Page 32 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SOMERTON, NEXT DAY

“ B reaking our fast at the practice track.” Across the turf yet slick with morning dew, Gwyneth’s eyes followed a pair of Thoroughbreds trotting past as they warmed up for a training session. Her brow crinkled with bemusement. “It’s not the usual.”

Bran snorted. “It’s the household of a powerful, horse-mad duke.” He propped an elbow onto the white railing. “Is anything out of the usual?”

Gwyneth gave a slow, considering nod as her gaze shifted toward the small group of aristocrats some twenty yards away. “I suppose the wealthy and powerful make the rules and therefore get to decide what is the usual.”

And what wealth and power surrounded them.

As children of an earl, it wasn’t awe that inspired their discreet conversation.

Rather it was the fact that, though they were aristocrats, they’d only ever had a fraction of the wealth and therefore little of the power.

But that tight group of aristocrats animatedly debating one topic or another—no doubt to do with horses—accounted for a decent portion of England’s holdings.

Gwyneth’s eyes narrowed with assessment. “The duke seems like a nice man.”

Bran chuckled. “Which one?”

Gwyneth joined him in a laugh. “Both.”

Nice wasn’t how Bran would characterize either duke.

Rakesley was intense and unabashedly competitive—a man who would always have his way.

Acaster was equally intense, but possessed of different drives.

A man who by all accounts was a genius with numbers, he’d made his fortune by the age of twenty-three as the owner of London’s most exclusive gaming hell, The Archangel.

No, not nice .

Rather, driven … honorable when it suited them … and definitely aristocratic , with all the privileges that distinction entailed.

But Gwyneth was young and untested in the world. She would have a different perspective on men who were handsome, titled, and wealthy.

“And let us not forget the lowly marquess.” Her golden-brown eyes—the same hue as his—twinkled with irony.

Bran laughed. He wasn’t giving his sister enough credit. She was young, yes, but she was also possessed of good sense.

Upon further reflection, she added, “Lord Ormonde has kind eyes.”

Bran knew something of Ormonde’s family.

Tragic all around. A sister who perished at a young age, and a father who took his own life.

But the marquess did indeed have kind eyes.

Demons would roam behind them, Bran knew well.

But Ormonde had the settled air of a man who had learned how to vanquish them.

Bran should ask him to reveal his trick.

As he opened his mouth to change the subject—on a morning like this, he didn’t want to think about the demons of the past, not when the present and possibly the future held the nascent promise of clouds dispelling—the Duchess of Rakesley appeared with two other women, the Duchess of Acaster and Mrs. Beatrix Deverill, a one-eyed, three-legged dog at her side.

Bathsheba. The duchess reared her arm back and threw a stick.

The dog chased after it, not letting a missing leg stand in the way.

Bathsheba was here.

Which meant …

Artemis had arrived.

His heart a hammer in his chest, Bran scanned the grounds and found only horses, grooms, and stable lads, hustling and bustling to and fro. This was a duke’s racing estate, after all. Mornings were busy.

But no sign of Artemis.

“What an adorable dog,” exclaimed Gwyneth. Though she’d always asked, Stoke had never let her have a dog in the house. “Shall we say hello?”

As Gwyneth had arrived in the night with Stoke, who was still— predictably —abed, it was only natural that she would wish to socialize, but Bran needed a few more moments alone with her. “Are you looking forward to your upcoming London season?”

As the question left his mouth, he felt something unexpected. A feeling he hadn’t experienced in a very long time— pride.

Somehow, improbably, he’d managed this for Gwyneth.

“How many new dresses will you buy?” he asked, in an attempt to meet her on her ground. Though he hadn’t the faintest idea where to go from here.

Gwyneth noticed his bewilderment and gave a teasing laugh. “It’s all right, Bran. You don’t have to discuss new dresses with me.”

Relief poured through him. “I suppose you know how to arrange all that?”

Now that he thought about it, he’d never given a lick of consideration to the measures women took to transform themselves into lovely confections.

Gwyneth laid a reassuring a hand on his arm. “I do.”

“Is a … modiste … involved?” He winced, hoping he got that right.

She smiled, her eyes full of warmth. “Yes.”

“And you know of a modiste in London?”

He didn’t give a toss about modistes, but Gwyneth likely did, and he wanted her to have exactly what she wanted.

“London has about a thousand modistes,” she said. “I’ll be most fashionable, I can assure you.”

