Page 37 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

Misgiving began a slow creep through Artemis. Poor Lady Gwyneth. She looked fit to jump out of her skin.

Once the servants set a third place and her cup was poured, Mother again addressed Lady Gwyneth. “Society must have named you a diamond of the first water, no?” Her head tilted. “Yet I haven’t seen you about.”

“She’s not yet out.”

“You haven’t yet had a season?” Her gaze narrowed. “But you must be nineteen or twenty years old.”

Lady Gwyneth swallowed. “The plan is for me to debut this spring.”

Mother sipped her tea and studied the young lady before her for a good, long minute. Unable to help herself, Artemis reached for a square of shortbread. Nothing like a sweet to calm one’s nerves. Of course, Lady Gwyneth had no such recourse, frozen as she was in Mother’s unflinching sights.

At last, Mother spoke. “If you put your mind to it, Lady Gwyneth, you could have a duke.” She spoke the words as if she were delivering the final word. “Write me in London, and I’ll fit you into my calendar one afternoon. We can strategize.”

Somehow, Lady Gwyneth found a reedy remnant of her voice. “That is most generous of you, Your Grace.”

Mother nodded, magnanimous.

Though Artemis hadn’t planned to be all that involved in this conversation, she thought a bit of gentle guidance could be useful. “Lady Gwyneth already has an understanding with a gentleman, Mother.”

Mother’s brow gave the impression of a lift. “A gentleman ?” Her gaze swung toward Artemis as if seeking confirmation of such an improbability.

“A baron,” Artemis clarified. These things mattered to Mother.

Lady Gwyneth found the wherewithal to say, “His lands border my brother’s.”

“Oh, Lady Gwyneth,” Mother tutted. “That is not as it should be. Here,” she continued, “I’ll tell you how it should be.”

Though her stomach turned over itself, Artemis reached for another sweet—a lemon tart.

“You won’t have known this,” began Mother, “but I hail from the harsh wilds of Cornwall. My father was a country squire, and many lands adjoined his and many offers of marriage for me proceeded forth.” She allowed a beat of time to tick past. “I refused every single one.”

Lady Gwyneth nodded, opaquely.

“You see, like you, I was to have a season. But what’s the use of a season if a lady has already limited her prospects?” Mother took a sip of her tea. “Do you have a copy of Debrett’s, Lady Gwyneth?”

She shook her head.

“Purchase one and study it. Before I ever stepped foot in London, I’d researched all the available lords for that season, and do you know who was right at the top?” She didn’t wait for a response. “The Duke of Rakesley.”

“Before you’d even met him?” asked Lady Gwyneth in a near whisper.

Mother flicked a dismissive wrist. “One doesn’t capture the attention of a duke by chance. It’s through careful and meticulous planning.” A smile tipped about her mouth. “And one other thing you and I share in common, Lady Gwyneth.”

Lemon tart consumed, Artemis’s hands had taken to twisting the fabric of her skirts. She flattened them against her knees before she ruined the delicate muslin.

“ Beauty. ” Mother let the word stand on its own, unadorned, for three full ticks of the clock. “You and I, Lady Gwyneth, possess the sort of beauty that can stop the words in a man’s mouth.”

It went without saying that Artemis did not possess that sort of beauty. Although, Mother had said it—more than once. Artemis was a nice-looking woman. A nice-looking woman with a large dowry and a duke for a brother. She had her own value on the marriage mart.

Mother went on. “It’s the sort of beauty that can win a duke, Lady Gwyneth.”

Again, Artemis felt it her duty to protest. “But she’s already in love with a most eligible gentleman, Mother. A baron,” she added, lest anyone forget.

“What is love?” scoffed Mother.

Poor Lady Gwyneth, avid reader of the novels of Miss Jane Austen, had likely never encountered anyone like this duchess in her everyday life.

“Love can come later,” continued Mother. “Secure the title, Lady Gwyneth. Then have all the love you want. You’ll find, actually, it rather amplifies the feeling.” Her eye sharpened to a point. “Stoke’s earldom is presently in reduced circumstances, no?”

Lady Gwyneth’s eyebrows crinkled together. Genuine distress slowly replaced stunned awe.

“Mother,” said Artemis, “I’m not sure this is an appropriate conversation to be having with?—”

“ Appropriate? ” Mother pinned Artemis with a look that had turned lesser mortals to stone.

“ I am the duchess in this room. I decide what is appropriate.” She returned her attention to Lady Gwyneth.

“Now, what I’m speaking of, of course, is money.

A vulgar subject, to be sure, but a most appropriate one.

