This was an altogether different Lord Branwell Mallory.
A Lord Branwell Mallory who had become a soldier.
A Lord Branwell Mallory who had been wounded, nearly fatally.
The evidence was there on his right cheekbone. A scar not cleanly gotten, as from the swift slice of a sword, but rather red and slightly raised, the skin still angry at the world for having marred what once had been masculine perfection.
How many times had she pressed her mouth to the once-smooth skin where there was now scarred flesh?
Too many to count.
Again, he angled away and returned his gaze to the fire, denying her further opportunity to stare.
For that was what she had been doing—staring.
And he knew, of course.
She could tell from the bitter curl of his mouth, evident even in profile.
She’d once known Lord Branwell Mallory—Bran—in the most intimate ways one person could know another.
But this man possessed a hardness composed of flint.
She knew him not.
The reflexive step she’d almost taken forward was simply that—reflex born of shock.
He wasn’t a man she would wish to know.
Instinct bade her to turn on her heel and sprint back to the Grange as fast as her legs could carry her—or as fast as Bathsheba’s three legs would allow.
Yet she remained rooted in place for one simple reason—curiosity.
Before this night was through, she would know what in the blazes this supper party was all about.
Sir Abstrupus’s quick eyes flicked between her and Lord Branwell. He’d scented something in the air. “Do you know one another already?”
“No,” flew from Artemis’s mouth too quickly and too loudly.
Lord Branwell turned and shot her the lift of an eyebrow.
The man could speak volumes without uttering a single word.
Thatwasn’t new.
“In which case,” said Sir Abstrupus, “shall we adjourn to the dining room for our midnight meal? Cook has all manner of culinary delights awaiting us.”
Lord Branwell snorted.
The heat of mortification thrummed through Artemis. Sir Abstrupus rightly saw through her denial since, rather than make formal introductions, he stood. With a measured, shuffling step, he led the way.
Artemis was turning to follow when movement caught her eye. Slowly and deliberately, Lord Branwell was rising from the deep leather armchair, as if this studied manner of movement were long habit.
She’d known him to have been injured. His brother, the Earl of Stoke, had told her as much at the house party in Primrose Park. But until now, she hadn’t seen beyond the scar on Lord Branwell’s face. Of course, it wouldn’t have been the extent of his injuries.
A scar on a face didn’t make it impossible for a man to ride a horse and wield sword or bayonet.
A scar on a face didn’t make it impossible for a man to be a soldier.
