Page 8 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER FOUR

M y nethers remain in perfect working order and may have a use yet.

Words Bran shouldn’t have spoken.

Perhaps it was the army manners he’d acquired over an eight-year military career revealing themselves.

But, no, it wasn’t.

It wasn’t Sir Abstrupus’s riling, either.

The motivating factor had been the woman seated across from him—and the pity in her eyes.

The thing was, he wasn’t even sure he’d spoken the truth, but the truth was hardly the point.

Once, Lady Artemis had formed an intimate acquaintance with his nethers, and he simply couldn’t have her thinking they were capable of less than what they once had been.

What had he done in his life to deserve the relentless march of calamities and humiliations the universe had served him these last two years?

The resurrection of Lady Artemis Keating in his life was only the most recent.

Earlier, when she’d entered Sir Abstrupus’s study—before she’d located them beside the hearth—he’d gotten a good look at her.

Tall and long-limbed, dark eyes bright and intent, the buoyant, confident energy bouncing off her impossible to ignore. For an instant, she’d been the vibrant young lady he’d known ten years ago.

The next instant, she wasn’t.

Where she’d once been lanky, like a filly, she was now filled into her body. Though dressed without the ostentation due her social rank, the curves beneath her gown were obvious to any man with a discerning eye. Lush and abundant—those were the words that described her beauty now.

He could hardly stand to look at her.

So, he didn’t.

Not directly, anyway.

Lady Artemis Keating wasn’t the sort of person one could easily ignore. No matter her mood—happy, sad, mischievous, angry—she was vibrant with it. Once, it had drawn him into her orbit until all he could be was a satellite to her sun.

Never again.

Behind all that bright light and buoyant vibrancy hid a false core.

He wouldn’t forget.

An evidently delighted Sir Abstrupus opened his mouth, as if to speak, and Bran cleared his throat forcefully, interrupting him.

It was either that or continue being the object of conversation.

He searched his mind for a new object and found it.

It wasn’t bright and shiny, but rather warm and fuzzy with fierce, pointed teeth.

“Lady Artemis,” he said, and waited for thick lashes to lift.

She didn’t oblige.

She would find he wasn’t so easily deterred. “I take it your basket of kittens made it safely to their destination?”

Dark eyes flashed up to meet his, annoyance glaring out at him. “The kittens are settled.”

If one were to add up all the words he and this woman had exchanged between yesterday and tonight, the sum wouldn’t reach thirty. Ten years ago, there had been no shortage of words.

Words of lust.

Words of love.

Words of promise.

“ Basket of kittens? ” came Sir Abstrupus’s voice as if from very far away. As he wasn’t one to tolerate a conversation within his hearing that didn’t originate with him, he said, “I suppose you’ve heard of Radish, Lady Artemis?”

There.

Bran was no longer the target of conversation.

He resumed consuming all the food on his plate to the very last crumb.

“Everyone within a hundred miles has heard of Radish,” she returned.

Mid-chew, Bran went still as a statue.

Radish.

Why was Sir Abstrupus bringing up Radish?

And it occurred to him—somehow, this night was tied to the colt.

“He will make quite a name for himself when he runs the St. Leger at Doncaster,” said their host.

Lady Artemis gave a shrug, as if to convey indifference, and took a large bite of sweetbreads—which she obviously loathed. She took her time chewing, even with two sets of eyes upon her, making it evident she wouldn’t be drawn into a conversation that involved horse racing.

Interesting, that.

The Lady Artemis he’d once known had been nearly as obsessed with racing as her brother.

Sir Abstrupus remained determined. “Your Endcliffe Grange has the best horse training course in the north.”

Ah. Here it was—the reason for the supper party.

“Indeed,” she said, agreeably, even amiably. That was all she would give him.

Sir Abstrupus would have to ask outright.

So she could refuse him outright.

The light that twinkled in Sir Abstrupus’s eyes said he knew it.

As an outsider, it was easy for Bran to see this was a little game Sir Abstrupus and Lady Artemis were accustomed to playing.

Their host cleared his throat. “Would your ladyship be so kind as to consent to?—”

“No.”

She hadn’t precisely shouted—but it was a near thing.

Bran’s head cocked. He knew himself to be altered from the man he was ten years ago. But this Lady Artemis was both the same as she’d once been and altered, too.

Sir Abstrupus settled back in his chair and let a footman replace the second course with the third—white soup. “I thought you would say as much.”

“Then why ask the question?” she asked, too sweetly.

The sharp glint of business entered Sir Abstrupus’s eye. “How about a friendly competition for the right to use your training course?”

