Page 28 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

B ran had come through his fair share of experiences on the grand stage of life, but nothing had prepared him for the Race of the Century at Epsom Downs.

The only event he’d been part of on a similar scale was the Battle of Waterloo.

And this, thankfully, wasn’t that.

While victory and defeat played out today, the Race of the Century was the madness of mindless bloodlust transmuted into the madness of fierce competition.

As he accepted congratulations from every direction, no few slaps on the back, and general greetings welcoming him back into the fold of the ton after his decade-long absence, he signaled a groom to lead Radish to his stall.

Now that the Thoroughbred was cooled down, he needed quiet.

His step being slower than that of those who wished to congratulate him, it was Bran’s lot to endure as he followed. More annoyance, than pain.

Not twenty yards away, the Duke and Duchess of Rakesley came into view. He supposed he should congratulate the winner. “Rakesley,” he called out, gaining both the duke and duchess’s attention. “Superbly done on a well-executed race.”

The smile that curved Rakesley’s mouth hinted at an understanding of what Bran left unspoken.

Hannibal had left no doubt that he was a spectacular horse, but all five competitors were spectacular horses.

What won a race like The Race of the Century were both the tangibles and intangibles.

The conformation of the Thoroughbred. Their experience on the turf.

The grit of personality. Knowing the strengths and weaknesses of the horse and capitalizing on both.

The skill and wiliness of the jockey. Then the race plan executed to perfection.

“Liam is a once-in-a-generation talent,” said the duchess with the unwavering certainty of a proud sister.

“Twice in a generation,” said Rakesley.

Gemma nodded toward her brother in the distance.

Long-limbed and lean in the way of young men, Liam Cassidy was tall for a jockey, bucking the trend of jockeys growing smaller and smaller in stature.

A handsome man, too, with his sun-streaked auburn hair and hazel eyes, like his sister’s.

But it was that lopsided smile that hinted at a gameness for anything that attracted ladies like bees to honey.

Handsome, talented, and cocksure—didn’t Liam Cassidy know it?

After today, London would be his oyster.

“You’ll see,” continued the duchess. “The name Liam Cassidy will make the history books.”

Bran agreed.

“It was a proper contest on the turf, though, wasn’t it,” said Rakesley. His eyes yet held the light of combat.

It was a glint Bran had beheld on many a battlefield.

And so, too, did the blood in his own veins still fizz from the raw thrill. “It was destined to be so.”

“Aye,” said Rakesley. “All five were winners until today.”

“The thing about winners,” said the duchess, “they get a taste for winning, don’t they? So, it’s only natural they expect to keep doing so.”

A very sensible approach to a sport that thrived on heated impetuousness and vast sums of money cast to the winds of chance, based on little more than whim or gut feeling.

“But today,” said Rakesley, with a smile that had tipped well into the arrogant, “there could be but one winner.”

The duchess met her duke’s eyes. “ You , of course.”

Rakesley reached his arm about her rounded waist. “In the one way that matters.”

A well-made match, these two.

Bran’s mouth was forming words of farewell—Rakesley and his duchess looked in need of a room that could afford them privacy—when a voice rang out, “Ah, there you are, brother!”

He froze and most likely winced.

He had only himself to blame. He should have followed instinct, rather than good sportsmanship, and made his way straight to the stables. If he had done, he would have avoided this .

No choice left to him, he turned and admitted his brother into their small group. “Stoke.”

Stoke didn’t miss a beat. “What a race,” he said. “But didn’t get there in the end, did you?” He never skipped an opportunity to needle Bran—then drive it in a little deeper, for good measure. “Of course, there’s no defeating the Duke of Rakesley, is there?”

Bran’s stomach took a turn toward the nauseous. His brother’s obsequiousness ever had that effect.

“Stoke,” said Rakesley in greeting, the glint in his eye hard and tone of his voice ice.

Well, there was no mistaking it for anyone who wasn’t Stoke.

His chest puffed and almost stood out farther than his belly, which had gone soft from years of dissolution.

Rakesley turned toward Bran. “I must be going?—”

“To prepare for your house party at Somerton, then?” Stoke cut in.

Rakesley’s brow lifted. Bran might’ve groaned. Stoke had a special talent for making a fool of himself.

A beat of awkward silence ticked past.

Stoke wasn’t finished. “A house party for the participants, no?” And he went on. “One would assume their families are invited, as well?”

Ah.

Stoke had arrived at his purpose—as grubbing and brazen as it was.

“Of course,” said Rakesley, having recovered his usual unflappability, “if you can convince your brother to come, you are most welcome to join us, too.”

Stoke’s brow dug trenches into his forehead. It might never recover its former relative smoothness. “You refused the Duke of Rakesley, Bran?”

“Rather, he never officially accepted,” the duchess cut in.

Her words did nothing to soothe Stoke. “Bran, is this true?”

Bran shrugged. The thing was, he hadn’t given a toss about the house party when the invitation had been issued weeks ago—and he still didn’t. “I’d forgotten about it.”

Stoke’s eyebrows reached comic heights as he went speechless. It was the rare occasion that one could render the Earl of Stoke incapable of spouting his usual nonsense.

