To Wed a Wild Lord (10 page)

Fortunately, it seemed to satisfy him. “That’s what I thought.”

Guilt kept her silent.

While they were headed home, something occurred to her. “Poppy, was Roger drunk when he raced Lord Gabriel?”

Her grandfather stiffened. “Why do you ask?”

“Because of something Lord Gabriel said.”

“Roger was definitely drunk when he agreed to the challenge.”

Her breath stuck in her throat. “So Lord Gabriel was definitely the one to lay down the challenge?”

He stared grimly ahead. “He must have been. Otherwise, he would have blamed it on Roger a long time ago.”

She thought back through what Gabriel had said. He hadn’t mentioned who’d made the challenge. But obviously he’d lied to her about Roger’s drunkenness. “So Roger
was
drunk when he ran the race.”

A long pause ensued. Then Poppy let out a low oath. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was hours later. They raced at noon.”

A ball of lead settled into her belly. “But I thought Lord Gabriel challenged him after they’d been drinking all night and half the morning. Then they went right out and ran the race.”

“Not quite.”

Her world shifted. All this time, she’d believed . . . “Then what
did
happen?”

“Why does it matter?” he snapped. “Isn’t it enough that he convinced Roger to race him when the lad was drunk, then dragged him out on that damned course later to die?”

“I suppose,” she said quietly.

Though that wasn’t entirely true. She’d always assumed that Gabriel had purposely coaxed Roger into getting drunk so he could beat him. But if hours had lain between the time Roger had agreed to the challenge and the two men had run the race . . .

She stiffened. No, Poppy was right. Gabriel had still taken advantage of Roger. Her brother never would have run that race if he’d been sober.

She kept telling herself that all the way back to Waverly Farm.

Chapter Five

G
abe didn’t know which bothered him more—that Gran was about to discover the new Thoroughbred he’d been keeping under wraps . . . or that she’d nearly caught him kissing Virginia.

Probably the latter. Having a reputation for being good in the bedchamber was one thing; having one’s grandmother nearly witness that talent was quite another.

Especially when it had thrown him so off-balance. Virginia Waverly had one damned sweet mouth. He wished he could have plundered it longer. He wished he could have laid her down in the straw and discovered what secrets lay beneath today’s outdated gown—a yellow and white muslin thing that made her look like a lemon drop. Which was only appropriate, since he wanted to unwrap her and suck her and savor her, to satisfy his sweet tooth by devouring her whole.

“You lied to me,” Gran said without preamble.

That shattered his pleasant fantasy. Trying to think what Gran meant, Gabe went to fetch the mash bucket he’d left outside Flying Jane’s stall. He had to get Gran out of here before she noticed the horse; she had a decided bias against his racing. “What about?”

“You said that you and Miss Waverly were going to thread the needle at Turnham Green, when you’re really planning some simple race at Ealing.”

Ah,
that.
A pity she’d found out so soon. He’d hoped that worry for him might make her agree to let Celia out of the marriage ultimatum.

Although perhaps he could still manage that.

“I didn’t lie.” He snagged his coat and headed toward her at the stable door. “Miss Waverly and I are racing to determine whether we will thread the needle. If I win, then she lets me court her. If she wins, then we thread the needle.”

Gran snorted. “You know damned well you are going to win.”

With a shrug, he left the stable, handing the mash bucket to the first groom who came running. “Races are unpredictable.” He shot her a sly glance. “And there’s nothing to say that I won’t be hurt while racing her in Ealing.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “If you hurt yourself on that tame course, you deserve to lose. So I shall wait to see who wins before I decide whether I want to release Celia from my demand.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned toward the house, matching his stride to her halting gait.

“Miss Waverly has turned into a very pretty girl. I’m not surprised; her mother was stunning.”

“You knew her mother?”

“She came out at the same time as yours. The chit had her eye on your father, but Prudence was having none of that. Lewis utterly dazzled your mother, poor girl. Once she met him there was no one else, and she wasn’t going to let any other woman have him, either.”

“A pity that he didn’t feel the same,” Gabe snapped. Unlike Oliver, Gabe didn’t blame their father for everything that had gone wrong in his parents’ marriage. But Father’s infidelities had made it awfully difficult for Mother to overlook their other problems.

