Page 19 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

That was new. The Artemis he’d once known hadn’t been one for merely observing, but rather pitched herself into the thick of a conversation.

It wasn’t until Rakesley said, “Of course, you’re invited to the house party I’ll be hosting after the Race of the Century,” that Artemis’s brow crinkled and she visibly snapped to.

“The house party at Somerton?” she asked, her voice gone up a distressed octave.

“You know about the party, Artemis,” returned Rakesley, dismissive, his attention fixed on Bran.

“It will be a small gathering for the competitors of the Race of the Century. Their families, too, if you want to bring—” His brow furrowed as if he’d only now remembered Bran’s family included the Earl of Stoke.

“Oh, yes, you must join us,” said the duchess, instinctively smoothing over the suddenly awkward moment.

Artemis shot her sister-in-law a look of utter betrayal. “But …” All eyes waited for her to continue. “But I’m sure Lord Branwell will be busy with other, erm , concerns.”

Bran saw what she was doing.

She was willing him to say no .

She’d expected a clean break from Lord Branwell Mallory. If it wasn’t to be today, then certainly after the Race of the Century.

But here was the thing—Bran was irritated by her irritation.

Which was why, for some unfathomable reason, he was going against sound reason and saying, “I shall consider it, Your Grace.”

The bow was perhaps a step too far, but he sensed that would irritate Artemis, too.

“Rake will do.” Rakesley wasn’t the sort of duke to be flattered by even the faintest whiff of obsequiousness.

This path Bran now found himself on led not only to the Race of the Century, but beyond it, too. And the feeling it stirred within him was too new and undefined and fragile to grab hold of for fear of crushing it before it could take form, so he wouldn’t.

But if pressed to define it, he would say, though it didn’t yet hold form, it did hold the faint scent of new beginnings.

“Now, if you will excuse me,” he said. “I must see to a few matters. Tomorrow will be an early morning.”

“Back to the Roost?” asked Rake.

Bran shook his head. “We have two hundred miles to cover and only three weeks until the Race of the Century.”

The duchess’s brow crinkled with concern. “Really, that’s a long walk in a short time for Radish to be race-ready.”

“Radish won’t be walking.”

Trenches dug into Artemis’s forehead. “Surely, you won’t be riding him.”

Bran saw that he wouldn’t be exiting without an explanation. “Sir Abstrupus has had a special carriage constructed for Radish’s transport.”

Rakesley’s head cocked to the side. “A horse carriage?”

“More of a large caravan that a team of four will pull south to Epsom Downs.”

An impressed little laugh escaped the duchess. “That’s ingenious.”

“And it holds?” asked Rakesley, his skepticism fading fast. It wouldn’t be long before the duke had one such caravan constructed for the transport of his own Thoroughbreds.

Bran nodded. “So far, it has.”

“How long will it take?”

“We’re hoping for twenty-five miles a day.”

Rakesley did a quick calculation. “Eight days?”

“Thereabouts, barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

With that, Bran offered his farewell to the duchess, nodded at Rakesley, and ignored Artemis’s glare as he turned on his heel and made his— slow …

hitching —way toward the stables. He’d told no lies.

He needed to talk through the ride with Lafferty, consult with his head groom about Radish’s transport logistics for the next eight days, and see that Radish was being tended and feeling settled.

But mostly, he’d needed to put some distance between himself and Artemis.

She had questions, her eyes told him.

Well, too bad.

After having endured his thousandth congratulatory slap on the shoulder, he’d just reached the stables when he heard a voice at his back— “Bran!” —its familiarity cutting through the din of the crowd.

Only one woman presently at Doncaster would call him by his given name.

He was tempted to ignore her and keep walking.

But he knew a futile effort when he encountered one.

When Artemis had something to say, she would say it.

He pivoted and got a good long look at her flushed cheeks and dark eyes bright from exertion. She’d been running. “The bargain,” she said, the two words slightly breathless.

He crossed his arms over his chest and contemplated her. “With Sir Abstrupus?”

She nodded.

“What about it?” he asked. Whatever it was she was getting at, he was certain he wouldn’t like it.

She drew herself up to her fullest height, gathering herself within a fortress of righteousness. “The terms aren’t fulfilled.”

Bran felt his brow lift. “I believe they are.”

“But Radish won,” she said, certainty tipping into smugness. “So, he will run again.”

“And?” He knew what she was getting at, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for her.

“And I have rights.”

“ Rights? ”

“To observe his training.”

A feeling pulsed through Bran.

A feeling that had a corner of his mouth wanting to curve upward.

A feeling that was wrong, wrong, wrong .

A feeling that was very much like …

Pleasure.

Her clear sense of righteousness and assurance didn’t falter. “I shall be accompanying Radish south.”

“Our caravan departs tomorrow at dawn,” he said. “You can simply up and leave the Grange?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll catch you on the road in a few days.”

She’d thought this through, her ready answer told him.

Then she pivoted on her heel and, with her stride sure, disappeared into the crowd—leaving him no opportunity for refusal.

But even if she’d stayed, would he have done?

For here was what was clear—she’d come after him.

Whatever it was between them, she couldn’t leave it, either.

Magnets.

For ten years, they’d had large bodies of water and continents between them, giving the impression the pull between them had diminished and disappeared.

Hope against hope was all it had been.

He and Artemis were far from finished with each other, that was clear.

Yet where could it possibly lead? Nowhere safe, of that he was certain.