That was precisely why she had to talk to him. Her guard eroded more and more with every day she spent near him.
She went over to hand him a mug of ale, and his hand brushed her fingers as he took it from her. The knowing look in his eyes said he’d done it on purpose. This time she couldn’t restrain the heat that rose to her cheeks. When he responded by winking at her, she caught her breath. Her pulse was racing, and her stomach was doing funny little flips that made it hard for her to think straight. If she wasn’t careful, Poppy would notice.
“This ale is delicious.” Gabriel sipped it with a slow sensuality that made her body hum. “Did you brew it here at Waverly Farm?”
“I’m afraid not.” She glanced at Poppy, but fortunately he wasn’t paying attention to how Gabriel was looking at her. “I’ve tried my hand at home brewing but haven’t been terribly successful.”
“Tastes like swill, it does,” said Hob, one of the grooms.
She scowled at him, though he was right.
“Perhaps my sister-in-law could help you with it,” Gabriel said. “She’s a brewer, you know.”
“If she has easy instructions I could follow,” Virginia said, “I’d be most grateful.”
“So would we,” Hob said.
Gabriel shot the groom a foul look. “Yes, because it’s not enough that Miss Waverly makes sure you’re well fed and your ailments treated. She should brew a good small beer, too, right?”
As Hob gave a sullen shrug, Virginia smiled warmly at Gabriel. His unexpected defense of her touched her deeply.
But it also gained Poppy’s attention. He glanced over at her and Gabriel, his eyes narrowing. “So, Sharpe, do you think you could come by earlier than usual tomorrow?”
Gabriel stiffened. “Why?” “Tomorrow is the fair at Langsford. I’m taking some yearlings to market, so the grooms and I will have our hands full. We’re not setting off until nine, but I could use some help earlier getting everything ready.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Poppy sat back on the bench, looking smug. “I should have known. All you chaps enjoy your Friday nights in town, gambling and drinking. Makes it hard to rise early on a Saturday.”
Shooting her grandfather a glare, Virginia walked over to pour ale for the two grooms.
“That’s not the reason.” Gabriel’s voice held a trace of irritation. “Actually, I wasn’t planning to come at all tomorrow.”
“So you’ve finally tired of working this hard, have you? Want to end your little adventure?”
“Not in the least.” Gabriel downed his ale with a scowl. “I have a prior engagement.”
“Then come here for a while beforehand.”
“Poppy,” Virginia chided, “his lordship isn’t one of your servants to be ordered about.”
“I’d come if I could,” Gabriel said, “but my engagement is quite early.”
Her grandfather eyed him with suspicion. “Early in the morning there’s only one kind of engagement a man can have, and that’s with a woman.”
Anger flared in Gabriel’s face. “As it happens, I’m meeting with a gentleman. We’re settling a wager.”
As it dawned on her what kind of wager that must be, Virginia whirled to face Gabriel. “You’re racing,” she accused him.
His face carefully expressionless, Gabriel held out his empty mug. “And what if I am?”
Their gazes locked as she took it from him. He showed no sign that her feelings on the matter were of any consequence to him. He might be full of sweet words about her work on the farm, but that didn’t change his character. He was still the Angel of Death, still as reckless as ever.
Well, she’d had enough of that. Time to settle once and for all what kind of man he truly was. She couldn’t go on without knowing exactly what had happened between him and Roger.
She turned to her grandfather. “You said that if Lord Gabriel worked here a week, which he has, you would allow us a drive together. I want to take it now.”
Poppy puffed up like a horse with colic. “I also said I’d have to go along. And I can’t leave the farm right now with Lord Danville coming over to check on his mare.”
“I’ll take Hob. He should be a sufficient chaperone.”
“Now, lambkin—”
“You owe us this, Poppy.” She stared him down. “I’ve been very patient, but I deserve to spend time with my suitor. The least you can do after all the work he has done this week is to allow it.”
Her grandfather glowered at her, then at Gabriel. But he had to know that he’d worked Gabriel like a dog, and that Gabriel had taken it with astonishing equanimity.
“Oh, very well, go on with you, then,” he finally grumbled. “But don’t be gone too long. It’s no more than an hour before sunset, and you shouldn’t be out after dark with him.” He glanced at Hob. “And don’t you let either of them out of your sight for one minute, do you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” Hob answered.
