Page 26 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I t was possible half of London was presently at Epsom Downs.
And the other half that wasn’t yet here was presently clogging up the road trying their damnedest to get here.
This was the Race of the Century, after all.
No matter that most wouldn’t be able to get close enough to the track to watch the race itself.
For many, the race was almost beside the point.
The Race of the Century was a giant party.
That was what London was here for—to forget their toils and troubles for the day and to give themselves over to giddy, effervescent abandon.
Artemis found it impossible not to get just a little carried away as she stared out across the grounds from Prinny’s Stand, which had been reserved for the owners of the five competing Thoroughbreds and their guests.
She’d arrived with Rake and Gemma, but they were off seeing to Hannibal, who, even in a field of the best of the best, was favored to win today.
Hannibal was such a brute on the turf, and with Liam Cassidy, Gemma’s twin brother, riding him, he would be near impossible to beat. Of course, the four other Thoroughbreds competing today would have something to say about that—and one in particular, a deep, hidden part of her couldn’t help hoping.
The Dukes of Richmond and Acaster had taken a big risk by financing this race, and it had undeniably paid off.
Artemis had never seen Epsom Downs packed so densely with spectators, not even on Derby Day.
Further, until today, she couldn’t say she’d ever seen either man smile.
Of course, why wouldn’t they be smiling?
Whatever the outcome of the race, they had already won.
Richmond was happily pontificating to a group of lords about this or that matter of the turf.
Likely wind direction, a favorite gripe of his.
Given his rare smile, it must be a favorable breeze today.
As for the Duke of Acaster, Artemis didn’t know him well enough to speculate about the reasons for the satisfied glint in his clear blue eyes.
She suspected it had something to do with his recently gained wife—Celia, the Duchess of Acaster, a beauty of some renown and a woman who had been the previous Duchess of Acaster, too.
Her marriage to this younger, devastatingly handsome Duke of Acaster had excited no few breathless, scandalized whispers.
It was her filly, Light Skirt, who would run today, which explained her absence.
The duchess was as keen a Thoroughbred owner as any of the men in the sport, and she would be seeing that everything was proceeding smoothly with her filly.
Standing in conversation with Acaster were the Marquess and Marchioness of Ormonde.
Lady Ormonde was the sister of Acaster, and the marquess, whom Artemis had known since childhood, was Rake’s best friend.
While Artemis didn’t yet know Julian’s wife well, she was a confident woman who exuded good sense.
Given Julian’s tragic past, she looked to be the sort of woman he could depend upon. Artemis approved of the match.
It was Julian’s Filthy Habit who would race today. Rake and Julian had a friendly turf rivalry that, in all honesty, Rake probably took a bit more seriously than Julian, whose sense of self and competitiveness had always pointed more inward than outward.
Sir Abstrupus was the only owner not in attendance. Not even The Race of the Century could tempt him from his Roost. If Radish prevailed today, the man could ably do his crowing from his perch.
Artemis had brought a field glass with her.
To watch the race, of course.
And for another reason, too.
Even as she occasionally circulated through the stand and greeted friends and acquaintances, she’d been returning to the balcony every so often to scope out the turf goings-on—and to check for the arrival of Bran.
At this moment, he was with Radish and Lafferty at the Rubbing House for the weigh-in.
Her heart beat out the extra thud it always did at the mere thought of him.
These last several days and nights—especially the nights—she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. The feel of him … the smell of him … Her senses were still all lit up with him. A sensation both new and familiar.
That night, she’d hired a coach and hastily departed before she could return to his room and demand he ravish her again.
It was all her body had been craving since—to do it again.
And again.
Further, there was the air that had mostly cleared between them.
Mostly.
It was that fact that also had her fleeing in the night to London.
Physical need combined with the urge to confess might’ve proven too much.
But ever since she’d fled, a nasty, cloying feeling had been hanging about her like a dark cloud. Was she exercising caution? Or was she being deceitful?
For this yet unaired piece of the past was no small thing, and she wasn’t sure it was right or fair to reveal it to him. He’d been through so much, perhaps that part of their past should remain in the past.
Still, she must speak to Mother, who was due to return to London this evening—if only for her own understanding of past events.
At last, her field glass fulfilled its promise and located Bran, who was in conference with Lafferty. Even from this great distance, the sight of him wasn’t helping her intentions.
