Callous.
That was the word that came to Artemis—a word she’d never once in her life associated with her mother. But she saw now, in retrospect, that Mother often voiced such observations—callousones.
Rake cleared his throat. “I would like to thank everyone for joining Gemma and me at Somerton. As we shall be competitors for decades, it might be for the best that we’re friends, too.”
“Or,” said Julian, “friendly, at least.”
This got a round of relieved laughter. The subject had—blessedly—been changed.
“Oh, Rake,” Artemis teased from her end of the table, “you’re only being gracious because your Hannibal won the Race of the Century. If he’d lost, this house party would’ve been canceledtout suite.”
More laughter from her gentle ribbing.
Rake shook his head. “There, dear sister, you are wrong. Winning the Race of the Century wasn’t the greatest prize to come of this season.” His gaze landed on Gemma. “My duchess is.”
Artemis experienced a flare of longing unlike any she’d ever felt. It took her breath away.
Immediately, she determined not to look at Bran.
Immediately, she failed.
Her gaze cut over and found his already upon her. Within his eyes flickered golden flame. Her stomach fluttered.
Rake continued. “And it seems I’m not the only one to have won such a prize this season.”
More laughter made its way through the room.
It was true.
At this table were no fewer than four newly-wed couples.
Still, Bran held her gaze.
Artemis felt herself wobble.
It was a good thing she was sitting down.
“Indeed,” said Mother. With that single word, it was as if she’d splashed ice-cold water over the gathering. “Many of the ladies in this room have done exceptionally well for themselves—in one way or another.” She ran a disapproving eye over Beatrix, the only married lady in the room not to have snared a duke or marquess.
Beatrix lifted a napkin to her mouth to mask what sounded less like a cough than a stifled giggle.
Mother wasn’t finished. “But now we must cast our eye toward the future.”
Nerves skittered through Artemis. Truly, she had no desire to have the subject of her impending spinsterhood broached at the table.
And to think the evening had been going so well.
“Lady Gwyneth is not yet out,” continued Mother. “She will make her debut this spring.”
Bran’s eyebrows crashed together.
How Artemis wished she could reach over and place her hand over Mother’s mouth.
Anything to stop more words from issuing forth.
An impossible wish, of course.
Nothing would stand in the way of Mother and what she had to say. All Artemis could do was sit with her hands folded in her lap and hope the fingernails digging into her palms didn’t leave half-moon-shaped scars.
