As the question left his mouth, he felt something unexpected. A feeling he hadn’t experienced in a very long time—pride.
Somehow, improbably, he’d managed this for Gwyneth.
“How many new dresses will you buy?” he asked, in an attempt to meet her on her ground. Though he hadn’t the faintest idea where to go from here.
Gwyneth noticed his bewilderment and gave a teasing laugh. “It’s all right, Bran. You don’t have to discuss new dresses with me.”
Relief poured through him. “I suppose you know how to arrange all that?”
Now that he thought about it, he’d never given a lick of consideration to the measures women took to transform themselves into lovely confections.
Gwyneth laid a reassuring a hand on his arm. “I do.”
“Is a …modiste… involved?” He winced, hoping he got that right.
She smiled, her eyes full of warmth. “Yes.”
“And you know of a modiste in London?”
He didn’t give a toss about modistes, but Gwyneth likely did, and he wanted her to have exactly what she wanted.
“London has about a thousand modistes,” she said. “I’ll be most fashionable, I can assure you.”
A question came to Bran. When had his younger sister become soadult?
The corners of her mouth tipped downward. “Bran?”
The note that sounded in her voice put him on high alert. “Yes?”
“About the season in London?—”
“Mallory!”
Bran’s gaze shifted toward a point over Gwyneth’s shoulder. Rakesley was beckoning him. He ignored the duke and returned his attention to his sister. “What is it, Gwyneth?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that can’t wait until later.” Her smile returned. “Shall we see what the duke wants?”
“Which one?”
This pulled a good laugh from her as she threaded her arm through his and they made their way to the duke’s group.
Rakesley got directly to the point. “Mallory, I would value your view on this pair of two-year-olds.”
Bran cast his gaze out toward the track and the chestnut bay colt and the black filly now being put through their paces. The lads were careful to keep them on opposite sides of the track at all times so they wouldn’t interfere with each other. Bothwere prime specimens of Thoroughbred. “What do you wish to know?”
It was Ormonde who answered. “Rake can’t decide which will hold up better through the three-year-old season next year.”
The three-year-old season was the most important season for a Thoroughbred, so it was crucial to get it right.
Rakesley’s gaze narrowed on Bran. “How would you decide?”
“There’s the usual—conformation and personality. Bloodline tends to out, too. Then come the intangible qualities. I take it you ran them at Great Yarmouth over the summer?”
The two-year-olds’ race at Great Yarmouth mostly determined the three-year-old field for the following season.
“Aye,” groused Rakesley. The race hadn’t determined anything for him.
The duchess, who had just joined the group, laughed. “The better part of wisdom might be to stay clear of this subject, Lord Branwell. You’ve been lured into a marriage dispute. Rake likes the colt for it, and I’ll give him that Kestrel did place the best out of our entrants. But there is something about Paris Folly …” Her eyes followed the filly. “I have a feeling about her.”