Gran shot him a long look. “That’s a harsh statement coming from you, who are never without a female in your bed.”

He gritted his teeth. He entertained a widow or barmaid from time to time, but most of his days were spent with his horses. He wasn’t the whoremonger she seemed to think. He certainly had never rivaled his father for debauchery. Or even his older brothers.

“At least I believe in fidelity, which is more than I can say for Father,” he told her. “I fully intend to do better in my own marriage.”

“Assuming that Miss Waverly agrees to marry you.” He flashed her a cocky smile. “Have you ever seen me
not
gain a woman I wanted?”

“Women of the sort you’ve been gaining don’t count—they can be bought. I doubt that Miss Waverly can.”

“Thank God,” he said coldly, “since I only get money from you if Celia also marries, and that’s by no means certain.”

They entered the house and headed toward the drawing room.

“What will you do if you marry Miss Waverly and then I end up cutting you off?” she asked, her tone carefully distant.

“I have prospects,” he said evasively.

“What sort of prospects? Do they have anything to do with that new Thoroughbred filly you’re hiding?”

He stiffened. Damn Gran and her observant eye. “What makes you think I’m hiding her?”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “She was in the old stables, which have only held Jacky Boy for years. I hope you don’t have some fool notion about entering her in a horse race. Your father had to marry precisely because
his
father—”

“I know, Gran. I’ve already heard the lecture.”

Numerous times. Their paternal grandfather had been horse-mad. Unfortunately, he’d also been cursed with bad trainers and even worse horses. He’d sunk hundreds of thousands of pounds into his stables so he could race Thoroughbreds, none of which had ever won him any money.

Which was why Gabe hadn’t wanted Gran to know he hoped to build his own stable of Thoroughbreds. She’d never believe that he could succeed. He had a keener eye for horses than his grandfather ever had, and he could train them himself as long as he could find the right jockey to ride them.

But Gran thought Thoroughbred racing was a gambler’s sport, and gambling was a waste of good blunt to her.

Not that he cared. She’d ruined his life enough with this marriage business. She wasn’t going to ruin his future in racing, too. This was his insurance policy in case Celia chose not to marry.

“So what do you plan to do with the Thoroughbred?” she prodded.

“That’s none of your concern,” he said as they neared the drawing room. “It’s my horse. I bought it out of the funds I’ve accumulated from wagers I win in carriage racing. Whatever I do with it is my own business.”

She walked into the drawing room. “Not if you use Oliver’s stables to—”

“What’s Gabe using my stables for this time?” Oliver asked from his seat on the settee.

Gabe started as he saw Oliver, along with the rest of his family, ranged around the room. The only ones missing were Jarret’s stepson George, who was visiting his family in Burton, and Minerva’s husband Giles, who was probably too busy with a trial to come. But Jackson Pinter, the Bow Street runner, was here.

Damn, he’d forgotten that he’d asked Pinter and his siblings to assemble in Halstead Hall’s drawing room at noon today. Now there was an audience for this discussion.

“I bought a horse that I’m keeping in the old stables,” Gabe said, preparing for a fight. “I mostly see to Flying Jane myself. But if that’s a problem—”

“I didn’t say it was a problem,” Oliver countered.

“It’s not just a horse,” Gran snapped. “Gabriel has bought a Thoroughbred. For racing, no doubt.”

“Good for him,” Jarret said. When Gabe’s jaw dropped, Jarret winked at him. “It’s about time the Halstead Hall stables were used for something other than our few riding and carriage horses. There’s plenty of room for Thoroughbreds.”

Gran looked as if she might explode. “That’s easy for you to say. The stables aren’t yours to maintain.”

“No,” Oliver said sharply, “they’re mine. You keep forgetting that, Gran. The estate is well on its way to supporting itself. So you don’t have a say in what I allow in my stables.”

Oliver was agreeing with him, too? Gabe couldn’t believe it.

Gran looked utterly flummoxed. She glared at Oliver, then at him. How gratifying to see her at a loss for words.

Gabe grabbed the opportunity to explain himself. “I’m paying for the filly’s upkeep myself and giving the grooms extra to take care of her when necessary. I’m not relying on Oliver for anything but space in the stables, which, as Jarret pointed out, there’s plenty of.”