It suits men for us women not to worry our little minds with it, but make no mistake, Lady Gwyneth, money is everything . ”

One would be able to hear the drift and shush of a feather hitting the floor, so quiet and expectant the room was.

“But here is the vital thing about money,” said Mother.

“Only use it to buy what is necessary. Most young ladies your age think money’s primary function is for the acquisition of pretty silk dresses and shiny baubles.

” Eyes bright with conviction, she continued.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret—it’s not.

That’s all decoration. Would you like to know what money is truly necessary for? ”

She picked up her teacup and blew across the hot surface before taking a delicate sip. Artemis’s fingernails dug half-moons into her palms. At last, Lady Gwyneth realized an answer was expected. “Yes, please, Your Grace.”

Mother’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes—it never quite did—as she held up a finger. “The first thing money will buy you, Lady Gwyneth, is access. For example, your first season will require the acquisition of those pretty silk dresses and a shiny bauble or two.”

A second finger joined the first. “The second thing money buys you is respect.” She shrugged a shoulder, resigned to the realities. “A title is a precious thing, but money behind it makes you formidable in the eyes of the world—an untouchable goddess.”

She held up a third finger. “Which leads me to the most important thing money buys you. Can you guess what it is?”

Artemis knew the answer, of course—she’d been given this exact talk a decade ago—but Mother was addressing a visibly stunned Lady Gwyneth, who shook her head.

“ Power .” She let her hand fall to her lap.

“Money buys you power over others. That’s a simple thing.

But it buys you another sort of power—the most important sort of power.

It buys you power over yourself—to live as you please in the manner that pleases you.

This independence is granted to men at birth, but not so for us women.

So, buy the pretty silk dresses and shiny baubles, and always remember they aren’t the end, but rather the means toward achieving your greater goal. ”

Something opaque passed behind Lady Gwyneth’s eyes. “I must express my sincerest gratitude to you for advising me,” she said.

Artemis heard a but coming.

Mother did too, for the smile, as faint as it was, froze on her mouth.

“But,” said Lady Gwyneth, “I think … I mean, I’m not sure … but perhaps … not all women, erm , share the same goal.”

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Mother blinked.

Artemis wasn’t sure she would ever breathe again.

“Ah, but you’re so young and untested in the ways of the world, Lady Gwyneth,” said Mother. “Give it time. Meanwhile, study your Debrett’s and make a plan.”

Artemis had been so entirely concentrated on the conversation, she hadn’t noticed that a figure had entered the room. She knew who it was before her eyes cut to meet his.

Bran.

His mouth curved into a smile. A smile born of reaction, not thought.

A smile she found she couldn’t return, for he hadn’t yet perceived who else occupied this room with them.

His gaze shifted and landed on his sister.

His smile remained.

His gaze shifted again.

Artemis caught the precise moment he registered Mother’s presence.

His brow gathered into a thunderstorm.

Before the storm could break, Artemis forced a smile onto her mouth and said in a voice loud enough to carry across the room, “Lady Gwyneth was just inquiring about you, Lord Branwell.”

Lady Gwyneth opened her mouth, as if to protest the veracity of Artemis’s words. Before she could, however, Artemis continued, “Maybe you could take her to meet Little Lady.”

All the while, she sensed Mother’s gaze flicking between her and Bran.

“Little Lady?” asked Lady Gwyneth.

“She’s the donkey I brought in this morning.”

This proved too much for Mother. “Oh, Artemis, must you keep at it?”

Lady Gwyneth shot to her feet. It was clear she wanted to meet Little Lady—and was relieved to have an excuse to exit an increasingly fraught conversation.

Just before Bran turned to leave with his sister, he locked eyes with Artemis for an instant. A well of meaning filled those golden depths. Too much to sort through in that fleeting second.

That was what long, sleepless nights of staring at the ceiling and sorting through a racing mind were for, she supposed.

Then he was gone—and she was alone with Mother.

“I’ve seen him look better,” said Mother. “The limp I can abide, but that ghastly scar on his face.” She shuddered.

A feeling lit into life and expanded through Artemis—a hot feeling … a feeling that was rare for her. “He was wounded while serving our country,” she said, her voice tight.

“Yes, well, I suppose that’s necessary, and we all do appreciate the effort.” Appreciation was undetectable in her voice. “But how can you stand to look at it directly? It’s so vulgar .”

Blazing anger slipped its lead and ripped through Artemis. She took a long, deep breath. She must rein in this startling feeling before she spoke. “It’s not vulgar, Mother.”