Page 33 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

It was only after both Thoroughbreds ran that Bran turned toward Rakesley and Gemma. “I see your dilemma. Both horses have talent to spare. Both could take a few, if not all top races next year.”

Rakesley crossed his arms over his chest. “But?”

“You know as well as I do it depends on the field of competitors.”

“A given.”

“It also depends on the race plan and the jockey,” continued Bran. “I suppose Liam Cassidy will ride for you.”

“Why do you think he married me?” asked Gemma, no mistaking the tease meant for her husband.

That pulled a hard-won smile from Rakesley.

Bran continued. “You want to decide which one Cassidy will ride.”

“He can’t ride two horses at once,” said Rakesley. “From what you’ve just seen, which do you think can see it through?”

Bran saw no reason not to speak the truth. “I understand why you favor the colt. He’s a big brute with perfect conformation and smooth action, much like your Hannibal. And he appears to be stubborn, which can be useful.”

“But?”

“I would give the edge to the filly.”

“Why?”

“She, too, has perfect conformation and smooth action. While not as massive as Kestrel, she’s built with some extra bulk, but also has a gracefulness to her.

Did you notice how she glances around for the colt?

She has the eye of a competitor. If you have her trained correctly, you can really bring that quality forward in her. She will win races.”

As one, everyone watched the filly trot across green turf, her solid black coat and flexing muscles glistening in the morning sunlight. She was a beauty, that was certain.

Rakesley turned to Bran. “Train her for me.”

Confirmation pulsed through Bran. It was for this reason Rakesley had invited him to Somerton. “Don’t you have a trainer?”

“Oh, Mr. Blankenship is heading back to Newmarket.”

Bran couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Blankenship had been informed of his immediate future plans. “I’ll give it some thought.” Instinct had Bran withholding a commitment—for now.

Rakesley, however, didn’t seem to notice. “Between my and Julian’s stables?—”

“How did I suddenly become involved?” interrupted Ormonde, his blue eyes shining with laughter.

“Hear me out,” said Rakesley, warming to the subject. “Somerton and Julian’s Nonsuch Castle neighbor each other, so you can train at both estates. It’s not uncommon for trainers to split their services between a few stables.”

“Sounds rather scandalous, if you ask me,” Lady Beatrix cut in.

“Beatrix,” said Rakesley, quelling. “Between two of the best racing stables in England, you’ll build your reputation. Then, in a few years, you can set up shop in Newmarket.”

Bran felt his brow crease.

Yet—and he couldn’t deny it—he liked the sound of this plan.

For the first time in years, he had a glimpse of a future that held meaning for him.

“This is what Rake does,” said Ormonde. “He’ll have you all sorted before bed tonight.”

From the back of the group came a vicious laugh that was all too familiar. Stoke must have found the wherewithal to rouse himself from bed. “The brother of an earl?” he scoffed. “A racehorse trainer for hire?”

No one laughed along with him.

It was Artemis who broke the silence. “But haven’t you heard, Lord Stoke?”

“Heard what?”

“Times have changed.” Twin spots of dusky pink stained her cheeks.

Her eyes shone bright with fervor. “More and more, people have taken to doing as they please. Take me, for example. I am both the daughter of a duke and the owner of an animal sanctuary.” Her gaze landed on the Duke of Acaster.

“A duke himself can invest in gaming hells.” Her gaze shifted toward Lady Ormonde.

“So can his sister, who can also be the wife of a marquess.” Next, it was on to her sister-in-law.

“A duchess can be a jockey.” She turned toward Lady Beatrix.

“Remind me, what is your unaristocratic husband called by society?”

Lady Beatrix’s mouth twitched. “That would be Lord Devil.”

Artemis remained as serious as a crusader. “I see no reason why the brother of an earl cannot be a horse trainer.”

Bran stayed utterly, carefully still as silence filled the air, expanding and deepening.

Except inside, he was anything but still. Rather, a scrum of unruly emotion rioted through him, impelling him to take a step forward, take Artemis by the hand before the assembled, and claim her as his. After all, wasn’t it a claiming of him that ran just below her defense? Hadn’t all heard it?