“Of course,” said the duchess. “You were occupied with Radish’s preparations for today.”

While Bran appreciated the duchess’s grace, it wasn’t precisely the truth.

The truth was when he’d said he would think about it, he’d had no intention of attending. He’d only spoken words he’d known would nettle Artemis.

But now he found himself opening his mouth and saying, “I would be honored to attend.”

Stoke clasped his hands together with relief.

Rakesley’s cold smile reached his eyes. “Of course, you must bring Stoke, and do I remember you have a sister?”

Bran nodded. “Lady Gwyneth.”

Again, Stoke’s brow darkened. He made no bones about his annoyance with their sister. “She’s not yet out.” He spoke the words like he’d played a trump card.

The duchess gave a breezy laugh. “We’ll try to keep the scandals to a minimum, shall we?”

Bran met his brother directly in the eye. “Bring Gwyneth, Stoke.”

He didn’t say, Or don’t bother coming .

Stoke heard it, judging by his long-suffering sigh. “Of course.”

Here was an opportunity for Gwyneth. Bran could kick himself for not having seen it sooner. Rakesley’s house party would be the light introduction to society that could play a pivotal role for her season in the spring.

Stoke opened his mouth to emit one obsequious platitude or another, but Rakesley forestalled him. “My love,” he said to his wife, “you look peaked.”

In fact, the duchess looked the picture of radiant good health. Pregnancy agreed with her.

“Perhaps you need a lie-down?”

The two met eyes, and there was no mistaking the exchange of heat—or their need for that private room.

A few seconds later, it was only Bran and Stoke. His brother rounded on him. “Forgot an invitation from the Duke of Rakesley?” he demanded, incredulous. “How hard did you hit your head in Africa, anyway?”

Bran let the jibe glance off him. Stoke ever sought to diminish him. He had but one thing to say to his brother. “Don’t bother arriving at Somerton without Gwyneth.”

His troops had known well that blade of command in his voice.

Stoke’s reactive scoff rang hollow. He’d received the message. He pivoted on his heel and shouted out a greeting to a comrade in debauchery and disappeared into the swarming crowd.

Bran set off in the opposite direction toward the stables. Fifteen hard-won minutes later—were there no end to the congratulatory claps on the back?—he was in Radish’s stall and moving a brush across the Thoroughbred’s withers.

“It was a near thing today, though, wasn’t it,” he spoke in a soothing tone.

Radish might not have secured the top place in the history books, but he’d done himself, Bran, and Sir Abstrupus proud.

It was no small thing to have taken first at the St. Leger Stakes.

A win at The Race of the Century would have simply been the cherry on top of the trifle.

But Bran wasn’t a greedy man. The win at Doncaster had secured Gwyneth’s season in the spring. It was enough.

In a smooth and steady rhythm, he moved the brush across Radish’s gleaming coat. He’d always enjoyed grooming horses. It fastened a bond between man and animal, and further, provided rest for the mind.

Sometimes, however, grooming had the opposite effect and gave the mind too much room to roam, and soon Bran’s mind was wandering down a pathway that had become too familiar.

Artemis .

Had she watched the race? Was she even in attendance?

He should appreciate that she’d kept her word and left by morning after their night together.

But his wants and desires weren’t governed by good, well-thought-out sensibility.

Quite the opposite.

Still, that night felt like a bite—a taste—a whetting of appetite.

It was good she wasn’t here.

Because if she were, well, he would have her on the path to ravishment within a minute.

Movement on the other side of the stall door caught the edge of his eye.

His gaze cut right—and he froze.

Artemis.

Her cheeks flushed dark pink, a hesitant smile hovering about her mouth, she looked so fresh and so beautiful in her saffron riding habit, his lungs forgot how to breathe.

Oh, but she was sunshine.

A weight lifted inside him.

He’d noticed something about this particular weight.

It only eased when she was near.

He’d never thought to feel like a green young man again—and certainly not about Lady Artemis Keating—but here he was.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“Radish didn’t win.”

She gave a shrug. She understood as well as he that Radish’s place in the Race of the Century was the victory.

He set the brush down, placed a blanket on Radish’s back, and saw the horse settled. Then he moved forward, erasing the distance between him and Artemis. When he reached the stall door, he lifted the latch.

Now, no barriers stood between him and what he wanted— her .

Hesitation shone in her eyes. “I have something I think I must tell you.”

“Can it wait?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, barely recognizable.

“For what?”

He reached out and threaded his fingers through hers and led her down the central aisle of the stable. The tack room was dark, and most importantly, empty. He shut the door behind them and wedged a chair beneath the handle.

Eyes gone opaque with budding desire, she waited for his answer.

“ This. ”

He reached out and cupped the nape of her neck and drew her to him.

He’d moved through the last minute of his life almost without conscious thought. First, he’d only wanted to touch her, now to kiss her.

But he was being disingenuous.

What he wanted—what he absolutely, desperately wanted—was to ravish her.

And from the catch of her breath and the excited light in her eyes and the sway of her body into his, he understood that what she absolutely, desperately wanted was to be ravished.