Page 48 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER THIRTY

CH?TEAU BOTTOM’S ROOST, A WEEK LATER

T ypically, when a attending a ball—even a fancy-dress one—one naturally would have formed a preconceived set of expectations before one set foot inside the ballroom.

One would expect chandeliers blazing with dazzling platinum light; a frothy abundance of roses in perfect, full bloom; laughing couples waltzing to the lively strings of violin and cello.

But Sir Abstrupus being Sir Abstrupus, he would have no interest in fulfilling any set of expectations other than his own.

So, instead of dazzling brilliance, the light in the ballroom held a muted quality from chandeliers half lit with crimson-red candles.

And in the stead of English roses, exotic orchids transferred from the orangery were scattered about, some resting on surfaces, others hanging in glass globes.

And the couples on the dancing floor weren’t waltzing to the strains of a lively string quartet, but a pipe organ—strains one wouldn’t characterize as buoyant under any circumstances, but rather charged the music of Bach and Haydn with a dark tension one might never have suspected otherwise.

From his place in a dark corner of the ballroom—somehow, Sir Abstrupus had managed to create a ballroom composed entirely of dark corners—Bran stood, observing the odd atmosphere.

It wasn’t magical in the way of the balls he’d attended in London a decade ago, but projected an aura that held a strange mystical quality, as if all within this room for this night were caught within a macabre spell that would release at dawn.

Yet a good time was being had by all, even though the trays the servants carried through the room held not effervescent champagne, but rather various concoctions extracted from Sir Abstrupus’s collection of exotic plants.

Bran’s hand tightened around his crystal tumbler of water. He’d determined to hold onto it for the duration of the evening, and prayed that everyone imbibing Sir Abstrupus’s noxious brews made it home alive with minimal stomach upset.

He’d been keeping a loose eye on Gwyneth, but had again lost her.

He wasn’t overly concerned, however, for her new fiancé, Sir Charles, had traveled north with them.

The reason given was that it happened Sir Charles had some business in Yorkshire, but Bran suspected the closer reason was that he couldn’t bear to be away from Gwyneth.

Besides, it was no imposition, for Bran found he liked the man his sister intended to marry.

He narrowed his eyes and performed another sweep of the ballroom. Blast , it was dark, but even so, he knew Artemis wasn’t here.

He would know.

The air changed when she entered a room.

“You didn’t wear a costume,” came a familiar male voice at his back.

Bran startled around. If a ninety-something-year-old man was able to sneak up on him, perhaps it was for the best his military career had ended when it had.

However, the sight before him had his eyebrows lifting off his forehead.

“Are you a French king, by chance?” It was the only explanation for this .

Sir Abstrupus drew himself up to his fullest inconsiderable height, puffed his narrow chest, and stuck a spindly leg straight out, turning it just so to offer a view of his flexed calf muscle through white stockings. “I am the Sun King, of course.”

“Ah, of course,” said Bran, with a slow nod.

That explained the high heels and the powdered wig with its voluminous bounty of curls; the gold metallic cloth of his cutaway coat done in the style of the last century; and the massive gold sun pendant hanging in the center of his chest.

Really, it explained a lot.

Sir Abstrupus gave Bran a deliberate up-and-down appraisal. “I’ve seen you look better,” he said, at last. “But I’ve seen you look worse, too. So, there’s that.”

Bran took no offense. “And you’re looking resplendent.”

Sir Abstrupus gave a kingly smile. He only lacked a scepter.

Bran let his gaze rove across the ballroom. “The ball appears to be a success,” he said. “How many years have you been hosting your Annual Autumn Harvest Ball?”

Sir Abstrupus flicked a blithe wrist. “Oh, this is the first year. I’m considering hosting another in a few years. Ten is a nice, round number.”

Bran felt a vertical line form between his eyebrows. “Right.”

Was it possible Sir Abstrupus was an immortal? Perhaps he should start partaking in the old rascal’s brews, stews, and concoctions.

No.

No amount of immortality was worth that.

“Are you recently arrived in Yorkshire?” asked his host.

“Only tonight.”

“You, Lady Gwyneth, and her handsome knight?—”

“Sir Charles is a baron.”

“Oh, well,” said Sir Abstrupus, “that’s somewhat disappointing, but I shall not hold it against him very much.”

“Generous of you.” Bran hoped his tone wasn’t overtly sardonic.

Sir Abstrupus didn’t appear bothered. “Of course, you’re all welcome to stay at the Chateau as our guests.”

“Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

Sir Abstrupus gifted him with a royal nod.

In a flash, it occurred to Bran that Artemis wasn’t the only person with whom he needed to make amends in Yorkshire. He needed to say something to Sir Abstrupus, too. Something he should have expressed a while ago. He cleared his throat. “And I appreciate you , Sir Abstrupus.”

His host tilted his head, his sharp birdlike blue eyes singly focused on Bran.

“And all you’ve done for me.”

Sir Abstrupus nodded in a manner that implied more words were expected.

“I was at my lowest,” continued Bran, “and your invitation to train Radish was the swift kick I needed to pull myself up.”

“Yes, it was.”

Still, Sir Abstrupus waited for him to say more.

“And I sincerely wish to thank you.”

Sir Abstrupus nodded once and seemed, at last, satisfied. “Perambulate the ballroom with me,” he said. “I have a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Bran hesitated. His experience of Sir Abstrupus when the old rogue had a matter to discuss tended to result in a one-hundred-and-eighty degree revolution in his life, and presently, Bran felt himself on a decent trajectory—with one rather substantial caveat, of course.

That he could convince Artemis to spend the rest of her life with a dunderhead for a husband.

For that possibility to hold true, however, another possibility had to exist as its counterpart—that she’d had enough of him and would say no .

In such a case, it only followed that he was on a bad trajectory.

Anyway, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea for him to brace himself for what Sir Abstrupus had to say.

It wasn’t until they had completed a full turn of the ballroom and had begun their second that Sir Abstrupus spoke. “I don’t know if it has occurred to you, Bran, but I shan’t live forever.”

Actually, it hadn’t occurred to him. But he couldn’t very well say that. “I’m sure you have yet another ninety years in you.”

Sir Abstrupus turned a sharp blue eye onto him. “You are my heir.”

The roar of organ music and gaiety faded, as if they’d suddenly retreated into the far distance. “I beg your pardon?” Bran asked, hardly able even to hear himself speak.

Sir Abstrupus paid no heed to the question. “But your inheritance hangs on a single condition.”

Ah. Now Sir Abstrupus was sounding more like himself. Nothing ever came for free with him. “And what is that?”

Sir Abstrupus didn’t blink. “That you marry Lady Artemis Keating.”

Was it possible the old scoundrel was playing a jape on him?

The seriousness of his gaze indicated otherwise.

Further, he was waiting for Bran to respond.

Somehow, he found words. “You can’t control what happens between two people.” In fact, those two people could hardly control it.

The lift of a single eyebrow communicated that Sir Abstrupus wasn’t impressed by this explanation. “Think of all the land and wealth that will come into your possession with the marriage.”

Bran saw what Sir Abstrupus was attempting to do—control the world, or, at least, his corner of it. He shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

Sir Abstrupus remained undaunted. “And why isn’t it?”

Bran didn’t have a ready answer, except he knew it for the truth.

“It’s been seventy years since I made the mistake that changed my life,” said Sir Abstrupus. “I courted Lady Artemis’s grandmother, you know.”

Bran nodded, remembering talk of it.

“And I lost her.”

Bran held his counsel.

“But I have a confession—she was never mine to win, really.” Sir Abstrupus gave a wry chuckle.

“She was absolutely wild for that blasted Duke of Rakesley, and I suppose who could blame her. Rakesley was every young lady’s dream.

But the point is, when he entered the fray, I slunk away and retreated into myself.

I never put up a fight.” He shook his head. “I regret that.”

“Why?”

“Because even if the answer was no —and it definitely was—I still should have asked the question and heard the answer and moved on from it. But I never asked. Courage is required in these matters, yes?”

Bran felt his brow furrow. “I always thought you were content in the life you’ve created for yourself.”

“Oh, I am happy and have little doubt that I was destined to lead precisely the life I did. But I let myself down there, too, and even seventy years later—even as I’m the only one yet above ground—I still feel that sting.

One finds it’s the sort of regret that never goes away.

” He gave his head a subtle shake. “Unless …”

“ Unless? ”

“Unless you would prefer to follow my example and lock yourself away from the world here at the Chateau?” He shrugged a shoulder.

“Such a life does have its advantages. One can do as one pleases, whenever one pleases. It’s a mode of life that’s easier to slip into than one imagines.

” He gave a shrug of the other shoulder. “You’re certainly on your way.”

A dread of the variety Bran had only ever encountered on the field of battle flashed through him—shooting anxiety through his veins and a rush of blood through his ears.