Before she could open her mouth, however, a servant slid a plate of some gelatinous substance in front of her and their host said, “Did you know jellied cod was your grandmother’s favorite dish, Lady Artemis?”
Artemis contemplated the food before her. It trembled. Still, she sliced off a thin edge and brought it to her mouth, hoping against hope that Sir Abstrupus would let the subject of Grandmama drop.
He shifted his attention toward Lord Branwell. “Did you know that once upon a time I was to marry Lady Artemis’s grandmother?”
A forkful of jellied cod froze midway to Lord Branwell’s mouth. His eyebrows crashed together. “I didn’t.” Then he shoved the bite into his mouth and began chewing, as if to ward off the possibility of being required to answer any further questions.
However, the answer was all Sir Abstrupus needed to set forth down familiar byways. “Then she met a duke.” He lifted empty hands. “What is a baronet to a duke?”
Artemis exhaled a sigh, unable not to put the record straight. “Grandmama was in love with Grandpapa until her dying breath.” Though Artemis had vowed not to be baited into the conversation, here she was biting down on the hook. “Her final words were of him.”
I’ll be meeting Charles soon.
Words that still brought a tear to Artemis’s eye.
She wouldn’t be telling Sir Abstrupus that detail.
His smile lost its vagueness and found its point. “Women can’t be trusted, Lord Branwell. But you’re a man who has crossed a few years beyond his thirtieth, so perhaps you’re already acquainted with that fact.”
Lord Branwell kept chewing.
Artemis gripped her fork, testing its suitability as a weapon.
“You will have noticed that I run a bachelor household,” continued Sir Abstrupus. “Not a single woman within our ranks—not even the scullery.”
Only when it became apparent a response was required, Lord Branwell grunted.
Artemis noted the sharpness of her fork’s tines. Tiny little daggers, those.
Sir Abstrupus cleared his throat. “Women are?—”
“Born disruptors,” she finished for him, unable not to, though it greatly annoyed her at herself.
It was the tired, old gripe.
Sir Abstrupus’s mouth widened into a victorious smile. “Maybe if I had been an illustrious war hero, like my guest here, I would’ve had half a chance.”
Across from her, Artemis sensed sudden stillness. She lifted her eyes just high enough to observe Lord Branwell through her lashes. His stillness was the only indicator he had registered Sir Abstrupus’s words.
These last ten years, he’d been the young man she’d known, his handsomeness without flaw.
But now, he presented a new face—a flawed face … a scarred face.
Yet a still-handsome face.
Even, in a way, perhaps more so.
As if he’d only been lacking imperfection to provide the contrast needed to highlight his perfection. A face without flaw held beauty, but not much interest. But this face held ruggedness and hardness. It spoke of battles fought and won … of battles fought and lost … of ferocity and valor.
It lit something inside her.
As if dry kindling had lain in wait inside her all these years for him to return and spark it into flame.
The Lord Branwell she’d once known … She’d known him through and through—or so she’d thought.
This Lord Branwell, however, was unknowable.
“Lady Artemis,” said Sir Abstrupus. “Are you aware that our Lord Branwell here was a hero of Waterloo?”
