To Wed a Wild Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Really.” His grip slid from her shoulders down to her arms. “You got lost and decided to enter a stables alone, knowing that several male grooms would be about.”

  “I live on a stud farm. I go into stables alone all the time.”

  “But your own grooms know better than to lay a hand on the owner’s granddaughter. These grooms don’t know you.”

  His hold on her unsettled her. He was keeping her far too close, and it made her nervous. Especially with him dressed so casually. His black shirt was open at the throat, exposing a little dusting of chest hair.

  “They would have treated me better than you, I dare say,” she retorted with a tilt of her chin. “Please let go of me.”

  “So you can spy on me some more?” he drawled.

  “I was not spying.”

  “Then you had some other reason for coming in here,” he said, his voice deepening. “Perhaps some reason more . . . personal.”

  “Personal?” she squeaked.

  His gaze played over her, growing more heated. “Perhaps you were looking for me.”

  Oh, but he was a cocky one. “Certainly not. Why would I look for you here, of all places?”

  “Because the footmen undoubtedly told you that I often spend my mornings here.” His voice was husky now, and his hands moved up and down her arms, warming them, making her heart race unaccountably.

  “I didn’t ask the footmen . . . I mean, I asked them about the sta—The maze, but I . . .” She was babbling like some smitten schoolgirl, for pity’s sake. “I didn’t know you were here,” she finished lamely. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Judging from your blush, I’m not being ridiculous at all,” he murmured.

  Her hand went to her cheek. Was she blushing? Good gracious, she was. “I am not one of those tarts who swoons at your every word, you know.”

  “It’s not the words they swoon at.” He encircled her waist and pulled her even closer. “And though you’re not the least bit a tart, that doesn’t mean you’re not curious about me.”

  Her breath refused to obey her commands, quickening feverishly. She should be slapping him, shoving him away. “That’s absurd. How could I possibly be curious about a . . . a scoundrel with your reputation?”

  “Because you want to know how I got that reputation. If it’s deserved. If I really do make women ‘swoon’ in my bed.”

  Her jaw dropped. He should not be saying things like that to her. And she should definitely not be letting them make her pulse race and her hands grow clammy. What was wrong with her?

  “I tell you what,” he rasped, bending his head toward her. “Why don’t I satisfy a bit of your curiosity?” He covered her mouth with his.

  She froze at the intimate assault. How appalling. How unacceptable.

  How intoxicating. His lips moved over hers with the surety of a man who’d kissed many women. An instant thrill swept down her spine that did the most delicious things to her insides.

  She could feel her mouth soften beneath his, feel her breath stutter against his lips, feel her blood race rampantly through her veins. This was wrong, so wrong. And it felt completely and utterly right.

  “Ah, vixen,” he whispered against her lips. “What a kissable mouth you have.”

  Did she? No man had ever kissed her before.

  “Lord Gabriel, I really don’t think—”

  “Gabe,” he murmured. “My friends call me Gabe.”

  “I’m not your friend.”

  “You’re right. You’re something more . . . intimate. So call me Gabriel. Hardly anyone does. Or better yet, call me ‘darling.’ No one ever calls me that, sweetheart.” Before she could balk at that effrontery, he took her lips again.

  But this time his lips were firmer, hotter. He pulled her flush against him and opened his mouth over hers, coaxing it open so he could plunge his tongue inside.

  Lord have mercy on her soul. What was that? She’d never imagined . . .

  It was glorious. He coaxed her tongue to twine with his, then he played with it. Oh, how he played. His mouth consumed hers, and his tongue drove inside her with slow, silky strokes that made her want things, need things she didn’t understand.

  Before she knew it, he’d pressed her against the wall between two stalls, his lips seducing hers. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

  She laid her hands on his chest, meaning to push him back, but her fingers curled themselves into his waistcoat like little traitors.

  Within moments, the whole world narrowed to this man with his mouth on hers and his hands roaming up and down her ribs and her waist, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts as they swept—

  A sudden sharp pain in her arm made her cry out against his mouth and shove him away. “What the dickens?”

  “Jacky Boy!” he growled at the pony that had just nipped her. “None of that!”

  She turned her head to look at the pony whose lips were drawn back to show his teeth. If ever a beast could be said to glare, this one was doing so.

  Gabriel examined her arm with great concern. Seeing that the bite hadn’t even cut through the cloth, he turned to the pony. “You know better, lad,” he scolded. “You can’t go around biting ladies.”

  The pony nudged Gabriel with his head, shoving in between them as if to separate them.

  Stifling a laugh, Virginia moved out of range. Gabriel might call it “lad,” but the aging pony was clearly well beyond its prime. The poor thing probably had only a few more years left in him. And a decided attachment to his owner.

  Thank heaven. She’d been on the verge of doing goodness knows what.

