Rakesley shook his head. “You know how I feel about feelings regarding horses.”
“The irony isn’t lost on me,” laughed the duchess.
Rakesley’s mouth twitched as he returned his attention to Bran. “How would you settle it?”
“Is this a test?” Bran asked in a light manner, and received a few indulgent laughs for his effort, but the answer was apparent.
Yes.
Of a sudden, Bathsheba barked, not with warning or malice, but with tail-wagging welcome as she made straight for a figure approaching the group.
Artemis.
Before Bran could tamp it down, joy took wing inside him. The mere sight of her held a power over him. But how lovely she was in her white muslin morning dress and sable hair done in a loose braid, errant tendrils catching the light breeze.
He’d once thought her part of his future, and plainly, he wasn’t prepared to think of her thusly again.
Not yet, at least.
It was improbable enough that she’d become part of his present.
Yet how excessive was this surge of emotion when it had been fewer than two days since he last saw her.
He’d done more than see her, that last time.
He’d touched her … felt her touch … kissed her … tasted her … entered her …
Her dark gaze shifted, and their gazes met. With what was surely foolishness, he felt his mouth curve into a smile. Her mouth, in response, turned slightly down. And now that she’d drawn closer, he detected a guarded quality in her eyes.
Unexpected that.
Was it shyness? Or shame?
No.She’d never been shy or ashamed about the physical aspect of their relationship.
This was something else.
“Lord Branwell,” said Lady Beatrix, pulling his attention back into the conversation, “what you achieved with Radish in such a short amount of time is most impressive.” She wasn’t finished. “It simply doesn’t happen that unknown Thoroughbreds come from nowhere and nearly become the greatest racehorse of the century.”
Within all the eyes upon him, including Artemis’s, Bran detected something.
Respect.
And it felt good.
It wasn’t the sort of respect that came to a man through the accident of aristocratic birth or mounds of inherited wealth.
It was the sort of respect that came only when a man earned it.
A force gathered within him—the right to command—and he said, “Let’s see the filly run first.”
Rakesley signaled his head groom, a man by the name of Wilson, who immediately ordered the track cleared of every man and horse but Paris Folly and the groom who rode her.
As the filly went through her paces and showed everyone what she could do to great acclamation, Bran tried to keep his focus trained on her action and all the subtle nuances that informed the trained eye about her future performance. But with Artemis at the edge of his vision, it was difficult. He wanted to consult with her, to hear her opinions, to see if they matched his.
It was only after both Thoroughbreds ran that Bran turned toward Rakesley and Gemma. “I see your dilemma. Both horses have talent to spare. Both could take a few, if not all top races next year.”
Rakesley crossed his arms over his chest. “But?”
