Perhaps it was the army manners he’d acquired over an eight-year military career revealing themselves.
But, no, it wasn’t.
It wasn’t Sir Abstrupus’s riling, either.
The motivating factor had been the woman seated across from him—and the pity in her eyes.
The thing was, he wasn’t even sure he’d spoken the truth, but the truth was hardly the point.
Once, Lady Artemis had formed an intimate acquaintance with his nethers, and he simply couldn’t have her thinking they were capable of less than what they once had been.
What had he done in his life to deserve the relentless march of calamities and humiliations the universe had served him these last two years?
The resurrection of Lady Artemis Keating in his life was only the most recent.
Earlier, when she’d entered Sir Abstrupus’s study—before she’d located them beside the hearth—he’d gotten a good look at her.
Tall and long-limbed, dark eyes bright and intent, the buoyant, confident energy bouncing off her impossible to ignore. For an instant, she’d been the vibrant young lady he’d known ten years ago.
The next instant, she wasn’t.
Where she’d once been lanky, like a filly, she was now filled into her body. Though dressed without the ostentation due her social rank, the curves beneath her gown were obvious to any man with a discerning eye. Lush and abundant—those were the words that described her beauty now.
He could hardly stand to look at her.
So, he didn’t.
Not directly, anyway.
Lady Artemis Keating wasn’t the sort of person one could easily ignore. No matter her mood—happy, sad, mischievous, angry—she was vibrant with it. Once, it had drawn him into her orbit until all he could be was a satellite to her sun.
Never again.
Behind all that bright light and buoyant vibrancy hid a false core.
He wouldn’t forget.
An evidently delighted Sir Abstrupus opened his mouth, as if to speak, and Bran cleared his throat forcefully, interrupting him. It was either that or continue being the object of conversation. He searched his mind for a new object and found it. It wasn’t bright and shiny, but rather warm and fuzzy with fierce, pointed teeth. “Lady Artemis,” he said, and waited for thick lashes to lift.
She didn’t oblige.
She would find he wasn’t so easily deterred. “I take it your basket of kittens made it safely to their destination?”
Dark eyes flashed up to meet his, annoyance glaring out at him. “The kittens are settled.”
If one were to add up all the words he and this woman had exchanged between yesterday and tonight, the sum wouldn’t reach thirty. Ten years ago, there had been no shortage of words.
Words of lust.
Words of love.
Words of promise.
“Basket of kittens?” came Sir Abstrupus’s voice as if from very far away. As he wasn’t one to tolerate a conversation within his hearing that didn’t originate with him, he said, “I suppose you’ve heard of Radish, Lady Artemis?”
There.
Bran was no longer the target of conversation.