And there it was—the question voiced, so it could be refused.

Yet she canted her head and asked, “What would I be competing for?”

Bran’s brow lifted. She hadn’t refused him outright— yet .

She continued. “It strikes me that I win by not entering the contest at all.”

She had Sir Abstrupus there.

Bran almost felt disappointed over how easily the victory had been attained.

Sir Abstrupus was slipping.

Except his smile had slipped not a hair.

“Win or lose, whatever the outcome,” said Sir Abstrupus, “I’ll grant you permission to observe Radish’s training.”

A scowl thundered across Bran’s face. Of a sudden, the stakes of the night had shifted. “Pardon?” he asked very quietly so as not to shout. Sir Abstrupus tended to excite the compulsion.

Before the old scoundrel could explain himself, a strangled sound came from the opposite side of the table. “Oh,” said Lady Artemis, her cheeks flaming, “that is low.”

Bran’s brow trenched so deeply one could plant carrots. Lady Artemis had the look of a woman who wanted nothing more than to reject Sir Abstrupus’s offer—yet she couldn’t.

Not for the first time in his life Bran understood he’d been ambushed.

A midnight supper in the Yorkshire countryside with a nonagenarian?

No good ever came of suppers taken after midnight.

A lesson learned in young manhood.

And the woman seated across from him—the one he couldn’t ignore or will into nonexistence—she’d been ambushed, too.

The evidence was writ clear upon her face.

Sir Abstrupus’s mischievous smile broadened, giving him the appearance of an outright rapscallion. “Make no mistake, my lady, Radish will run the St. Leger,” he said. “Wouldn’t you like to see him safely through?”

Those expressive dark eyes of Lady Artemis blinked. “You’re manipulating me.”

Even Bran could see that.

Still, she hadn’t yet spoken an outright no .

Wouldn’t you like to see him safely through?

Those were the words Sir Abstrupus was using to manipulate her. Bran cast his mind back to yesterday morning— the kittens .

She hadn’t been stealing them.

She’d been saving them.

And Sir Abstrupus was twisting her instinct to his own ends.

Bran’s hand tightened around his cutlery. He’d never been able to abide those who used another’s better self against them.

Lady Artemis contemplated the fork in her hand, as if she were counting the tines.

Except she wasn’t.

She was considering matters known only to her and Sir Abstrupus, calculating the weight of no against yes .

At last, she lifted her gaze, neatly avoiding Bran’s. “What is the friendly contest?”

The question was a reasonable one, but Bran saw it for what it truly was—the first step toward her becoming seduced into Sir Abstrupus’s game.

“Three rounds of feats,” said the old rascal. “Best two of three wins.”

“Whom would I be competing against?” Her head tipped to the side. “ You? ” She didn’t bother hiding her skepticism.

“Why, Lord Branwell, of course.”

Bran opened his mouth to object—he’d decided to leave this game between them—but Lady Artemis beat him to it.

“But he’s?—”

She didn’t speak the next word.

She didn’t need to.

They all heard it.

A sudden, specific rage expanded through Bran.

A rage he’d carefully held bound inside his deepest self.

A rage that must be denied light and oxygen—or it would destroy all in its path.

“ Infirm? ” he asked, the word a bullet.

Lady Artemis paled and swallowed against a surely dry throat.

The bullet had hit its mark.

But he experienced no satisfaction and no diminishment of rage, for the fact remained. He was infirm—and would be so for all his remaining days.

Yet, where moments ago he’d wanted to object, now, with fury fueling him, he wanted to compete.

Earlier, he’d sat staring into the fire, filled with a shame and dread that hit like dagger thrusts to the gut, waiting .

Whether it was in three seconds or three minutes or three hours, he would have to stand and walk to the dining room—with her observing.

But now, he felt as if he’d pushed through dread and shame, as if they’d been mere appetizers to the main course, into a state of utter, sublime self-loathing.

Why not?

Why not compete against Lady Artemis Keating?

Why not give the universe permission to drag him yet lower?

There seemed to be no bottom to it—and it wasn’t as if the universe needed permission to do as it willed, anyway.

“Not physical feats,” explained Sir Abstrupus, “but rather feats of skill and the mind.” He chuckled. “And some luck thrown in, too.”

Was that relief Bran felt?

He knew better than to trust it.

Sir Abstrupus stood. His bursts of sprightliness still caught Bran by surprise. “If you will follow me into the next room, the contest shall begin forthwith.”

Lady Artemis gasped. “ Now? ”

Bran could almost admire her capacity for surprise.

Of course, the treatment she’d received from the universe differed greatly from his.