Sons of earls gambled away as much on a single throw of the dice every day of the week.
She gave herself a mental shake and forced her gaze to angle away from those unflinching golden eyes.
She knew who this man was.
She wouldn’t forget.
“Turn-about is fair play, you know.” His gaze remained fixed to the side of her face.
She didn’t turn. “Pardon?”
“A truth for a truth.”
Oh, that was bold. “Have any truths been spoken?” she scoffed. “I wasn’t aware.”
Silent seconds of time accumulated, one after another, before he spoke again. “Why are you observing Radish’s training?”
“It’s my practice track.” When in a conversational bind, one could always take refuge in facts. “Therefore, it’s my prerogative to observe.”
From the edge of her eye, she saw his head shake, and she braced herself for his next question. “Why do youneedto observe Radish’s training?”
Her jaw flexed, and no words issued forth.
“How was Sir Abstrupus able to manipulate you so easily?”
Oh.He’d noticed that, had he?
“I had a horse—a Thoroughbred,” she said. “Her name was Dido.”
She could stop there. She didn’t owe this man an explanation. But after months of not being able to speak Dido’s name aloud without wet, sloppy tears punctuating each syllable, she now felt the opposite urging.
To speak Dido’s name—every utterance an honoring of her spirit.
“She was beautiful, sweet, and clever—the fastest three-year-old filly of this season.”
She risked a glance right, and what she detected in Bran’s eyes nearly undid her.
Sympathy.
“Was?” The question rumbled low and gravelly through his chest, strangely soothing, even as it cut straight to the point.
“Unknown to us all, she had a defect in her heart.” Artemis stated the facts plainly, almost coldly. It was the only way she could get through them. “She was leading the first race of theseason—the Two Thousand Guineas—and was about to win it, when she suddenly collapsed on the turf.” She blinked sudden tears away. “A few minutes later, she breathed her last breath.”
Artemis kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and took a moment to compose herself.
Bran’s eyes remained steady upon her. “I’m sorry for your loss. It must have been devastating.”
She could almost believe him.
Actually, she did.
Though she didn’t trust this man—and with good reason—she knew this one sacred truth: Bran loved horses.
Even if all else was lies.
He returned his attention to Radish and Lafferty, his eyes narrowed, assessing. “And … trot,” he called out, in that high-to-low sing-song voice trainers used when they wanted a horse to slow down. “How did that feel?”
“Better,” said the jockey, stroking Radish’s mane in appreciation.
