Page 10 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER FIVE

B last.

Bran hadn’t wanted to arm Sir Abstrupus with that information.

From the firm, annoyed set of Lady Artemis’s mouth, she hadn’t either.

Sir Abstrupus’s chest puffed with self-importance.

“Though Lord Branwell’s circle lacks much to be desired as far as geometric principles go—poor Pythagoras would be much disappointed, I fear—I declare him the victor of the first feat.

” His gaze shifted. “Lady Artemis, your sad effort is an astonishing disappointment. Let’s hope for better in the next feat, shall we? ”

Bright crimson spots of umbrage dotted Lady Artemis’s cheeks, as the set of her mouth shifted from merely firm and annoyed into the thunderous, possibly murderous.

“Now if you’ll follow me, it’s on to our next contest we march.” Sir Abstrupus was positively giddy.

With impressive timing, the pair of footmen who stood sentry at the double doors that led onto the terrace grabbed the brass handles and swung the doors wide on silent hinges. Sir Abstrupus leading the way, Lady Artemis followed, with Bran bringing up the rear with his slow, hitching step.

Beneath crisp night air, he reached the stone balustrade and found himself reluctantly impressed by the sight before him.

Just as the celestial porch had been prepared for their first feat, so had the formal gardens been made ready for the second.

A central aisle leading from the base of the terrace steps had been created, with evenly spaced lanterns to either side that extended across the lawn toward a tiered fountain, tinkling with gentle water music.

Sir Abstrupus must have been planning it for months. As Bran had only been here for a week, it did beg a question.

Exactly how many chess moves was Sir Abstrupus ahead of everyone else, anyway?

A question for another time.

Right now, Bran had a second feat to win.

Close-clipped turf springy beneath his feet, he made his way down the central aisle toward two tables arranged side by side before the fountain. Their surfaces were empty save one object on each—a single sheet of paper.

Lady Artemis shot him a questioning glance.

He knew he should ignore it.

He shrugged—producing an immediate frown from her.

A possibility he didn’t much like occurred to him, producing a frown of his own.

He and Lady Artemis were in this together.

He and this woman hadn’t been in anything together in ten years.

His frown deepened.

Sir Abstrupus cleared his throat. “I suppose you’ve heard of Sir George Cayley?”

The name was vaguely familiar.

“Oh,” said Lady Artemis, her mouth widening into a smile.

Bran had forgotten this—the infectious power of a Lady-Artemis smile. Simply, when she smiled, the world became a brighter place, even in the deep, small hours of night.

Actually, he hadn’t forgotten.

“Rake was mildly obsessed with his discoveries one summer,” she said. “Every morning at breakfast and every evening at supper, he read aloud from Cayley’s On Aerial Navigation .”

In this contest, the advantage would go to Lady Artemis.

That much was clear.

Somehow, Sir Abstrupus managed to look both pleased and mildly perturbed. “Then you are acquainted with his ideas about flying machines.”

Lady Artemis looked rather satisfied with herself when she replied. “I am.”

“Perhaps you would spare an explanation for the uninformed,” said Bran, dry as the desert.

Sir Abstrupus tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat in the manner of a man preparing to expound at length.

“As we don’t have all night to read a three-part treatise, what applies to you, Lord Branwell, is that Cayley put forth the idea of a flying machine.

” He let that extraordinary concept settle into the air for a moment.

“Think of a bird with its wings extended, floating on the air. But the bird is, in fact, heavier than air, so how does it achieve this marvelous feat? Well, Cayley has some theories about that. Without getting into the weedy details, he found it has to do with weight distribution and a concept involving lift, drag, and thrust.”

Once it became apparent Sir Abstrupus had finished, Bran was the first to break the silence. “What has that to do with us?”

He’d dreaded the answer, even as he’d asked the question. A sense of foreboding precipitated by the smugness that now tinged Lady Artemis’s smile.

“Oh, his principles very much apply to you,” returned Sir Abstrupus. “You’re going to each construct a flying machine from the paper before you—or a glider, rather.”

Bran glanced down at the table. “From a single sheet?”

“That’s all you shall need.”

Doubt stirred through the air.

“Then once your gliders are finished, they will be tested to see whose flies farthest.”

On that final note, Sir Abstrupus took a seat in the favorite leather armchair that he’d had transported into the garden and steepled his fingers before him.

Bran considered the white rectangle of paper.

