Page 7 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

“In which case,” said Sir Abstrupus, “shall we adjourn to the dining room for our midnight meal? Cook has all manner of culinary delights awaiting us.”

Lord Branwell snorted.

The heat of mortification thrummed through Artemis. Sir Abstrupus rightly saw through her denial since, rather than make formal introductions, he stood. With a measured, shuffling step, he led the way.

Artemis was turning to follow when movement caught her eye. Slowly and deliberately, Lord Branwell was rising from the deep leather armchair, as if this studied manner of movement were long habit.

She’d known him to have been injured. His brother, the Earl of Stoke, had told her as much at the house party in Primrose Park. But until now, she hadn’t seen beyond the scar on Lord Branwell’s face. Of course, it wouldn’t have been the extent of his injuries.

A scar on a face didn’t make it impossible for a man to ride a horse and wield sword or bayonet.

A scar on a face didn’t make it impossible for a man to be a soldier.

What was causing him to move with such slow and deliberate care did .

Seems His Majesty doesn’t have much use for a soldier with a gammy leg.

Those had been Stoke’s words regarding his brother—words spoken with no small amount of callous glee.

Yesterday, in the woods, she hadn’t seen Lord Branwell in motion.

Yesterday, she hadn’t seen this .

Again returned the instinct to take a step forward.

Instinct again suppressed.

Once he’d risen to his feet, she understood. His right leg had been injured, severely.

The sudden surge of emotion that clogged her throat shocked her.

Then she felt it.

The heat of a gaze— his gaze.

She’d been caught staring— again .

Golden eyes locked onto hers and all but dared her to say something.

She pressed her lips together.

This man didn’t want her pity and, really, she shouldn’t have any for him.

He’d made his choices—choices that had led him to this end.

Lest she forget what she knew about him.

Lest she forget who he truly was.

Yet she stood, watching.

She needed to see something.

His jaw clenched, as if he’d ground his back teeth together. Finally, left with no choice, he took a halting step forward.

There.

She experienced no satisfaction in the confirmation, but she’d needed to witness it.

His injury in motion.

His lameness.

The difficulty of it.

Her mouth was speaking words before her mind could put a stop to the folly. “Perhaps you need a?—”

The narrowing of golden eyes froze the remaining word in her mouth.

Cane.

“It’s none of your concern,” he growled.

Sudden mortification had her whirling around and following Sir Abstrupus through corridors lined with the beautiful and the sublime, her feet picking up pace with every stride, loyal Bathsheba at her side.

Lord Branwell was correct.

It was none of her concern.

But that wasn’t what had her equilibrium so disturbed.

It was the perhaps she’d spoken.

As if to soften the blow of her suggestion.

That man didn’t deserve her softness or concern.

He wasn’t a wounded creature under her care.

He was a complete entity unto himself, made of impermeable stone.

Hadn’t he proven himself as such ten years ago?

She would do well to remember it.

How else would she get through this supper?

The dining room was of a piece with the rest of the Roost—candelabra sporadically spaced about the room, beeswax candles providing a mysterious, shadowy atmosphere; moiré silk of the deepest plum overlaid with a silver fleur-de-lis pattern covering the walls; gargoyles perched in the four corners of the coffered ceiling, keeping watch over the proceedings with equal parts mischief and malice.

Artemis had already lowered into her seat before she realized it was only she and Sir Abstrupus, who had taken his seat at the head of the dining table in a chair that more resembled a throne.

Then she heard it— click … thud … click … thud … against distant marble tiles, growing closer with each click … thud .

The sound of Lord Branwell making his way toward the room.

One lighter step followed by one heavier step, the rhythm slow and relentless.

She darted a glance toward Sir Abstrupus, who sat watching her with a vague smile, uncharacteristically keeping his silence.

Click … thud.

She willed her hands not to clench, giving no outlet to the tension that coiled tighter within her with every click and with every thud .

Wouldn’t a servant assist him?

No.

That man didn’t want help. One only had to risk looking him in the eye to know that much.

It’s none of your concern.

A footman came to stand patiently behind the empty chair directly across from Artemis.

Of course.

With Sir Abstrupus at the head of the table to her left, of course Lord Branwell would be seated across from her for the duration of this interminable meal that hadn’t even yet begun.

Sir Abstrupus remained silent as Lord Branwell lowered into the chair, that vague smile still annoyingly spread across their host’s mouth.

Again, the question came to her—what was his game?

She’d been distracted from it, but now it returned with doubled ferocity.

Before she could open her mouth, however, a servant slid a plate of some gelatinous substance in front of her and their host said, “Did you know jellied cod was your grandmother’s favorite dish, Lady Artemis?”

Artemis contemplated the food before her. It trembled. Still, she sliced off a thin edge and brought it to her mouth, hoping against hope that Sir Abstrupus would let the subject of Grandmama drop.

