“Because we’re attending.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m not the only one of us who is in love.”
As if she’d delivered a swift blow to his solar plexus, the breath rushed from his lungs—and refused to return. “That is none of your concern, Gwyneth,” he ground out.
Her head tilted to the side. “Isn’t it, though? You’ve been a champion of my happiness. Am I not allowed to champion yours?”
“Gwyneth—”
“Aren’t you, in fact, in love, brother?”
Bran took recourse in the only option that felt available to him.
He grunted.
Words weren’t helping.
Gwyneth possessed the look of the mulishly determined. “With the sister of a certain duke?”
“That’s …”
He nearly saidover.
But was it, in fact,over?
Or was it in a state of limbo?
In the moment, distance had felt like the correct course to give him and Artemis time and space from one another. But these last weeks without her had been wretched, and he couldn’t help feeling he’d made a fatal error—and he didn’t know how to remedy it. In fact, he’d felt it from the moment the coach-and-four carrying him away from Somerton had lurched into motion.
“Why aren’t you and Lady Artemis together, Bran?”
Bran had a choice.
He could choose not to answer the question.
He could say it was none of Gwyneth’s concern.
But wasn’t it?
Wasn’t her life a concern of his?
So, didn’t it follow that his life was a concern of hers?
Wasn’t that how it worked with love?
“We were in love,” he said. The truth was so very simple, wasn’t it?
Gwyneth’s brow crinkled. “Aren’t you still in love?”
“Ten years ago, we met and fell in love between one breath and the next.”
“And you didn’t marry?”
“A marriage between us wasn’t desired by her family.”
The furrow of Gwyneth’s brow deepened. “I’ve only spoken with the duke on a few occasions, but he seems to regard you highly.”