A question came to Bran. When had his younger sister become so adult ?

The corners of her mouth tipped downward. “Bran?”

The note that sounded in her voice put him on high alert. “Yes?”

“About the season in London?—”

“Mallory!”

Bran’s gaze shifted toward a point over Gwyneth’s shoulder. Rakesley was beckoning him. He ignored the duke and returned his attention to his sister. “What is it, Gwyneth?”

She shook her head. “Nothing that can’t wait until later.” Her smile returned. “Shall we see what the duke wants?”

“Which one?”

This pulled a good laugh from her as she threaded her arm through his and they made their way to the duke’s group.

Rakesley got directly to the point. “Mallory, I would value your view on this pair of two-year-olds.”

Bran cast his gaze out toward the track and the chestnut bay colt and the black filly now being put through their paces.

The lads were careful to keep them on opposite sides of the track at all times so they wouldn’t interfere with each other.

Both were prime specimens of Thoroughbred. “What do you wish to know?”

It was Ormonde who answered. “Rake can’t decide which will hold up better through the three-year-old season next year.”

The three-year-old season was the most important season for a Thoroughbred, so it was crucial to get it right.

Rakesley’s gaze narrowed on Bran. “How would you decide?”

“There’s the usual—conformation and personality. Bloodline tends to out, too. Then come the intangible qualities. I take it you ran them at Great Yarmouth over the summer?”

The two-year-olds’ race at Great Yarmouth mostly determined the three-year-old field for the following season.

“Aye,” groused Rakesley. The race hadn’t determined anything for him.

The duchess, who had just joined the group, laughed.

“The better part of wisdom might be to stay clear of this subject, Lord Branwell. You’ve been lured into a marriage dispute.

Rake likes the colt for it, and I’ll give him that Kestrel did place the best out of our entrants.

But there is something about Paris Folly …

” Her eyes followed the filly. “I have a feeling about her.”

Rakesley shook his head. “You know how I feel about feelings regarding horses.”

“The irony isn’t lost on me,” laughed the duchess.

Rakesley’s mouth twitched as he returned his attention to Bran. “How would you settle it?”

“Is this a test?” Bran asked in a light manner, and received a few indulgent laughs for his effort, but the answer was apparent.

Yes.

Of a sudden, Bathsheba barked, not with warning or malice, but with tail-wagging welcome as she made straight for a figure approaching the group.

Artemis.

Before Bran could tamp it down, joy took wing inside him. The mere sight of her held a power over him. But how lovely she was in her white muslin morning dress and sable hair done in a loose braid, errant tendrils catching the light breeze.

He’d once thought her part of his future, and plainly, he wasn’t prepared to think of her thusly again.

Not yet, at least.

It was improbable enough that she’d become part of his present.

Yet how excessive was this surge of emotion when it had been fewer than two days since he last saw her.

He’d done more than see her, that last time.

He’d touched her … felt her touch … kissed her … tasted her … entered her …

Her dark gaze shifted, and their gazes met. With what was surely foolishness, he felt his mouth curve into a smile. Her mouth, in response, turned slightly down. And now that she’d drawn closer, he detected a guarded quality in her eyes.

Unexpected that.

Was it shyness? Or shame?

No. She’d never been shy or ashamed about the physical aspect of their relationship.

This was something else.

“Lord Branwell,” said Lady Beatrix, pulling his attention back into the conversation, “what you achieved with Radish in such a short amount of time is most impressive.” She wasn’t finished.

“It simply doesn’t happen that unknown Thoroughbreds come from nowhere and nearly become the greatest racehorse of the century. ”

Within all the eyes upon him, including Artemis’s, Bran detected something.

Respect .

And it felt good.

It wasn’t the sort of respect that came to a man through the accident of aristocratic birth or mounds of inherited wealth.

It was the sort of respect that came only when a man earned it.

A force gathered within him—the right to command—and he said, “Let’s see the filly run first.”

Rakesley signaled his head groom, a man by the name of Wilson, who immediately ordered the track cleared of every man and horse but Paris Folly and the groom who rode her.

As the filly went through her paces and showed everyone what she could do to great acclamation, Bran tried to keep his focus trained on her action and all the subtle nuances that informed the trained eye about her future performance.

But with Artemis at the edge of his vision, it was difficult.

He wanted to consult with her, to hear her opinions, to see if they matched his.