It wasn’t only that she owed him better—he deserved better.
He deserved a future uncomplicated by this tragic past they shared.
He deserved honesty and happiness.
And if this secret was to be hers alone, he deserved better than her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SOMERTON, NEXT DAY
“Breaking our fast at the practice track.” Across the turf yet slick with morning dew, Gwyneth’s eyes followed a pair of Thoroughbreds trotting past as they warmed up for a training session. Her brow crinkled with bemusement. “It’s not the usual.”
Bran snorted. “It’s the household of a powerful, horse-mad duke.” He propped an elbow onto the white railing. “Is anything out of the usual?”
Gwyneth gave a slow, considering nod as her gaze shifted toward the small group of aristocrats some twenty yards away. “I suppose the wealthy and powerful make the rules and therefore get to decide what is the usual.”
And what wealth and power surrounded them.
As children of an earl, it wasn’t awe that inspired their discreet conversation. Rather it was the fact that, though they were aristocrats, they’d only ever had a fraction of the wealth and therefore little of the power. But that tight group of aristocrats animatedly debating one topic or another—no doubt to do with horses—accounted for a decent portion of England’s holdings.
Gwyneth’s eyes narrowed with assessment. “The duke seems like a nice man.”
Bran chuckled. “Which one?”
Gwyneth joined him in a laugh. “Both.”
Nicewasn’t how Bran would characterize either duke. Rakesley was intense and unabashedly competitive—a man who would always have his way. Acaster was equally intense, but possessed of different drives. A man who by all accounts was a genius with numbers, he’d made his fortune by the age of twenty-three as the owner of London’s most exclusive gaming hell, The Archangel.
No, notnice.
Rather,driven…honorablewhen it suited them … and definitelyaristocratic, with all the privileges that distinction entailed.
But Gwyneth was young and untested in the world. She would have a different perspective on men who were handsome, titled, and wealthy.
“And let us not forget the lowly marquess.” Her golden-brown eyes—the same hue as his—twinkled with irony.
Bran laughed. He wasn’t giving his sister enough credit. She was young, yes, but she was also possessed of good sense.
Upon further reflection, she added, “Lord Ormonde has kind eyes.”
Bran knew something of Ormonde’s family. Tragic all around. A sister who perished at a young age, and a father who took his own life. But the marquess did indeed have kind eyes. Demons would roam behind them, Bran knew well. But Ormonde had the settled air of a man who had learned how to vanquish them. Bran should ask him to reveal his trick.
As he opened his mouth to change the subject—on a morning like this, he didn’t want to think about the demons of the past, not when the present and possibly the future held the nascentpromise of clouds dispelling—the Duchess of Rakesley appeared with two other women, the Duchess of Acaster and Mrs. Beatrix Deverill, a one-eyed, three-legged dog at her side.Bathsheba.The duchess reared her arm back and threw a stick. The dog chased after it, not letting a missing leg stand in the way.
Bathsheba was here.
Which meant …
Artemis had arrived.
His heart a hammer in his chest, Bran scanned the grounds and found only horses, grooms, and stable lads, hustling and bustling to and fro. This was a duke’s racing estate, after all. Mornings were busy.
But no sign of Artemis.
“What an adorable dog,” exclaimed Gwyneth. Though she’d always asked, Stoke had never let her have a dog in the house. “Shall we say hello?”
As Gwyneth had arrived in the night with Stoke, who was still—predictably—abed, it was only natural that she would wish to socialize, but Bran needed a few more moments alone with her. “Are you looking forward to your upcoming London season?”
