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in the saddle, her sides burning oddly from the heat of his touch. She glanced at his gloveless hands, which were now curled into tight fists.
    She pulled her gaze to his eyes, and for one silent moment, they stared at each other. A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. That would probably be the last man’s touch she ever felt. Never mind it, she snapped at herself. She didn’t care.
    “Shall we race?” he asked, whipping out his gloves and tugging them on.
    She nodded her agreement but behind them, His Grace spoke up. “My wife has informed me she will lock the bedchamber door to me if I dare to race another lady when I refused to allow her to race today, so I’m afraid I’ll have to bow out.”
    Jemma nodded. Sophia had not told her she was going to do that, but it didn’t matter. As long as she had someone to race.
    Lord Harthorne glanced up at her. “It appears it’s just the two of us. Is that acceptable to you?”
    “For the race, it is.” Heaven above. Why was she being so prickly with him?
    He frowned. “Naturally, I was referring to the race. I didn’t mean to raise your hackles, Katherina .”
    She snorted. “I suppose that would make you Petruchio.”
    “Certainly not. We are not involved in a courtship, and I’d never dream of trying to tame you.”
    She scowled at him, knowing good and well he’d been referring to the woman in The Taming of the Shrew . “Then you’re simply calling me a shrew.”
    “You said it,” he replied with a chuckle, “not I.”
    “Well, this shrew will easily defeat you.” With that, she tapped on Fairfax’s flanks and moved past Lord Harthorne to the start line.
    Within seconds, he was beside her on his own gleaming stallion with a nice crowd of the ton looking on to witness her unspeakable lack of decorum. It was perfect. Sophia quickly laid out the race path—over the knoll, around the far tree and back—and with a large grin on her face, she raised her white handkerchief in the air and then dropped it, signaling the beginning of the race.
    Before Jemma even tapped Fairfax’s flanks, Lord Harthorne left her in a haze of dust. She gasped and nudged Fairfax to go. The horse took off, but Lord Harthorne was already ten paces ahead. As the wind whipped Jemma’s hair against her face, she leaned low over Fairfax and urged the horse to go. “Please, girl,” she whispered, as the horse’s hooves thundered against the ground and Jemma’s body vibrated with the contact. “I cannot lose my pin money. I need it, you see.”
    Fairfax lifted her head, as if to say, Yes , then dropped it down once again before seeming to double her speed. They raced over the grassy knoll and around the tree they had designated. Though Jemma was closing the distance, her gut told her it was not going to be enough. Lord Harthorne was a superb rider. He glanced back at her before suddenly raising himself, and with the slightest movement only someone racing him would notice, he pulled back on his reins and slowed his horse just enough that she knew she could close the distance.
    Why was he doing that? He was letting her win! She urged Fairfax faster, and as she passed Lord Harthorne, he winked at her. It so startled her that nearly lost control of the horse. She crossed the finish line with a halfhearted victory whoop for show before moving past the onlookers to allow Fairfax to cool. Soon, Lord Harthorne was beside her, his stallion panting.
    She turned in the saddle toward him. “You let me win.”
    He nodded. “I’m too much of a gentleman to take money from a lady.” She felt her brow wrinkle, and he chortled. “I’m sorry if that offends you.”
    She pulled Fairfax to a stop while gazing at Lord Harthorne. His kind gesture almost made her question her belief that there was no such thing as a gentleman. Almost. But not quite. “A true gentleman is a thing of fairy tales, myths, and poems.”
    “I rather like poems,” he said with a grin. “And I beg to differ.”
    “Of