He shifted his attention toward Lord Branwell. “Did you know that once upon a time I was to marry Lady Artemis’s grandmother?”

A forkful of jellied cod froze midway to Lord Branwell’s mouth. His eyebrows crashed together. “I didn’t.” Then he shoved the bite into his mouth and began chewing, as if to ward off the possibility of being required to answer any further questions.

However, the answer was all Sir Abstrupus needed to set forth down familiar byways. “Then she met a duke.” He lifted empty hands. “What is a baronet to a duke?”

Artemis exhaled a sigh, unable not to put the record straight. “Grandmama was in love with Grandpapa until her dying breath.” Though Artemis had vowed not to be baited into the conversation, here she was biting down on the hook. “Her final words were of him.”

I’ll be meeting Charles soon.

Words that still brought a tear to Artemis’s eye.

She wouldn’t be telling Sir Abstrupus that detail.

His smile lost its vagueness and found its point. “Women can’t be trusted, Lord Branwell. But you’re a man who has crossed a few years beyond his thirtieth, so perhaps you’re already acquainted with that fact.”

Lord Branwell kept chewing.

Artemis gripped her fork, testing its suitability as a weapon.

“You will have noticed that I run a bachelor household,” continued Sir Abstrupus. “Not a single woman within our ranks—not even the scullery.”

Only when it became apparent a response was required, Lord Branwell grunted.

Artemis noted the sharpness of her fork’s tines. Tiny little daggers, those.

Sir Abstrupus cleared his throat. “Women are?—”

“ Born disruptors ,” she finished for him, unable not to, though it greatly annoyed her at herself.

It was the tired, old gripe.

Sir Abstrupus’s mouth widened into a victorious smile. “Maybe if I had been an illustrious war hero, like my guest here, I would’ve had half a chance.”

Across from her, Artemis sensed sudden stillness. She lifted her eyes just high enough to observe Lord Branwell through her lashes. His stillness was the only indicator he had registered Sir Abstrupus’s words.

These last ten years, he’d been the young man she’d known, his handsomeness without flaw.

But now, he presented a new face—a flawed face … a scarred face.

Yet a still-handsome face.

Even, in a way, perhaps more so.

As if he’d only been lacking imperfection to provide the contrast needed to highlight his perfection. A face without flaw held beauty, but not much interest. But this face held ruggedness and hardness. It spoke of battles fought and won … of battles fought and lost … of ferocity and valor.

It lit something inside her.

As if dry kindling had lain in wait inside her all these years for him to return and spark it into flame.

The Lord Branwell she’d once known … She’d known him through and through—or so she’d thought.

This Lord Branwell, however, was unknowable.

“Lady Artemis,” said Sir Abstrupus. “Are you aware that our Lord Branwell here was a hero of Waterloo?”

She had known he’d survived Waterloo.

She had known he’d come through a hero, too.

Ferocity … valor … the battle won.

Lord Branwell continued eating, bite after relentless bite.

“And he went on to secure the Continent,” continued Sir Abstrupus. “Then our hero marched to Africa.” He settled back into his chair and steepled his fingers before him, as if to allow his guest to fill in the details.

His guest clearly had no such inclination as his empty plate was replaced by the second course—a fricassee of sweetbreads. Sir Abstrupus’s favorite dish. Lord Branwell stuck his fork in and immediately took a mouthful.

“Of course.” Sir Abstrupus gave his head a shake. He was never one to be discouraged by another’s discomfort. “I suppose a soldier can be lucky or good for only so long.”

Ferocity … valor … the battle lost.

Their host dug into his sweetbreads with alacrity, and though Artemis bore no good will toward the man opposite her, she only just resisted calling the old troublemaker a nodcock.

“And your dawn swim?” asked Sir Abstrupus. “Was it a revivifying one today?”

Artemis’s brow gathered.

Dawn swim.

That was it.

That was why they’d encountered one another in the woods yesterday.

Lord Branwell grunted.

As with every other subject, he offered no further discourse.

“About your leg injury, I have a question to put to you,” continued Sir Abstrupus around a bite of food.

“Does swimming in the sea help? Seems the cold would do more harm to one’s nether bits than good to one’s leg.

” He laughed, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

“Unless, of course, one has no further use for one’s nethers. ”

Artemis gasped, as both her own mortification and second-hand mortification, too, flashed hot through her.

She couldn’t look at Lord Branwell.

She couldn’t not look at him.

Deliberately, he set his fork down and looked their host directly in the eye. “As it happens, Sir Abstrupus,” he spoke, as if each word were carefully curated, “my nethers remain in perfect working order and may have a use yet.”

Again, Artemis gasped.

But not with mortification.

It was an altogether different sort of heat that struck through her.

Lord Branwell’s nethers … she and they had an association.

And, oh , did she know what use they could be put to.

She might never breathe again.