“Are you really planning to race the horse?” Jarret’s wife Annabel asked.

He hesitated. But since they were all being so reasonable . . . “I’m training her for the St. Leger Stakes,” he admitted.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Gran grumbled.

“And he loses it so brilliantly, too,” Minerva said, her green eyes twinkling. “I can’t wait to see how Gabe’s new venture turns out.”

“Stop encouraging him,” Gran snapped. “It’s a fruitless endeavor.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about him killing himself, since he won’t be riding in these races,” Celia pointed out.

“Of course not,” Gabe said, pleased that his siblings were taking this so well. “Though I’ll need to find a jockey.”

“I know of a decent jockey looking for a position,” Jarret offered.

“So do I,” Pinter said, to Gabe’s surprise.

“You’re all mad,” Gran said with a sniff. “Every last one of you.”

Taking pity on her, Gabe looped his arm about her shoulders. “Relax, Gran. I’m doing my best to marry, too. Isn’t that enough?”

Minerva’s eyes lit up. “You’ve chosen someone?”

“I have.”

Celia gave a start that shot him through with guilt.

Although there were three years between him and his younger sister, and only two between him and his older one, he and Celia had always been closer in spirit. Minerva had mothered them both while Jarret and Oliver were off at school, so he and Celia had become partners in crime. He’d been the one to teach her to shoot; she’d lied for him whenever he snuck out to races.

Now the look of betrayal in Celia’s eyes cut him to the heart. But her plan to have them both hold firm against Gran would never have worked, so he had to try things his own way. If he played his cards right, he might still win her freedom.

“Whom are you planning to marry?” Annabel asked, all smiles and eager anticipation.

“Is it someone we know?” Minerva prodded.

“Come on, man,” Jarret said. “Tell us who it is.”

“It’s Miss Waverly,” Gran said.

An incredulous silence fell over the room.

It was punctuated by Minerva’s cry, “But she hates you!”

“She does not hate me.” She had given him ample proof of that in the stable.

His family began to talk all at once.

“Speaking of fruitless endeavors . . .” Oliver muttered.

“Does she know you mean to marry her?” Jarret asked.

“What about her grandfather?” Minerva asked. “He’ll never allow it.”

Celia sat there smirking, obviously less worried now that she knew who his prospective wife was.

Gran surprised him by answering for him. “Miss Waverly is well aware of Gabe’s intentions, and I believe she is not as opposed to the idea as she pretends. She was just here to arrange a race with your brother. And I am hoping you will all attend. Might as well show her we are not the monsters she has created in her mind since Roger’s death.”

That sparked a new round of questions which Gabe answered, though he refrained from mentioning the wager attached to the race. When he started explaining about the Waverly family’s dire financial situation, Celia rounded on the Bow Street runner.

“I should have seen your meddling hand in this,” she snapped.

Pinter blinked, clearly taken off guard by her attack. “I beg your pardon?” he asked in his thick, raspy voice.

“As well you should.” Celia rose and strode over to glare down at him with her hands propped on her hips. “You probably suggested the woman to Gabe. You won’t be satisfied until you see us all married and miserable.”

Pinter’s eyes narrowed, and he looked on the verge of a hot retort when Oliver said, “Here now, Celia, I’m not miserable. And as far as I can tell, neither is Jarret.”

“Nor am I,” Minerva put in.

“This doesn’t concern you lot!” Celia cried. “It concerns
my
future! And if Gabe marries, it means that I . . .” She trailed off with a huff of frustration. “Oh, you wouldn’t understand. I thought Gabe did, but clearly he’s in Gran’s pocket, too.”

She turned on Pinter again, her eyes alight. “And you, sir, ought to be ashamed of yourself to let Gran buy you, body and soul.”

Pinter stood, his brow lowering into a black frown. “While
you
, my lady, ought to be ashamed to fight her so. Be careful that in biting the hand that feeds you, you don’t break your teeth on it.”

Her cheeks rosy, Celia thrust her face up to his. “It’s not your purview to lecture me, sir.”

He towered over her. “I’m merely pointing out that your grandmother has your best interests at heart, something you seem incapable of recognizing.”