Page 47 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

STOKE HALL, CAMbrIDGESHIRE, A FEW WEEKS LATER

I t wasn’t a glorious sunrise—the dense blanket of clouds had made sure of that—but it didn’t need to be.

It would do.

The point was Bran had roused himself from bed to keep to a daily routine.

He wouldn’t go backward.

He’d come too far to allow the darkness to steal more years of his life.

The trouble was, he couldn’t seem to go forward either.

At the horizon line where earth met sky, the sun was making a valiant attempt to peek out from the unrelenting swath of gray, to no avail.

Wasn’t that just life, though?

Or rather, wasn’t that just his life?

The part of him that would have rather stayed in bed could relate to that sun.

Whenever the clouds thinned enough that he could chart a path through, they wrapped around him again. How many moments in his life had a future appeared in his sights only for the clouds to close ranks and deny him? Would he never learn?

His first go-around with Artemis … his once-bright military career … his possible career as a horse trainer … His second go-around with Artemis …

It was the final blow that had felled him.

What did anything matter without Artemis?

That was the thing he’d realized.

That military career, as bright and glorious as moments of success had been, had never felt fulfilling. Like a seven-course meal taken for sustenance rather than pleasure. The core of it had ever felt like a void.

And these last weeks without her felt the same—without purpose or meaning.

Worse, it was his own doing.

But hadn’t it been necessary?

Now, the necessity eluded him.

“Oh, there you are,” came a breezy feminine voice at his back.

Bran turned to find Gwyneth approaching, a rucksack slung over her shoulder and a smile curving her mouth. “You’re about early,” he called out.

“Yes, well,” she said, panting a little, “I wanted to watch the sunrise with you.”

“Not much of one, I’m afraid.” He felt glad for the company. Morosity ever had an ability to pull him into its depths.

Gwyneth held a hand to her forehead and swept her gaze across the horizon, taking in the disappointing view. “It’s the principle, I suppose.”

Bran snorted as she lowered to a seat on the stone beside him. She dug inside her rucksack, her hand emerging a few seconds later holding a letter.

“Have you become an employee of the royal mail?” He intentionally kept his tone nonchalant. He recognized that letter—a letter he’d been avoiding like the plague.

She held up the missive, a determined light in her eye. “Have you seen this?”

“I have.”

“Yet you didn’t open it.”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s from Sir Abstrupus.”

He was in no mood for Sir Abstrupus.

“Well,” said Gwyneth, “I opened it.”

“Aye.” He could see the broken seal.

She huffed with irritation. “It’s an invitation.”

“Dear sister,” said Bran. He tried his best to keep the condescension from his voice—and was most likely failing. “The first thing one learns about Sir Abstrupus is that his commands are always disguised as invitations.”

Gwyneth had that glint in her eye that said she wouldn’t be dissuaded. “It’s for his Annual Autumn Harvest Ball.”

Bran grunted. One should never underestimate the quelling power of a grunt.

“It’s on All Hallows Eve.”

“All Hallows Eve for a harvest ball?” asked Bran. “That’s eccentric, even for Sir Abstrupus.”

“And it’s fancy dress,” continued Gwyneth.

Bran snorted. “It would be.”

“Shall we attend?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

He clamped his mouth shut.

Artemis is sure to be there.

He couldn’t say that.

Instead he said, “Yorkshire is rather a long way to go for a fancy-dress ball.”

Gwyneth’s eyes narrowed. Bran realized this was the very point she’d been angling the conversation toward. He braced himself.

“But,” she said, “is Sir Abstrupus’s fancy-dress ball the only reason you would be going to Yorkshire? Mayhap there’s a better, more pressing reason?”

The knowledge shining in his sister’s eyes … Bran didn’t like it.

Again he grunted.

Gwyneth’s hand returned to her rucksack. This time it emerged holding a heavy leather sack that clinked when she let it drop onto the stone between them.

Bran’s eyebrows winged together. “What is this?”

If he’d interpreted that clink correctly, it was a bag full of coin.

“You can have this back,” she said.

“Are those my winnings from the St. Leger?”

“Yes.”

“It’s for you .”

