Page 30 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY

MIVART’S TEA ROOM, LONDON, NEXT DAY

“ I cannot fathom why you insisted on that minty pistachio watered silk for an evening gown.” Mother lowered elegantly into the chair the footman had waiting for her. “It is decidedly not your color, Artemis.”

Artemis and Mother had spent the afternoon flitting from one Bond Street shop to another.

From an outsider’s view, it could have been characterized as a frenzy of shopping, but that would give the impression of chaos, and shopping with Mother was anything but that.

Her shopping excursions were a serious business and meticulously planned.

One would’ve thought she’d had her fill recently in Paris—one would be wrong.

“I chose it for one very simple reason,” said Artemis, as she settled into a chair across the table, while staff set about tea preparations. Mother had firm opinions about fashion and everything related to life in the ton —which happened to be her entire life. “I like the color.”

Mother dropped a lump of sugar into her tea and stirred, giving no impression that she’d heard her daughter.

Oh, but she had.

“But, Artemis,” she said, once she’d taken a delicate sip. “The question you never ask yourself is this—does the color like you back?”

Artemis tore off a crisp edge of scone. “True. I never ask that question.”

She knew the answer would needle beneath Mother’s skin, but she hadn’t spoken it for that purpose. She harbored the hope that, someday, Mother would simply nod and accept the answer.

“If you were light, like me,” continued Mother, “or possessed of blacker hair and creamier skin, that hue would sing on you. But …” She emitted a resigned sigh. “You’re dark like your father and Rake, which is desired for a man, but for a woman …” Another sigh.

In Mother’s eyes, this was one of the leading tragedies of her life—that her daughter resembled her in no way.

Possessed of translucent blue eyes and hair of the lightest blonde, Mother was fine-boned, even fragile-appearing—a diamond of the first water.

A rare beauty, Artemis had heard her described.

Even at the age of two-and-fifty, she was still the most beautiful woman in any room she entered.

With her height, fullness of figure, and dark looks, Artemis was her complete physical opposite.

“How was Paris?” asked Artemis, eager to move the topic of conversation away from herself.

“Oh, the same as ever.”

This was high praise from Mother.

“Are any exciting new fashion developments heading to England’s shores next year?”

Mother pursed her mouth, as if she were carefully forming her words before she allowed them to leave her mouth. “The waistlines are dropping.” A slight narrowing of her eyes had Artemis intuitively bracing herself. “You shall want to prepare yourself for tighter corsets.”

A laugh that refused to take any of this too seriously escaped Artemis. “How does one prepare oneself for tighter corsets?” she asked. “As implements of female torture, they are already quite effective.”

Her mother remained utterly serious. “By eating less, of course.”

“Mother, you already eat like a bird.”

Mother’s brow lifted a miniscule increment, which was as high as she ever lifted to keep her skin free of wrinkles. Mother had many such tricks for battling the hand of time.

Of a sudden, it struck Artemis.

You shall want to prepare yourself.

It hadn’t been you in the general sense.

“I might skip that fashion development.” She hoped that settled it, and they could move on to other topics.

Mother showed no such inclination. Her head tilted with assessment. “The style will suit you, Artemis.”

“Oh?” She smeared a hefty dollop of clotted cream onto her scone, followed by a swipe of strawberry jam and a too-large bite, but … oh … scrumptious .

“The width of your hips gives your waist the illusion of smallness.”

Through dense scone, a laugh sprang from Artemis. It was only with great difficulty and a sip of tea that she managed to swallow. “One must be grateful for the relativity of proportions, I suppose.”

Mother gave a rueful shake of the head. “As for me, Madame Boucher constructed a special underskirt for added volume.” She lifted empty hands, as if helpless in the face of the vicissitudes of the greater universe. “I’m too small.”

“Mother, you’re perfect as you are.”

The response had been born both of familiar instinct—and the truth.

Mother was perfect.

She took another sip of tea, then asked, “And you, my dear? Have you wearied of whatever it is you’ve been occupying yourself with in Yorkshire?”

“Do you mean my animal sanctuary?”

“If that’s what you’re calling it.”

“I’m considering hiring on an animal surgeon, actually.”

“Oh, my dear,” said Mother, on a little laugh that could delight a room. “You are the daughter of a duke, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aristocratic eccentric tendencies.” She flicked a dismissive wrist. “You’ll tire of it soon enough.”

Artemis understood Mother meant well, but … “This isn’t a passing childhood fancy. I’m twenty-nine years old.”

