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The box went dead silent, Gem’s words settling into the air and making themselves uncomfortable. Wide-eyed and befuddled, Wilson and Cal stared at the new stable lad. Even Hannibal quieted.
Heat crept through Gemma, and she stifled a groan. That would be her flushing crimson from head to toe. The curse of the red of hair.
Why, oh,whyhad she spoken? She was here to keep her pert mouth shut, observe, and report back to Deverill. That was all. Now she was sure to lose a position she’d been lucky to get in the first place.
And Rakesley… The duke regarded her with a cocked eyebrow. “What is your name?” He didn’t seem particularly offended, rather mildly taken aback.
“Erm, Gem,” she said as gruffly as possible.
“Gem, this is Hannibal, and he’s a recent acquisition. It was only after he arrived at Somerton that we were able to apprehend the particularities of his nature,” he said. “No horse raised from birth at Somerton behaves so.”
This was a clear point of pride for the duke.
Gemma nodded, chastened, but her attention remained fixed on Hannibal. He was filled with fear and lashing out. This horse was suffering.
Instinctively, she stepped into the box.
“Watch yourself, lad,” said Wilson in a warning voice.
She held out her hand to Cal. “I’ll take that curry comb.”
Wilson opened his mouth again, and Rakesley gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. “I must caution you about approaching the beast.”
“He isn’t a beast,” returned Gemma. “He’s a horse in pain.”
“In the weeks we’ve had him, he’s only let me near,” said Rakesley without a return of emotion. “Which is the problem.”
“Why is that a problem beyond the obvious one that he’s in crisis?” Gemma asked without thinking.
She was the by-blow of an earl, not a true daughter—not a lady. She didn’t have the right to be questioning a duke.
And yet this duke didn’t appear to mind.
Stables had a way of rendering all on a somewhat equal plane.
“Because I intend to race him.”
Gemma took another small step forward and left that fact in the back of her mind for future reference. For now, her concern lay with this animal—Hannibal—who showed no damage of the body, but rather of the mind.
Of the two, it was the latter wound that could be more debilitating. She’d seen it many times in various stables and racecourses around London.
She made a shushing sound as she approached, slow and careful, her hands held respectfully open before her. “See?” she said low. “Nothing to fear here.”
Warily, Hannibal allowed her into his space until she was close enough to reach out and lay a hand on his withers. But she didn’t—not yet. “What was done to you, my friend?”
She always addressed horses as her friends. They could sense her sincerity and respect. They knew her as a friend.
She slipped the curry comb into a pocket. She wouldn’t use it now. Her only goal for the moment was for Hannibal to allow her to rest her hand on him. That was the place to start. Perhaps in his entire life no one had ever laid a kind or comforting hand on this animal. He needed to know he was safe.
Calmly, she stood inches from him, whispering bits of nothing, until he angled his head toward her. Gemma went still. The moment could go either way. He could bite her shoulder and let her know he wasn’t having it—or he could nudge her arm, let her know what she was doing was all right.
Which was what he did.
Gently, she placed her palm on the strong bend of his neck, feeling the heat and banked strength through his glistening ebony coat, allowing a connection to form between them at this single point of contact. Her hand moved, slowly stroking along the muscular curve. “In your chest beats a good, brave heart, doesn’t it, my friend?”
She felt the last bit of tension ease from Hannibal and took the comb from her pocket. She placed it on his withers, lightly swiping it across his coat, which would be lustrous once she finished grooming him—ifhe allowed her to groom him.
All eyes, silent and observant, watched her finish currying and take the whisp to remove the dust raised by the curry comb. Then it was on to brush and linen cloth. It was a lengthy process, but everyone understood the necessity that every step was followed. This was the first step toward Hannibal being healed. The other men in this box might not see it that way, but Gemma did.