Through the determination shining in her eyes, she smiled. “And I appreciate what you’ve done for me, brother. My whole life you’ve been there for me. Even when you were in France and Africa, you were my support and my rock.” She patted the bag. “But I don’t need this.”

“It’s for your London season, Gwyneth.”

She shook her head. “I no longer need a London season.”

“What are you on about?” Why did every turn in the road of life have to yield a surprise? “How is it you no longer need a London season?”

“I’ve received a marriage proposal from Sir Charles Hadley.”

“The neighboring baron?”

She nodded. “And I mean to accept him.”

This was all wrong . “Gwyneth,” said Bran, looking firmly into her eyes, “if it’s the money you’re concerned about, there’s more where that came from. I can train more horses and collect more winnings. You don’t have to sacrifice?—”

Her smile widened, and she shook her head slowly. “It’s no sacrifice, Bran. Charlie and I are in love.”

Further protest died in Bran’s mouth. It was the look in his sister’s eyes. She was speaking the truth. And there was another look about her, too—the softness of a woman in love.

“He is coming to speak with you this afternoon.”

“ Me? ” asked Bran. “Stoke is your legal guardian. Shouldn’t Hadley speak to him?”

“It’s your permission that I need, Bran.”

Sudden emotion washed through him. “Is he a good man?”

“He is.”

“Does he make you happy?”

“He does.”

“Is he the only man for you?”

Tears of happiness pooled in Gwyneth’s golden eyes. She bit her lip between her teeth and nodded. Bran reached for her hand and squeezed. “I suppose you won’t tarry with a long engagement.”

A laugh escaped her. “A winter wedding would be lovely. I wouldn’t dare dream of competing with Sir Abstrupus’s Annual Autumn Harvest Ball.”

Bran’s brow furrowed. “What does Sir Abstrupus’s ball have to do with anything?”

“Because we’re attending.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m not the only one of us who is in love.”

As if she’d delivered a swift blow to his solar plexus, the breath rushed from his lungs—and refused to return. “That is none of your concern, Gwyneth,” he ground out.

Her head tilted to the side. “Isn’t it, though? You’ve been a champion of my happiness. Am I not allowed to champion yours?”

“Gwyneth—”

“Aren’t you, in fact, in love, brother?”

Bran took recourse in the only option that felt available to him.

He grunted.

Words weren’t helping.

Gwyneth possessed the look of the mulishly determined. “With the sister of a certain duke?”

“That’s …”

He nearly said over .

But was it, in fact, over ?

Or was it in a state of limbo?

In the moment, distance had felt like the correct course to give him and Artemis time and space from one another.

But these last weeks without her had been wretched, and he couldn’t help feeling he’d made a fatal error—and he didn’t know how to remedy it.

In fact, he’d felt it from the moment the coach-and-four carrying him away from Somerton had lurched into motion.

“Why aren’t you and Lady Artemis together, Bran?”

Bran had a choice.

He could choose not to answer the question.

He could say it was none of Gwyneth’s concern.

But wasn’t it?

Wasn’t her life a concern of his?

So, didn’t it follow that his life was a concern of hers?

Wasn’t that how it worked with love?

“We were in love,” he said. The truth was so very simple, wasn’t it?

Gwyneth’s brow crinkled. “Aren’t you still in love?”

“Ten years ago, we met and fell in love between one breath and the next.”

“And you didn’t marry?”

“A marriage between us wasn’t desired by her family.”

The furrow of Gwyneth’s brow deepened. “I’ve only spoken with the duke on a few occasions, but he seems to regard you highly.”

“Not Rakesley.”

Understanding dawned across Gwyneth’s face. “Ah, the duchess.”

“She did all within her power to split us apart,” he said. “And she succeeded.”

“But that’s the past, Bran,” said Gwyneth, with all the fervor and na?veté of youth. “It’s obvious you still love each other.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Nothing in life was.

He hoped Gwyneth never had to learn that lesson.

“Isn’t it?”

He weighed how much to tell her, then said, “There was a pregnancy.”

Gwyneth’s eyes went wide with shock. “You abandoned Artemis when she was with child?”

“That was what she thought.”

“You didn’t know about it?”

“No.”

“And that was the duchess’s doing.”

“I only recently found out.”

“And the child?”