He was so handsome and, oh , commanding.
The combination lashed through her like lightning, searing her—melting her.
The fact was she hadn’t learned her lesson regarding Lord Branwell Mallory, at all.
“ Artemis! ”
The sound of her name issuing from a beloved feminine voice had her turning to greet her dearest friend, Lady Beatrix, who had recently become Mrs. Blake Deverill.
When she’d received the letter announcing Beatrix’s elopement with the infamous Lord Devil, Artemis hadn’t been at all surprised.
Though she didn’t know all the ins and outs of their romance, Beatrix was utterly besotted with the man, who Artemis suspected was actually very sweet.
Artemis took her friend into a long embrace.
Mother always rolled her eyes at the thoroughly unnecessary show of affection, and merely endured one of her daughter’s hugs.
But Artemis couldn’t help herself. She was a tactile person.
She always had been. When one felt affection, why couldn’t one show it?
Anyway, Beatrix never pulled away from her hugs.
With one last pat on the back, Artemis shifted and held Beatrix at arm’s length, looking her up and down. “I see France has treated you well.”
The smile that shone within Beatrix’s eyes was the stuff of Renaissance paintings, so beatific it was. “Oh, it’s such a lovely country, Artemis.”
“And the marriage?” asked Artemis. “I suppose it’s lovely, too?”
Beatrix’s smile transformed into one that held secrets that were only for her and her love. “It is.”
Sheer happiness nearly had Artemis taking her friend into another embrace.
A glimmer of concern entered Beatrix’s silvery gray eyes. “I must admit to some surprise at finding you here, Artemis.”
It was a leading observation—one she was meant to answer, Artemis understood.
Beatrix was referring to Dido’s death on the turf and how that loss had altered Artemis’s view of horse racing.
“My neighbor, Sir Abstrupus Bottomley, has a horse in the race,” she said. “I’ve been observing his training.”
The truth could be tricky when one was carefully parceling it out.
“Ah, Radish,” said Beatrix, her smile returning. “I’m glad I’ll get to see him in action. He wasn’t sent to Newmarket for training?”
“Actually—” Artemis cleared her suddenly tight throat. Half-truths never sat comfortably inside her. “He was trained locally in Yorkshire.”
Beatrix must have sensed something in Artemis’s tone, for her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Oh? By whom?”
Best just to be out with it. “Lord Branwell Mallory.”
Beatrix’s straight eyebrows crinkled together. “ Lord Branwell Mallory? ”
“You’ve heard of him?”
Beatrix’s brow released. “The same Lord Branwell Mallory you danced with at every ball during your come-out season?”
“The same.”
“Then, yes, I’ve heard of him.”
“Well, erm , he’s superbly talented,” said Artemis, before adding quickly, “With horses.”
A hot blush crept through her, and Beatrix’s head tipped subtly to the side. She knew that quizzical tilt of her friend’s head. Another question was coming—several, likely.
However, at that very moment, it just so happened that a small grouping of ladies came to stand beside them at the balcony railing.
Artemis was under no obligation to greet Mrs. Eloise Fairfax and the two young ladies with her—the Ladies Saskia and Viveca Calthorp, younger sisters of the Duke of Acaster and the Marchioness of Ormonde—but Mrs. Fairfax enjoyed the rare distinction of being universally liked by all in society.
So it wouldn’t be at all strange for Artemis to lift her hand in greeting and say, “Hello, Mrs. Fairfax, are you enjoying the day?”
So, she did.
And if the greeting rescued her from a conversational bind with Beatrix, well, then she would count her blessings.
“I am, indeed,” said Mrs. Fairfax, her smile reaching all the way to her luminous brown eyes. “One couldn’t ask for a more perfect September day for a race.”
Artemis felt Beatrix’s glare on the side of her face—and ignored it, as she turned toward Ladies Saskia and Viveca.
“I was so disappointed to have missed your come-out ball in July.” In truth, she hadn’t been all that sorry, as she’d been contentedly busy in Yorkshire, but it was the correct thing to say.
A society nicety that had been bred into her from birth by Mother.
“Are you enjoying being out in society?”
The sisters exchanged a look of silent communication that only sisters could—and these two in particular.
In short, they were rumored to be a handful.