  “I’m sorry,” Gabriel said. “Jacky Boy was the first mount I ever owned, so he tends to be possessive. He’s jealous of anyone I show attention to. He’s already annoyed by Flying Jane’s arrival in the stable, so he took it out on you.”

  “He has no reason to be jealous of me,” she said.

  Gabriel’s eyes darkened as he came toward her. “He most certainly does.” His gaze swept down her body with such heat that her breathing quickened again. “But he’ll have to get used to it.”

  The intimation that they had some sort of future together alarmed her as nothing else had. She backed away, horrified that she’d gone so far with him.

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I am not taking up with my brother’s murderer.”

  His face turned to stone, but his eyes blazed with a heat that singed her. “Don’t you ever grow tired of that argument, Virginia?” he bit out, as if it took every ounce of his will not to throttle her. “I didn’t murder your brother. Murder implies intent. What happened was a tragic accident—”

  “That you brought on by taking advantage of him while he was drunk,” she countered. “Roger was too drunk to know what he did.”

  “When we raced, he was perfectly sober.”

  “That’s not what Poppy says.”

  “Your grandfather wasn’t there. He needs someone to blame, so he blames me. But that doesn’t mean he has a reason for it.”

  “He . . . he has no reason to lie about it, either.”

  “People deceive themselves sometimes.” He headed toward her again. “It’s better than facing the truth, that your brother—”

  “What the devil is going on here?” came her grandfather’s voice from the entrance.

  Gabriel halted. “Good morning, General,” he said, though he kept his eyes locked with hers. “Your granddaughter and I were just discussing a race.”

  As her grandfather drew himself up, she added hastily, “I came to the stables to see if I could get a glimpse of Gabriel’s . . . I-I mean, Lord Gabriel’s rig and horses, Poppy, and I found his lordship instead.”

  Might as well admit the truth. At least then, Gabriel wouldn’t persist in thinking she had come looking for him. Or worse, spying on his Thoroughbred to help Poppy gain an advantage for the St. Leger Stakes.

  “You have no business wandering the stables alone,” Poppy snapped
.

  “His lordship was just telling me the same thing. He was about to escort me back inside.”

  With a skeptical expression, her grandfather glanced from her to Gabriel. She prayed that he couldn’t tell she was lying. That he couldn’t tell she’d just been kissed senseless.

  At that moment, Mrs. Plumtree hobbled into the stable, then halted. Her gaze seemed to take in more than Poppy’s, for she fixed it on Virginia’s probably reddened mouth for so long that Virginia had to drop her eyes.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy,” she said. “The secret meetings have already begun.”

  Poppy stiffened and shot Mrs. Plumtree a baleful glance. Then he glowered at Gabriel. “All right. This is how it’s going to be. You two will have your race on Friday. Mrs. Plumtree and I will be there to make sure it’s done fairly and safely. Afterward—”

  “We will all come back to Halstead Hall for dinner,” Mrs. Plumtree put in. “What do you say, General? Wouldn’t that be a pleasant way to end the day?”

  “Aye,” he growled. “And a pleasant way to end our families’ association, too.”

  Virginia sucked in a breath. She didn’t dare reveal that after this race, she would either be racing Gabriel at Turnham Green or he would be courting her. If Poppy heard that, he would lock her up in her room and throw away the key.

  “Sounds like an excellent plan to me,” Gabriel drawled.

  “Yes,” she agreed. Once the race was over, she and Gabriel could manage the rest of their bargain more discreetly.

  “Very well.” Poppy held out his arm. “Come, my girl, we’re going home.”

  She took his arm, not daring to look at Gabriel for fear of what she might see in his eyes. And what it might make her feel.

  “Miss Waverly!” Gabriel called after her.

  She stopped to look back. “Yes?”

  His gaze locked with hers. “I meant what I said about Jacky Boy. He has every reason to be upset. Because he knows I won’t give up.”

  She swallowed hard. She wasn’t quite as horrified as she should be by his reminder. Plague take him.

  “Persistence isn’t always enough, sir,” she said, then walked out with her grandfather.

  As they headed for the other stable, where their carriage now sat waiting, Poppy said, “What was that all about?”

  “We discussed his lordship’s training methods for his horses,” she lied. “I was giving him some pointers.”

  Poppy snorted. “I hardly think Sharpe needs any pointers.”

  No, he knew exactly what he was doing—with horses and women. More was the pity.

  “Is there something going on between you and Sharpe that you’re not telling me?” Poppy asked.

  She caught her breath. “Why would you say that?”

  “It’s been pointed out to me that young women can sometimes be different than they appear.”

  Lord, much as she wanted Poppy to see her for what she was, she didn’t want him to see the part of her that had recklessly enjoyed kissing Gabriel. “I’m always your lambkin, Poppy. You needn’t worry about that.” It was an evasive answer, but she couldn’t bear lying to him.

  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

  Gabe 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 g
one 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.