A short while later, Gabriel was handing her up into the curricle as Hob climbed into the groom’s seat on the back. Virginia took the reins as a matter of habit since it was her curricle, and Gabriel said nothing.
Although there was a hood between them and the groom, she needed far more privacy than the curricle could provide. “We’re going to a place where we can talk.”
When his eyes darkened and slid down her body with aching slowness, she regretted how she’d put that. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Much as she wanted to lose herself in his arms, she couldn’t. Not until they settled a few things.
She drove half a mile, then pulled the curricle down a dirt track off the road, which soon ended in a little clearing. Before she was even fully to a halt, he jumped down. When he handed her out his hands lingered on her waist, prompting a little curl of excitement in her belly that she squelched ruthlessly. Casting him a reproving glance, she headed to the back of the curricle.
“Hob, if you will please take the horses for a bit of exercise down the road, I’d be most appreciative.”
Hob jumped down, his jaw set as he glanced from her to Gabriel. “The master said I wasn’t to let you out of my sight. The master said—”
“Perhaps I should tell our housekeeper that you and Molly have been meeting secretly in the stable at night.” There was a reason she’d asked for Hob, and it wasn’t just because he was the more shatter-brained of the two grooms.
All Hob’s bravado fled. “Please, miss, the housekeeper would turn Molly out, she would, and—”
“So you’ll exercise the horses for, say, the next half hour?”
Hob hesitated a long moment. Then with a sigh, he gave a curt nod and jumped into the driver’s seat.
After he drove off, Gabriel drawled, “That was a neat little piece of blackmail. How did you know about him and Molly?”
She snorted. “The girl comes in to lay my fire at night with hay in her hair. And since our other groom has a sweetheart in town, that leaves Hob. I’m not the idiot my staff takes me for, you know.”
“I know only too well,” he said in a husky voice. He reached for her, but she moved away.
“Oh, no. I didn’t go to all this trouble just so you could fog my head with kisses. I want to know about this race you’re running tomorrow.”
A low curse escaped him, and for a moment she feared he wouldn’t tell her. Then he shoved his hands into his coat pockets with that devil-may-care manner that she both admired and hated, and said, “If you must know, a fellow named Wheaton challenged me. The wager is a hundred pounds, so I accepted.”
“Of course you did,” she said bitterly. “The money is always the most important thing to you.”
Anger flared in his face. “It should be important to you, as well. If Celia is stubborn and refuses to marry, the money I win from races is what will support us. If I win tomorrow, the hundred pounds will be enough to cover the cost of hiring a jockey and paying the entry fee so that Flying Jane can run in the St. Leger Stakes. And if I win
that
prize—”
“If, if,
if
! That sounds like a great many ifs.”
“So what do you suggest? That I take a position as a groom in your grandfather’s stable?”
“No, of course not. Your grandmother won’t help you with Flying Jane?”
With a cold laugh, he began to pace the clearing. “She doesn’t approve of Thoroughbred racing. She fears I’ll follow in the steps of my idiot grandfather, the old marquess, who lost thousands upon thousands of pounds trying to compete. I know that I can succeed in it, but she doesn’t believe me.”
She could see how much that hurt him. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might have a plan for his life beyond gaining his inheritance. He’d mentioned that he wanted to build a racing stable, but she hadn’t taken that seriously. Now that she knew he really meant it—now that she knew him better—it made sense. “Your grandmother is being foolish.”
He halted to stare at her.
She colored. “I’ve seen how you are. You have a gift for recognizing a horse’s particular strengths. Even Poppy has commented on it, though he’d never say anything to you.”
His gaze steadied on her, dark and wary. “Gran would argue that succeeding in Thoroughbred racing requires more than an ability to pick a horse.”
“And she’d be right. Training is important, too. But you’re good at that, as well. If you start racing Thoroughbreds seriously, I daresay you’ll give most of the important owners a run for their money.” She smiled faintly. “No pun intended.”
“Thank you.” A determined expression settled on his face. “So you understand why I have to run this race tomorrow. The wagers I win on private races will pay for the Thoroughbred racing, and the Thoroughbred racing is where the real money is.”
