a surly grunt of farewell. As she made her hasty way out of The Drunken Piebald, she only just remembered to post a letter for Deverill with the innkeeper, whose dour visage wasn’t improved by daylight.

She tamped down the pesky trace of guilt that had begun nipping at her. Truly, the information she’d shared wouldn’t cost Rakesley anything.

Wasn’t life simply a game for a duke?

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