Artemis didn’t need to speak the words aloud.
She wasn’t sure she could, anyway.
“You might not remember the willful and naïve girl you were, Artemis, but I do.” Mother’s tone was firm. “I protected you from yourself—and I would do it again. A mother’s love for her child knows no boundaries.”
Of a sudden, Artemis’s chair was scraping across dense Aubusson carpet, and she was standing. Mother was continuing to speak, but she could no longer hear her. It was as if wool were plugging her ears. Then her feet were moving and she was weaving through the tea room … exiting the building … her boot heelsclick-clacking across wet cobblestones, a substantial rain pouring onto her head. She had no parasol, and she’d ignored Mother’s carriage. Neither did she hail a hackney cab.
She kept moving forward, as if her feet had no other choice.
The past, however, had no care for her forward momentum.
It carried an impetus of its own.
And—today … after ten years … at last—it caught her.
TEN YEARS AGO, MORNING
Artemis wiped the vomit from her mouth with the back of her hand and straightened.
It was the sixth morning in a row, and she knew.
She was with child.
It was a ruinous thing for an unmarried young lady—a calamity, to put a fine point on it.
But all she felt—when she wasn’t feeling nauseous—was utter and complete joy.
She was going to have Lord Branwell Mallory’s child.
He’d been visiting his family estate all this week, which was why she hadn’t yet told him. But she would the next time they met.
On this morning, she returned from the water closet to find Mother perched on the edge of her bed. “How long have you known?”
It was only after she asked that Artemis noticed how closely Mother was watching her.
“Pardon?” she asked, trying to buy time, though she knew it to be a doomed effort.
“How long have you known you’re with child?”
Resistance would’ve been no use. “Six days.”
“And the father?”
“The Earl of Stoke’s brother.”
Mother thought for a moment. “Lord Branwell?”
Artemis nodded. For the first time in her life, she realized she was unable to read her mother’s thoughts.
At last, Mother asked, “Have any promises been made between you?”
“Yes.”
Though that wasn’t the exact truth.
Bran had wanted to make promises, but she had stopped him before they could leave his mouth.“I want us to know each other in every way first.”She’d spoken the words as she’d idly trailed her hand across his ridged stomach, the tickle causing the muscles to flex.“We don’t have to love every single thing about each other.”Although, even as the words left her mouth, she knew them to be untrue. She loved absolutelyeverythingabout Lord Branwell Mallory.“But we should love, at least ninety percent.”
A smile curled about the corners of his mouth—the one that turned her insides to molten lava—and, with smooth efficiency, he rolled on top of her, making her giggle. He stared down into her eyes and said,“As long as you’re mine in the end, Artemis, we can play this your way.”