When she said nothing to that, he added, “I know I’m starting small with Flying Jane, but if things go as planned, I could one day have a whole stable full of Thoroughbreds to race. I might even have a stud farm of my own.” He glanced away. “That’s my hope, anyway.”
She could see how much his plan meant to him. But it had distinct disadvantages, too, which he must surely realize. “So you need lots of private races, and lots of wagers.
High
wagers. Which means dangerous races.”
His gaze shot back to her, instantly wary. “The more dangerous the race, the higher the wager. You know that.”
Her heart sank. “So what dangerous course are you and Mr. Wheaton racing tomorrow?”
“
Lord
Wheaton. And it’s not that dangerous, I swear. It’s not even a carriage race. Just a plain old regular race, horse against horse.”
“You know perfectly well that those can be just as dangerous, if not more so. What course are you racing?”
“You probably haven’t even heard of it.”
“What
course
?” she persisted.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “The one that runs beside the stream on Lyons’s estate in Eastcote.”
Alarm seized her. “The one with all the jumps?”
He blinked, clearly surprised that she knew of it. “It’s just two jumps, and they’re not that bad.”
“Not that bad! I remember Poppy talking about it. Didn’t Lyons break his leg on one of them?”
Gabriel stiffened. “Only because he can’t ride worth a farthing.”
“Oh my word,” she muttered, fear for him making her dizzy. “You’re utterly daft.”
That made him bristle. “No more daft than you, who raced Letty Lade and then challenged
me
to a race. Since when do you disapprove of racing?”
“Since I’ve seen how you race,” she shot back. “Since I’ve seen firsthand how you take risks that no one with good sense should.”
“You’re going to lecture me about good sense?” He bore down on her. “You’re the one who wanted to race at Turnham Green, despite the risk to your future.”
“Yes, because I got tired of watching you build a reputation for recklessness on the back of my dead brother!”
Shock filled his face, rapidly replaced by pain. Still, she couldn’t take back the words. Now that it was out in the open, she couldn’t let it go.
Her breath came in harsh gasps as she fought back tears. “You paint your phaeton black, and you prance about town in your black clothing and—”
“I don’t
prance
anywhere, sweetheart,” he said hollowly.
“Don’t you dare make a joke of this! You talk about earning money from these dangerous races, when we both know that no one would be wagering against you if not for my brother!” Her voice fell to a whisper. “If not for Roger, there would be no Angel of Death.”
“I didn’t choose to be the Angel of Death, blast it!” He practically spat the words. When she blinked, taken aback by his vehemence, he added, “That was some fool’s idea of a joke.”
She kept staring at him, speechless. A joke? Her brother’s death was a
joke
to someone?
Seeing her reaction, he went on in a low, tortured voice, “After Roger’s accident, I wore black to mourn him. Since Roger wasn’t my family, Chetwin commented on it, saying that I dressed in black because Death was my constant companion. He pointed out that everyone I touched died—my parents, my best friend . . . everyone.”
He began to pace the clearing, pain etched in his features. “Chetwin was right, of course. Death
was
my constant companion. So it was no great surprise when other people started calling me the Angel of Death.” His voice grew choked. “I fit the part, after all.”
And in that moment she realized that she’d seen everything all wrong. The Angel of Death wasn’t his way of bragging. It was his curse, laid upon him by people who didn’t care about his torment.
“Oh, Gabriel,” she whispered.
But he didn’t seem to hear her, lost in the past. “I had two choices. I could let those arses cow me with their taunts, or I could show them I wasn’t afraid of them
or
of Death.” He whirled to face her, his gaze so deeply haunted it broke her heart. “So yes, I painted my phaeton black and wore all black and dared them to call me whatever they pleased, as long as they left me alone.”
A mad laugh escaped him. “But of course they didn’t. Every stupid fool who’d ever tooled a rig wanted to challenge me to a race. At first I refused. For nearly a year I said no to every challenge, until the wagers got so high that I couldn’t ignore them any longer.”
Stabbing his fingers through his hair, he returned to pacing. “It finally dawned on me that the money could be my salvation. If I could make enough to do what I really wanted, what Gran was never going to let me do on my own, I could free myself of society completely down the road.”