He shook his head against the knot that had formed in his throat. “The pregnancy didn’t take.”

“Oh, Bran.” She reached for his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

At that moment, golden sun broke through gray clouds. Side by side, they sat staring out, considering the possibility of a beautiful day.

“But, Bran?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why aren’t you in Yorkshire watching the sunrise with Artemis?”

“I decided,” he began, and stopped.

He didn’t like the direction of that sentence.

I .

That was what he didn’t much like.

He had decided— alone —hadn’t he?

“What did you decide, Bran?”

“That we needed space to think and to grieve.”

Without taking her eyes off him, Gwyneth nodded. “That might be somewhat true. You do need to mourn your losses, brother. You’ve had many over your life, and the loss of a child is a terrible thing. But …” She was weighing whether to say more.

“ But? ”

“It might not be my place to say.”

“Please speak your mind, Gwyneth.”

“You don’t need space for that. What is Artemis to think?” Her cheeks grew flushed as she warmed to the expression of her point of view. “And now—” She shook her head, visibly irritated.

Bran understood he was about to be on the receiving end of a good dressing down—and that he possibly deserved it. “ And now? ”

“And now you’ve only gone and broken her heart a second time.”

“I didn’t break her heart ten years ago.” He felt like that needed to be clear.

“But that’s what she believed all these years, Bran. That you abandoned her and the baby you made together. She suffered.”

“I know.”

“And now you’re making her suffer more.”

“I’m suffering, too.”

“Yes.” Exasperation shone in Gwyneth’s eyes. “Yes, you’re making yourself suffer, too.”

An unworthy part of himself rose to his defense. Wasn’t the duchess the original source of all this suffering?

He immediately quashed it.

You’ve been through so much, Bran. I didn’t want to add to it.

Those were the words that had been haunting him since he’d left Somerton.

For ten years, she’d believed him to be a heartless bastard who had abandoned her and their child. Then when they’d met again, she learned the truth—that he didn’t know of the child and that he hadn’t abandoned her.

And one further thing—that he was a broken man.

Her instinct to withhold the truth about their lost child hadn’t been born of deception and selfishness, but rather selflessness. By deciding not to tell him, she’d thought to continue shouldering the burden alone.

Could he blame her for following that instinct? Wasn’t that what one did for those one loved? Carry the burden until the other was strong enough to share it?

And it all had to do with that one short, four-letter word— love .

Love could take one’s best intentions and lead one down the completely wrong path.

Sometimes love got it wrong.

And when it did, wasn’t that where grace and forgiveness came into play?

Really, he’d been viewing the matter from the wrong angle.

He had, in fact, been a dunderhead.

“I’ve bungled it, haven’t I?”

“Well, yes, brother, you have been a nodcock, but I think you’re in luck.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Artemis happens to love you.”

“I’ve never been worthy of her.”

“Perhaps.”

“Thanks.”

“But that’s not how love works, is it? It’s a meeting of hearts—and your hearts found each other.” Gwyneth’s smile brightened, and a glint of mischief flickered within her eyes. “We are going to Sir Abstrupus’s autumn ball.”

Bran snorted. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“And what shall you be, brother?”

Bran stared at his sister, blankly. “ Be? ”

“The ball is fancy dress, lest you conveniently forget.”

Bran groaned, but it lacked force of feeling. The fact was he would attend a thousand fancy-dress parties if it meant winning Artemis.

“Oh, I know,” exclaimed Gwyneth. That was most definitely mischief shining in her eyes. “You can attend as a horse’s bottom.”

Another groan rumbled through him, even as he chuckled. He’d earned that.

Gwyneth sprang to her feet and dusted herself off. “Shall we get on with preparations?”

“Aye,” he said, rising with slower deliberation, but just as much determination.

The clouds had closed around the sun again, but he realized something.

The sun still shone—and ever did, no matter the circumstances.

What were a few clouds to a celestial entity?

There would ever be clouds in one’s life, but that didn’t mean one should stop shining.

The woman he loved understood that.

She was his sun.

She was his light.

And she deserved the same.

That was what he understood now.

If he couldn’t be a light for her, then he wasn’t worthy of her.

And he understood one thing more.

If she would have him, he would spend the rest of his days striving toward that end.