But no, not yet.

Those words had to be spoken first between only the two of them.

Rakesley cleared his throat. “Mallory, you’ll let me know soon?”

Slowly, Bran nodded. “Aye.”

Within a few minutes, the gathering had dispersed so everyone could pursue their day as they saw fit.

Artemis, however, stepped forward. “Lord Branwell,” she said in proper greeting.

“Lady Artemis,” he returned, as properly.

A beat of time ticked past before her gaze shifted. “And Lady Gwyneth, it’s so wonderful finally to meet you. Tales of your beauty have not been exaggerated.”

A delicate blush stained Gwyneth’s cheeks as she dipped into a shallow curtsy. “I’m most flattered that you even know who I am, Lady Artemis.”

Artemis’s mouth quirked with a caught-out smile.

It was the finally that had given her away.

Of course, Artemis knew all about Gwyneth, or at least, what Bran had told her. But as everyone, including Gwyneth, thought he and Artemis were only distant acquaintances, that finally would have stuck out to Gwyneth.

“Well,” said Artemis, clearly struggling for words that would reduce the awkwardness. “There’s a donkey I must see to.”

A smile brightened across Gwyneth’s face. “A donkey ?”

“A Jerusalem donkey, to be exact,” said Artemis. “She’s in the neighboring village.”

Unable to help himself, Bran had to ask, “You’ve only arrived this morning. How have you already caught wind of a donkey in need in the neighboring village?”

“By speaking to Mrs. Woving, of course.”

“Mrs. Woving?”

“Somerton’s cook,” said Artemis, a second of course implicit. “Exclaim over a cook’s sticky buns once, and they’ll catch you up on all the latest goings-on in the neighborhood forever. People like being appreciated.”

With that, Artemis nodded her farewell and turned on her heel, whistling for Bathsheba, a woman on her way to rescue a donkey in need.

A throat cleared beside Bran. “Are you and Lady Artemis previously acquainted?”

He felt his sister’s eyes upon him.

Eyes that were surely following the trajectory of his gaze and watching him watch Artemis walk away.

He tore his gaze away. “Everyone in society knows each other in one form or fashion.”

“I’ll rephrase the question,” said Gwyneth. “Are you and Lady Artemis well acquainted?”

No mistaking where the emphasis bit down— well .

“We danced on several occasions during her debut season.”

That was one way of putting it.

Gwyneth’s brow lifted with mild skepticism.

In some way that Bran was too staggered to identify now—and which would surely plague him later—he sensed he’d given himself away to his sister.

So be it.

“Mayhap,” she said, “Lady Artemis could use some assistance with the donkey. They can be most stubborn creatures.” She smiled. “Like brothers.”

Bran understood he had a choice. Stay here and explain something to his sister that he hadn’t yet fully explained to himself.

Or go and help Artemis.

Dread snaked through him. To help Artemis meant he would have to chase after her, and chasing wasn’t something he could do anymore. It would be a limping effort, at best.

Only a few weeks ago, it was a thought that would have kept him rooted to this very spot.

Today, however, he could follow a different thought.

The fact was he’d grown weary of fixating on what he couldn’t do.

Instead, he could set his mind toward what he wanted to do.

And what he wanted was to see what Artemis was getting up to.

To achieve that end, he would have to traverse distances, for Artemis was a woman on the move. He would have to walk or ride a horse, and he wasn’t about to ride a horse, so …

Walking— limping —it was.

He met his sister’s gaze, her golden eyes warm with a knowledge he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. “You won’t mind if I …” It wasn’t necessary to finish the sentence.

“I think I’ll ask the Duchess of Acaster for the name of her modiste. She’s a most stylish duchess.”

Thirty seconds later, Bran was off to chase after Artemis.

Slowly.

Which was surprisingly all right.

For here was what he’d come to appreciate about slow .

It was forward progress.

Something he’d been incapable of for two years.

But now, possible.