Mother remained utterly serene and unaffected. “How was yesterday’s horse race?” she asked. “So much gauche bombast, yes?”

“Hannibal won.”

“ Hannibal? ”

“Rake’s horse.”

Mother nodded. “Naturally,” she said, her view of the world not only intact, but reinforced. “Rake’s horse would win.”

Artemis happened to agree—which irritated her.

But she had no time for annoyance. She was here with an agenda, and now she saw an opportunity to broach the topic she’d intruded into Mother’s day of shopping to discuss. She cleared her throat. “Lord Branwell Mallory had a horse in the race.”

Mother’s teacup froze mid-air in a lift to her mouth. “A horse in the race? Lord Branwell?” Her skepticism was clear. “Rumor has it his family doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.”

“The horse— Radish —belongs to my neighbor, Sir Abstrupus Bottomley.”

Mother returned the teacup to the table, unsipped. “An eccentric, if England has one, I dare say.” Steely interest entered her eyes. “In what capacity did Lord Branwell attend the race?”

“He was Radish’s trainer.” Artemis didn’t understand why she should feel defensive, but she did. It was there in the tone of her voice for anyone to hear.

Mother certainly had, indicated her mildly lifted eyebrows. “ Well .”

That well was all she needed to say for Artemis to hear what she wasn’t saying.

In some way, a validation of ten years ago—confirmation of who Bran was.

Except that narrative wasn’t precisely true, was it?

So, what was it confirmation of?

Well.

Wasn’t she here to find out?

“You know, Artemis,” said Mother, “there is no good reason you haven’t yet become a duchess.”

Artemis’s brow furrowed at this apparent non sequitur. “There were no eligible dukes in my come-out season. Well, other than Rake, and he’s my brother.”

Mother shrugged a shoulder. “Different times.”

“I’m fairly certain no one has married their brother to maintain family appearances and bloodlines in a few millennia.”

Again, a shrug of Mother’s shoulder. She wasn’t convinced.

“Mother,” said Artemis, with renewed determination, “ten years ago.”

She flicked an indifferent wrist. “The past is such a bore, my dear.”

It was just at such a juncture—this slender bit of resistance—that Artemis would usually leave off and let Mother have her way.

Not today.

Today, she needed answers.

Today, she needed the truth.

“Why did the Earl of Stoke think I would be receptive to his proposal of marriage?”

“Why do young men think anything?” countered Mother. “They all believe themselves God’s gift to the world.”

Artemis saw she would get nowhere with this line of questioning. She needed to be more direct. “The twenty thousand pounds,” she began. “Bran didn’t demand it, and he didn’t take it.”

Her words were met with silence.

“But you offered it.”

Mother gave one of her long-suffering sighs. “What does it matter, Artemis?” she asked, as if she were speaking to a particularly trying child. “It’s all so long ago.”

“Did you offer it?” Artemis needed direct answers to direct questions.

Mother lifted empty hands. “I did.”

“And did he accept it?”

“Oh, Artemis.”

Again, usually Artemis would leave off here.

Not today.

Today, a fire had seized her—and a compulsion propelled her to walk directly into it.

“Did he?”

“As a matter of fact, he did not.”

Artemis pushed forward in her seat, her cheeks burning with conviction. “So, to be clear, he didn’t demand twenty thousand pounds to keep quiet about us.” A heavy beat of silence crept past. “You offered it.”

“What difference does it make?” Mother looked as if she believed her own question. And that it could have but one answer— none at all .

Except a different answer whirled through Artemis’s mind.

All the difference.

But she didn’t speak it, for she had something more vital to say, and she must before her nerve failed her. “So, if you offered the money and he didn’t demand it, then?—”

“Artemis, you’re being willful to no good end.”

“Then he didn’t know.”

The air between them went stone silent.

They both knew what Bran didn’t know.

Artemis didn’t need to speak the words aloud.

She wasn’t sure she could, anyway.

“You might not remember the willful and na?ve girl you were, Artemis, but I do.” Mother’s tone was firm. “I protected you from yourself—and I would do it again. A mother’s love for her child knows no boundaries.”

Of a sudden, Artemis’s chair was scraping across dense Aubusson carpet, and she was standing.

Mother was continuing to speak, but she could no longer hear her.

It was as if wool were plugging her ears.

Then her feet were moving and she was weaving through the tea room …

exiting the building … her boot heels click-clack ing across wet cobblestones, a substantial rain pouring onto her head.

She had no parasol, and she’d ignored Mother’s carriage. Neither did she hail a hackney cab.