Before her stood a dapple-gray gentleman’s hack, not an inch below fifteen hands. From his size and evident musculature, she put the stallion down as five or so years. “Aren’t you a proud, handsome fellow? I’m sure all the fillies in Hyde Park whinny when you trot past.”
He stepped forward enough so his head arched over the stall door. He nudged her shoulder with his muzzle. This proud, handsome fellow wanted a treat. “Was that what your tantrum was all about?”
She dug into her pocket for a chunk of carrot. While he took it, she stroked the white star on his forehead. Her hand moved along to his black mane, a striking contrast to his light gray coat. She’d never met a horse she couldn’t woo, and her streak wasn’t about to end today with a high-spirited stallion with no small amount of Thoroughbred blood in him.
The Drunken Piebald’s lazy stable lads, notwithstanding, this was a much-cared-for animal, even if he wasn’t as sweet tempered as he could be.
She shook her head.
Stallions.
She dug out another treat for him—a turnip. When he took it softly from her palm, she experienced the familiar thrill of triumph—but not of conquest. Horses weren’t meant to be conquered, but made into family. Why was it so many people couldn’t understand that?
“He doesn’t allow just anyone to do that,” came a man’s voice behind her.
Gemma didn’t startle. One didn’t show high emotion around a horse. They required a calm, settled atmosphere.
Before she turned, she already knew a few facts about the voice’s owner. With the deep, cultured tone and particular intonation of his syllables, he was a gentleman. A lord, even.
And he was the owner of this horse.
Slowly, she pivoted, careful to keep her face pointed toward the ground. Lords expected as much. Black boots buffed to a mirror shine, that was the first thing she noticed about this lord. Unable not to, her gaze continued upward, over tan buckskin riding breeches—and noted the muscular thighs beneath. Up farther, her gaze couldn’t help traveling across his tall, rangy form—hunter-green jacket fitted perfectly across broad shoulders…white silk cravat knotted neatly at his throat…square jaw and dimpled chin…angular cheekbones that caught the flickering light of the lantern…thick black hair that just curled at the ends from beneath his black hat.
But it was the endless black pools of his eyes that drew her in and held her in thrall. Those eyes could see into a soul—if one wasn’t careful to guard it.
She needed to lower her gaze. It was an impertinence for a lowly lad such as herself to be meeting the eyes of a nobleman in the first place.
A single black eyebrow lifted in silent question, and the spell broke. Her gaze fell to her feet—where it belonged.
Why was her heart racing in her chest so?
It wasn’t as if she’d never met a nob.
But…she’d never met a nob as devastatingly magnificent as the one presently lifting the gate latch and readying his horse to ride.
Checking the saddle straps, he said over his shoulder, “I thought all the lads at this coaching inn stayed clear of Moonraker.”
“Moonraker,” she found herself repeating when all that was expected of her was a noncommittal grunt. Really, though, what a wonderful name for this horse with his light grey coat.
The lord cast a speculative glance in her direction. “You like the name?”
She nodded, gaze on her feet, and muttered, “I do.”
Then it struck her: Contrary to what Liam thought, she could pass herself off as male without him. For this lord clearly thought her a lad. Fragile possibility lifted its head…
“Rakesley,” came another cultured voice.
Gemma’s head whipped around to find another tall, impeccably dressed lord entering the stable. But where the one before her was dark and rangy, this one was blond and massive. Rather like a Viking, she couldn’t help thinking. But a Viking with kind, laughing eyes, she could see from here.
Yet that wasn’t what had her heart galloping in her chest.
Rakesley.
The Viking lord had called this lord…Rakesley.
Sudden, irrefutable fact walloped Gemma over the head—she’d been conversing with the Duke of Rakesley.
Careful to remain unobserved, she stepped away until her back met the stall gate on the opposite side of the aisle while the lords readied their mounts to leave. From beneath the brim of her slouch hat, she took Rakesley’s measure.
Here was the man with the most renowned racing estate in all of England.
Here was the man she was being paid life-changing money to spy upon.
She’d formed an idea of Rakesley based on the Thoroughbred-owning, turf-obsessed lords she’d come across in London stables and at Tattersall’s over this last year. Men not nearly as stunning as the beasts they owned, to put it nicely.
But this Rakesley…
He was stunning—full stop.
Here was no bumbling, inept lord, but very much a capable duke.
She couldn’t help wondering if Deverill understood that.
She couldn’t help thinking he didn’t.
Rakesley and the Viking lord—Rakesley called him Julian—led their stallions from their stalls, and Gemma snapped to. Here was opportunity slipping away from her…walking his mount down the center aisle and into the stable yard.
No, no, no.
“Your Grace?” she called out, desperation seizing her as her feet kicked into a run to catch him.
Without answering, Rakesley mounted Moonraker before turning so man and mount stared down at her, twin arrogant expressions on their faces—if a horse could be arrogant.
The man certainly was.
“What is it?” he demanded, his dark, bottomless eyes narrowed on her. Rakesley didn’t like to be kept waiting.
A useful fact to know about a man—particularly if one was being paid to spy on him.
Gemma’s mind went suddenly blank. “Would…would…” she stammered, searching for the words that had been suspended on the tip of her tongue mere seconds ago. “Would your stables be needing a lad?”
Her question was met with not an iota of surprise. “What about your employ here?” he asked, utterly indifferent.
Gemma shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Which was the truth. She wasn’t employed by The Drunken Piebald.
In fact, she was employed by Rakesley’s rival.
All of which, she’d be keeping to herself.
Tetchy nerves jangled through her. He was bound to see with those eyes of infinite darkness that she was no lad at all. “I don’t allow just anyone into my stables,” he said. “Do you have experience beyond broken-down coach horses at a third-rate coaching inn?”
It wasn’t his rudeness that gave Gemma pause. It was the way he was utterly unyielding—and arrogant and condescending.
The point was this—one wouldn’t want this man for an enemy.
And if she somehow gained a position in his stables, that was precisely what she would be making of him.
An enemy.
The lord called Julian broke in. “What’s the harm, Rake? The lad clearly knows about horses and has a way with them.”
Hope sparked through Gemma. She’d been correct in thinking the Viking lord had kind eyes.
Rakesley’s gaze coolly assessed Gemma, as if he were evaluating a questionable piece of horseflesh. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he asked to check her teeth.