He’d never held an ounce of interest in the precepts or possibilities of flight, even for all his blue-sky gazing.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Artemis bend a corner of her paper and make a precise fold, skating her thumbnail along the edge to sharpen the crease.

Lady Artemis might know what she was doing.

Rake was mildly obsessed with his discoveries for an entire summer.

From what he knew of the Duke of Rakesley, he did nothing by half measures.

There lay her advantage.

She’d been a little sister nipping at the heels of an adored older brother—constructing paper gliders in his shadow.

He remembered that about her.

She adored her brother.

All Bran’s older brother had introduced him to was the estate manager’s homemade rotgut.

In terms of life skills, Lady Artemis had the advantage of him in this moment.

She completed another precise fold.

Bran wouldn’t look. That would be cheating, and he would rather sink into a hole in the ground than cheat off Lady Artemis. He attempted to hold the image of a bird in full extended flight in his mind’s eye and made a fold. It was straight, if angled a bit awkwardly.

In for a penny … He made another fold on the opposite side of the paper—a mirror of the first. After all, didn’t birds have two wings?

Still, it was a flat sheet of paper. It needed a fold in the middle, and a few more folds to give the effect of wings. He attempted to ignore the busy pair of feminine hands to his left and the amused cornflower-blue eyes straight ahead.

When he finished, the sheet of paper held the appearance of something that might fly—if it lucked upon a gust of wind. Warily, he allowed his gaze to steal left and take in Lady Artemis’s glider.

He could’ve groaned.

Her glider was a sleek, elegant creation of neat folds and precise lines. George Cayley himself could have constructed it. His gaze narrowed. “Is that a bulge in the middle?”

Lady Artemis shrugged. “Cayley believes the heaviest portion should be set well below the wings. Center of gravity and all that. So, I placed a small stone in the center fold.”

Bran supposed she’d earned the smug little smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

Blast.

He was going to lose— badly .

“All finished?” asked Sir Abstrupus.

Lady Artemis nodded, her mood having recovered from her disaster of a circle.

Bran grunted a surly aye .

Oh, how far the mighty could fall.

A pair of footmen stepped from the shadows and took a glider each. Bran could only watch as they ascended the steps to the terrace and came to a stop behind the stone balustrade.

“Gliders at the ready,” Sir Abstrupus called out, lifting a white handkerchief into the air.

The footmen raised the gliders.

“You will have noticed,” said Sir Abstrupus, “these two footmen are twins. In the interest of fair play and science, of course. Fewer variables and all that.”

“I’m sure George Cayley would approve.” Lady Artemis’s voice dripped with irony.

Bran nearly snorted— nearly .

A snort would be another indicator of solidarity with the blasted woman.

And they were not allies.

Sir Abstrupus’s hand opened. As the white handkerchief fluttered to the ground, Bran watched long twin arms rear back, then release on an elegant, swift thrust.

Now would’ve been the ideal time for that gust of wind.

No such miracle occurred.

Lady Artemis’s glider sailed through the air on its maiden voyage as if paper were meant to fly— smooth … graceful … interminable . It showed no intention of touching earth ever again.

Bran’s glider … Well, it did achieve a single second of glory based solely on the forward momentum provided by the footman’s long arm. The next second, it stalled mid-air and fell to earth with a papery, anticlimactic thud.

Meanwhile, Lady Artemis’s glider yet flew on—over their heads, past the fountain, toward the horizon that showed silver with the first suggestion of dawn.

Bran felt a pull. He should be making his way toward the sea right now for his morning swim.

Instead, he was involved in this—whatever this was.

With her —a woman he’d thought never to lay eyes on again.

As if she could sense his thoughts, she turned her endlessly deep brown gaze on him. “It appears we have a tie, Lord Branwell.”

That smug smile perched on her full, berry-red lips … It didn’t irritate him as much as it ought to—or at all, really. In fact, it incited an altogether different feeling inside him—one long dormant.

Unless, of course, one has no further use for one’s nethers.

A feeling snaked through him and coiled within— desire .

Though he hadn’t experienced it in two years, it wasn’t new. He’d experienced it before—with this woman.

He was on the verge of losing this contest tonight, but that wasn’t the worst trouble he was in.

The woman before him … She was the worst of his troubles.

Did Lord Branwell realize he was scowling at her?

Perhaps she had been gloating.

Still, it was one’s obligation to be a fair-minded sportsman and not glare at one’s opponent with the ferocity of a bull in the ring.