Page 11 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

Sir Abstrupus clasped his hands together with undiluted delight. “Oh, I do love it when there’s a tie to be broken.”

The old scoundrel was enjoying himself entirely too much.

As it seemed all Lord Branwell would do for what remained of the night was scowl and growl, Artemis decided it was up to her to ask, “And for our third feat?” No mistaking the note of distrust in her voice.

A twinkle in his eye, Sir Abstrupus dug into his waistcoat pocket.

His forefinger and thumb emerged holding a coin.

“Are you aware the game of coin-flipping dates all the way back to the ancient Romans?” He held what appeared to be a genuine Roman coin to flickering torchlight.

“They called it ‘ship or head.’ A ship is on one side and the emperor’s head is on the other. ”

Artemis’s stomach turned over.

A coin flip.

Her sweet victory from a minute ago turned to dust in her mouth. Now, she and Lord Branwell were again on level ground. Either of them could win this contest.

“Couldn’t we have saved ourselves a bit of trouble and flipped a coin from the start?” she asked, equal parts incredulous and annoyed.

“Oh, but who doesn’t enjoy a bit of trouble from time to time?

” Sir Abstrupus’s self-satisfaction knew not the bounds of shame.

“Remember what I said about luck?” he continued.

“As you’re the lady in our midst, you get to call it.

” He pursed his mouth and narrowed his eyes, as if giving the matter further consideration.

“Unless you don’t prefer such treatment based solely upon your sex? ”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll call it.”

Sir Abstrupus chuckled. “Lady, it is.”

She wasn’t best pleased, but then neither was Lord Branwell, who was still scowling. At least, however, she possessed the edge—or illusion—of controlling her fate.

Sir Abstrupus tossed the coin into the air, and she called out, “Head!”

A coin never returned to earth so slowly. Over and over it flipped, catching snatches of golden torchlight with every revolution. Until at last it landed, and they all three crowded in to learn their fate.

Shining up at them was the worn image of a ship.

Lord Branwell, and therefore Sir Abstrupus, had won the toss.

Artemis squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. Why, oh why, had she accepted the invitation to this midnight supper? She’d known Sir Abstrupus was up to something.

Why?

She knew why .

The man beside her was why .

She opened her eyes to find her host beaming with unconcealed satisfaction. The approaching sunrise would have nothing on him for luminosity. Lord Branwell, however, looked less than delighted by his victory.

In fact, his scowl had further deepened.

The last ten years had certainly taught the man to scowl to great effect.

“Now,” said Sir Abstrupus. “As all combatants should do once the long, dark night of battle has concluded and the dawn begins to break across the horizon, you shall now shake hands.”

Sir Abstrupus was correct on one count—the sun was indeed beginning to brighten the sky in the east—but Artemis had her doubts about the second.

Before she could voice her reservations, Lord Branwell said— growled , “I’ve fought my fair share of battles, and never once have I shaken hands with the enemy after.”

Enemy.

He was referring to her .

“Humor an old man,” said Sir Abstrupus. “I’ve not many years left above ground.”

An awkward few seconds ticked past wherein Artemis and Lord Branwell remained rooted in place. “Oh, bother,” she said, and closed the distance between them in three quick strides. Her gaze lifted and found his inscrutable eyes upon her, wariness in those golden depths.

I’ve fought my fair share of battles.

What an incredible amount of life this man had lived these last ten years.

Battles fought and won.

Battles fought and lost.

He extended his hand. For all her bluster and hurry, Artemis seemed to have forgotten her purpose, which was to shake this man’s hand. Her gaze fell, and memory flooded through her. That hand—calloused, capable, masculine—had once known the secrets of her body. Did it still?

A slight tremble through to her fingertips, she slipped her hand into his. Utter shock traced through her—of skin against skin. His skin against her skin. Its warmth. Its vibrancy. This hand that held hers …

It yet knew her secrets.

Her gaze startled up and met his, her hand clasped in his, and still it remained—the wariness.

She snatched her hand back and the contact was gone—but not the effect of it.

She swallowed back sensation and memory and turned to Sir Abstrupus. “I’ll meet your trainer at the Grange’s practice track at noon.”

An awkward silence expanded through the air. She just caught the exchange of a look between Sir Abstrupus and Lord Branwell. A knot formed in her stomach. “What is it that I don’t know?”

And didn’t Sir Abstrupus have the look of a man who would delight in telling her as he addressed Lord Branwell. “Did you hear that?”

“What does Lord Branwell have to do with it?”

Now, it was she who was scowling.

“I’m Radish’s trainer.”

She gasped. “ You? ”

“Lord Branwell’s regiment of Light Dragoons was known for the best-trained horses in the cavalry,” said Sir Abstrupus. “And you’re looking at the reason why.”

Artemis let flabbergasted silence speak for her. Really, in the correct circumstances, it could speak volumes.

Lord Branwell offered her a bow. “I’ll see you at noon, Lady Artemis.” He hesitated. “Unless, of course, you choose not to come.”

Artemis snapped to. “Oh, I’ll be there.”

It was the goading she’d needed to ensure her presence. He looked as if he very much regretted saying it.

“Shall I have the carriage brought round to drive you home?” Sir Abstrupus was all too happy to play the generous host now that he’d gotten his way.

“I’ll walk,” she tossed over her shoulder as she set her legs in motion and did exactly that.

With the night sky turning to day in the east, the forward march of her feet homeward was the only steadying force in her life at the moment. Now that she’d gained a bit of distance from the night, utter disbelief created a sort of fog in her brain, depriving her of clarity.

Well, one thing was clear.

Within the space of a few hours, her life had gone arse over head.

Yet the sequence of how she’d arrived at this topsy-turvy reality was almost mundane.

Lord Branwell Mallory was a guest of Sir Abstrupus.

She and Sir Abstrupus were neighbors.

When Sir Abstrupus had a party, he always invited Artemis. It was only natural to invite his neighbors.

It was further only natural that his guest would attend.

The point was she had known she would have to see Lord Branwell again.

She’d devoted hours to making her peace with the fact.

And she’d been almost, even mostly, successful.

In fact, she’d made an impressive amount of progress in the scant time given.

But now, after having gotten a good look at Lord Branwell—the extent of his injuries … the lame leg … the scarred face … the man he was today—and then having competed against him, and further, lost to him, he was completely entwined with her life.

It was within those details that clarity became murky, and she lost the thread. How had this happened?

The whim of Sir Abstrupus was the easy answer.

But it wasn’t the truest one.

The truth was, a force existed between her and Lord Branwell. It had been there from the moment they’d met in her brother’s stables …

It had inspired all that had come after, too—and neither betrayal nor ten years apart was enough to fully extinguish it.

He understood it, too.

The knowledge had shone within his eyes when they’d shaken hands.

Her palm still tingled.

Once, she hadn’t been able to get enough of the feel of his rough, masculine hands upon her.

And now she remembered.

But really, she’d never forgotten.